Winged Escort

by Douglas Reeman

  He nodded to them in turn. ‘This is my wife, gentlemen.’

  To Rowan he added cheerfully, ‘You enjoyed your stay, I hear. Good show.’

  He snapped his fingers at the waiter. ‘Scotch. Large ones for these gentlemen.’

  The waiter made as if to deny the presence of whisky but changed his mind.

  Chadwick said, ‘Came up to see the F.O.I.C. Chum of mine. Bit of business to settle.’

  Rowan barely heard. He was watching her across the table. She looked lovely, her skin very pale under the overhead lights, her hair shining as he remembered it. But there were shadows beneath her eyes. He wanted to touch her. Hold her. Desperately.

  He asked, ‘How is everything in Hampshire, Mrs Chadwick?’

  ‘The same.’ One hand moved slightly. ‘Raining.’ A pulse jumped in her throat. ‘You must come again and see us.’

  Chadwick had lit a cigar and was smiling through the smoke.

  ‘They’re off for quite a while, I shouldn’t wonder. And I’ll lay a level bet they’re ready to go.’ He nudged Bill’s arm. ‘Young tearaways, eh? Have no strength left for fighting if you stay ashore much longer!’ It seemed to amuse him.

  Bill smiled uncomfortably, thinking of Magda, how she had cried the first time they had made love in her flat. What did she think, he wondered? Did she imagine it was her husband who was enjoying her body, putting his arms where Bill’s were, his mouth on hers in her desperate imagination? Perhaps he would never know.

  He watched James swaying in his chair. It just needs him to spew up in front of the admiral’s wife and that will be his lot.

  He shifted his gaze to her and tensed. What a blind, stupid idiot he’d been. He glanced at Rowan, seeing the pain in his eyes. So that was it. Christ Almighty. The admiral’s wife.

  Chadwick turned his attention to James. ‘You look a bit dicky.’

  James half rose and slumped down again. ‘I’m pissed,’ he said vaguely.

  Chadwick flushed. ‘By God, how dare you speak like that in front of –’

  She interjected, ‘Leave him alone. He’s ill.’

  Dexter tugged James to his feet. ‘I’ll ask the porter to find a taxi.’

  Chadwick eyed him grimly. ‘In this rain? You’ll be lucky.’ He looked at his watch. ‘I’ll get my driver to run you to the ship. I shall be staying here tonight anyway.’ He glared at James, who was almost unconscious. ‘A regular officer, too.’ He sounded outraged.

  Bill said quickly, ‘Here, I’ll give you a hand.’

  Some of the other people at nearby tables smiled as they lurched towards the door. An army lieutenant called, ‘Up the Navy!’

  Chadwick strode to the door, leading the ill-mixed trio like a centurion with his captives.

  Rowan changed chairs and sat beside her. They looked at each other, the room, the guests and visitors invisible.

  She said, ‘I must see you again.’ She reached out as if to seize his hand but withdrew hers again. ‘I keep thinking, remembering.’

  She was near to tears, and it was impossible to recall her as he had first seen her on the staircase. Calm and aloof. But this was the real one. The one he knew.

  He said, ‘Why did he bring you to Scotland?’

  She shook her head. Even the movement of her hair brought back the pain.

  ‘I insisted. Said I wanted a change. I knew I’d see you somehow.’ She lowered her face, and he saw a tear run down on to her skirt. ‘I can’t bear it.’

  He darted a quick glance at the door. There was no sign of a naval uniform.

  ‘How long will you be here?’ He chilled, remembering that he had nearly called her Honor in front of the others.

  ‘A week, I think. He’s seeing some important people about a new appointment.’ She tried to smile. ‘You look fine, Tim. Wonderful. I expect you thought you’d got rid of me for good.’

  He touched her knee with his. ‘You know I didn’t think that. You’re the one who should be careful. If he found out . . .’

  She did not seem to hear. ‘I don’t care. I must see you. Just once.’ Her eyes were very bright. ‘Try.’

  He saw movement in the doorway. ‘Of course I will. Somehow. I’ve been miserable without you, too. I wasn’t going to tell you. It’s not fair of me.’

  She touched his arm with her fingers. ‘Tim, my darling.’

  Chadwick’s voice boomed above the other sounds. ‘That’s that little mess cleared up.’ He glanced from one to the other. ‘We’ll have dinner now, I think.’ He smiled at Rowan. ‘Care to join us? May be the last chance you get of some good food for a bit, eh?’

  He saw her give just the smallest shake of her head.

  Thank you. sir, but no. I’ve got a lot to do before sailing.’ He looked at her, seeing the relief, and what it was costing her. But she knew they would never get through a long evening without giving themselves away.

  He turned to Chadwick, trying to discover any sort of suspicion or doubt.

  But Chadwick said, ‘Good show. What I like to hear. Get the new hands jumping about, eh? And God help ’em if they foul it up!’

  A waiter hovered by the restaurant door, the moment was almost past.

  She held out her hand. ‘Good-bye, Commander Rowan.’ She kept her eyes and chin lifted. ‘I hope we meet again.’

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Chadwick.’ From a corner of his eye he saw that the admiral was already walking towards the waiter. He squeezed her fingers and added softly, ‘I’ll call you. Take care.’

  He stood aside and watched the waiter opening the doors, the heads turning to watch the admiral and his lady.

  Bill crossed the room. ‘So that was Mrs Chadwick.’ He looked at Rowan. ‘And I thought I had troubles!’

  14

  New Year

  BY THE END of January the Air Support Group was ready to move. Growler and her escorts made a rendezvous with a large southbound convoy at Liverpool, and without further delay prepared to point her bows at the open sea once more.

  Captain Buchan’s orders left him in no doubt that he and his ship were to work their passage and supply air cover and patrols over what was largely a military convoy. Two big troopships, some oil tankers, an ammunition freighter and several smaller supply vessels, all deeply laden, they were earmarked for the Far East via Simonstown and Colombo. After that, the Air Support Group would receive fresh orders and proceed to Trincomalee in the northern part of Ceylon.

  Buchan was satisfied with the arrangement, for he better than most knew of the low state of training amongst some of his air crews. Also, he had to admit to some small pleasure at seeing their sister-ship, Hustler, transformed almost overnight into a floating warehouse. Captain Turpin was senior to Buchan, and as there was no admiral’s flag on either carrier, he was in overall control of the group. Buchan’s earlier resentment was soon overcome when he saw crate upon crate of aircraft being hoisted aboard Hustler for transit to Ceylon and points east.

  There was barely an inch of space left on her flight deck, and when the wind caught the strongly lashed crates in open water. Buchan could imagine the problems of her watchkeeping officers and Turpin’s displeasure. He did not like Turpin. And Turpin was well aware of the fact.

  As soon as the convoy was formed up and harried by its strong destroyer escort the signals started to come from Turpin thick and fast. Dawn to dusk patrols, target practice, repelling mock air attacks, he thought of everything.

  Buchan had another reason for wanting to keep his people busy. The long leave for most of the ship’s company had left the usual scars. Men who had discovered unfaithful wives. Others who had arrived home to find only a gutted street where they had once lived or grown up as children.

  James, the Operations Officer, had returned morose and snappy, and his department was too important to be upset by personal problems. Buchan would get the commander to take James on one side. If that failed, he would drop on him himself like a ton of bricks.

  Some of the newly joined air crews would have
to be watched, too. This was their first chance to fly on real patrols. Some of the landings and take-offs during their work-up in Scotland had shown some hair-raising results. But Rowan and Dexter, an unmatched pair if you like, appeared able to deal with that side of things. And from his fretting, ship-bound perch, Kitto would do the rest.

  Out into the grey Atlantic again, with the bitter cold and blustery gales making each take-off a risk to aircraft and deck crew alike. The sickbay was kept busy with sprains and cuts, and a few poorly explained injuries which Minchin, the P.M.O., suspected were caused by more violent contacts with fists after somebody or other had had a near escape from being knocked down a lift or flattened by a runaway Swordfish.

  But by and large, Buchan was pleased with his ship. She had shown what she could do, had made a name for herself, instead of just one more number.

  The convoy stood well out from the land and the menace of the Bay of Biscay with all its German airfields and submarine pens. There were U-boats about, but most seemed to be concentrated well astern of the convoy, probably being homed to another, less well protected one from the States or Canada.

  As they drove further and further south, dropping some escorts and receiving replacements from Gibraltar on the way, the weather improved, and the daily round of flying and exercising took on a more leisurely atmosphere.

  Rowan was worried by the lack of real opportunity to keep his Seafire pilots on their toes. Just as he had been apprehensive that they might meet with some crack German planes within hours of leaving Liverpool, he was equally troubled by the new carefree attitude around him. The slow-moving Swordfish were doing much better, improving their daily patrols over and around the convoy, gathering experience, discovering all the problems which never happened in a training squadron.

  Rowan guessed that some of the new pilots were amused by his constant demands for more and more practice. He found himself becoming isolated from them, his only contact through Bill or Lord Algy, and it was unfair to shed responsibility on them.

  He did not spare himself, and suspected it was as much to keep his own mind occupied as to weld his squadron into a manageable force.

  Whenever he was in the air, or alone in his cabin, he often found himself remembering his days and hours with Honor Chadwick. Distance from her only seemed to sharpen the memories, some events stood out more strongly than others to make him sweat, to impress on him the risks they had both taken.

  Like that last time in Edinburgh. Sitting side by side while an elderly waiter had served tea.

  She had whispered, ‘I may not see you for months. Years. I can’t take it. I want you so badly, Tim.’

  He repeatedly thought of that particular moment. Standing to face each other, the tea untasted. Then up to her room. The reserve giving way to a desperate passion which had excluded all fear of discovery, or someone finding them together. It had been pure madness. As it had turned out, Chadwick had not stayed away as he had expected, but had returned to the hotel just as Rowan had left. He was still not certain if the admiral had seen him or even then would guess that moments earlier he had been holding her naked in his arms.

  What would they have said or done? Let me explain, sir. It only added to his sense of loss and hopelessness.

  Then fourteen days outward bound from Liverpool as he was sitting in his cabin trying to keep cool beneath the air vent, the telephone on the bulkhead called him to the Operations Room He was stripped to the waist, and hastily donned a shirt, wondering what they wanted him for. As he buttoned his shirt he saw, reflected in the mirror, the small silver medallion which hung around his neck alongside his identity disc.

  It too brought back a stabbing memory. As if it were merely hours ago. A night or so before he had left Chadwick’s Hampshire house she had given it to him while they had sat on a rug in front of a roaring fire, listening to music on the gramophone.

  She had apparently bought it from a small antique shop in Winchester where she had been visiting the tailor for him.

  ‘I hear they call you Jonah. And I wanted to give you something for your birthday.’

  The little medallion was fashioned like a spouting whale.

  Some nights before that they had been lying in bed, listening to the rain lashing the windows.

  She had said, ‘I wish I was younger than you.’

  He had turned towards her, feeling her softness. ‘It’s my birthday next week.’ He had seen her smile in the darkness. ‘I’m catching up.’

  He sighed and tucked the silver whale inside his shirt. She had even remembered that.

  Rowan found James and Kitto in a huddle with Dexter and van Roijen.

  James said testily, ‘You’re taking your time.’

  Rowan replied, ‘I’m here now.’ He did not understand James’s nagging irritation. It made him sound like Turpin.

  Kitto cleared his throat noisily. ‘Look at the chart, Tim.’ He jabbed the table with his finger. Like the quietly humming plot nearby, it showed the convoy steering south, with the Cape Verde Islands some hundred miles to port.

  He said, ‘Signal from Admiralty. It seems there’s a U-boat about eighty miles south-east of us. Surfaced and damaged. How badly, we don’t know. Intelligence think she was bashed by two South African destroyers three days back. She’d been hanging around the coast waiting for unescorted ships and easy pickings. They blew her to the surface, but she got away in the darkness. Now the Admiralty say the German commander is heading north, trying to reach a base in Biscay. God knows where the information comes from. Probably a neutral.’ He relaxed slightly. ‘I thought we should fly-off a strike right away. If we can show Jerry we mean business, we might be able to keep the U-boat intact for the escorting destroyers to capture.’

  Rowan leaned over the chart, remembering all the other times, the stabbing flak, the Swordfish exploding in a fiery ball.

  He said, ‘That’d be something. I heard we captured one a couple of years back. It’d be quite a feather for the ship.’

  James said testily, ‘Probably not there at all. These Admiralty Intelligence people read too many thrillers, if you ask me.’

  Van Roijen looked at Kitto. ‘How many will go?’

  Kitto rubbed his blue chin vigorously. ‘The U-boat might play up.’ He too was probably thinking of that last time when the multiple cannon fire had blasted the Swordfish out of the sky. ‘We’ll fly-off three Seafires, and one Swordfish with depth charges. The Swordfish will be relieved at regular intervals until the U-boat’s surrendered or we’ve put her down for good.’

  James came out of his depression. ‘I’ll tell the captain. I’ve already made a signal to the escort commander. He’s keen to have a go.’

  ‘I’ll bet.’ Dexter nodded grimly. ‘A captured U-boat. That’s pretty rare.’

  Kitto looked at Rowan. ‘You happy about it?’

  Rowan glanced at the clock. ‘Fine. Nick Rolston is on stand-by. I’ll go with him and take one of the new blokes. Nichols. He could do with a bit more experience.’

  ‘Off you go.’ Kitto picked up a telephone. ‘I’ll get it started.’

  Twenty minutes later Rowan was in the air, the two Seafires swimming across his mirror like sharks to take station on either quarter. There was no point in adopting the pairs system. There were no hostile aircraft as far south as this, and the usual formation would give better vision. The U-boat might have carried out repairs and dived. But just to be flying, free of the canned air in the hull, the smells of diesel and dope, the dull monotony of convoy, it was worth it.

  He opened his shirt front under his Mae West and felt the sweat run down his chest. Through the perspex the sun was very hot, and below the sea was spread away endlessly, like glittering blue silk.

  A few minute wavelets and even a tiny sailing craft were the only flaws on the surface.

  He looked back at Rolston’s aircraft, seeing his helmeted head hunched forward as if he were praying. He always flew like that.

  Back over the port quarter h
e saw the new pilot, John Nichols, keeping good station, the glare very bright on his own insignia, a girl with black stockings and nothing else. Nichols was the youngest so far, and had already become very friendly with Creswell. To start with he had followed Creswell’s lead as a new boy will seek a prefect’s compliments. In the short time they had been at sea he had started to copy Creswell’s recklessness, and twice Rowan had been forced to give him a strong ‘bottle’.

  Even Kitto had said, ‘That lad will either win a Victoria Cross or get himself killed in his first scrap!’

  ‘Hello, Jonah, this is Nick.’ Rowan came out of his thoughts and turned to see Rolston gesturing with his thumb. ‘Submarine at Green four-five.’

  ‘Got her. Thanks.’

  He shaded his eyes with his hand. A thin, dark stick, making hardly any wash. How easy it would be to miss the U-boat altogether.

  ‘I see her, Jonah.’ That was Nichols. ‘She’s not diving yet.’

  Rowan watched the submarine’s tiny shape. From here it lacked menace and intelligence. Just a drowsy fish. A pike in the reeds.

  He tightened his stomach muscles, letting the sweat run down over his groin as he tried to think.

  Then he saw a faint glitter, almost lost against the shining water.

  A shell exploded well clear to port, leaving the tell-tale stain hanging in the sky.

  Rowan snapped, ‘Echelon starboard!’

  He waited, counting seconds, as Rolston and Nichols vanished and then reappeared to the right of his cockpit, like part of a fan.

  Another shell exploded above and astern of the three fighters, the sound lost in the throaty roar of engines, but making itself felt like a violent gust of wind.

  Rowan wondered what the German commander thought he was doing. He would know the Seafires were not carrying depth charges, so maybe he was making a stand. On the other hand, he should realise they must be from a carrier, and that meant big trouble. He peered at his wrist watch. The Swordfish would be trundling along astern. Another ten minutes . . . He swore silently as a third shell burst directly ahead.