Winged Escort

by Douglas Reeman

  Jonah Too coughed and roared brokenly, and her nose dropped before coming under command again. In those short seconds Rowan saw death. By rights he should be in the drink already. The gauge showed ‘empty’. Done for.

  Without realising it he said aloud, ‘Won’t be long, Bill.’

  Bill replied instantly, ‘Hold on, old son. I’m no bloody good without you.’

  Rowan listened to the engine’s drone, waiting for it to stop altogether. He calculated the time needed to get clear. Whether it would be quicker to take her straight down and let the sea finish the job for him.

  He wondered what Chadwick would say as the remaining aircraft returned to their carriers. He would feel bound to say something, if only for his own satisfaction.

  If the group was nearer Rowan would have opened radio contact, but with enemy bases so close it would merely extend his own fate to the rest of them. The French cruiser had a seaplane. It could be flown-off to pick him out of the water before the sharks got him. Could, might, if.

  The cockpit quivered and continued to shake. Perhaps the undercarriage was coming adrift. It didn’t make any difference now.

  It was how Honor would get the news that really made him ache. The letter written before he had flown-off would only add to the agony, and he wished he had not given it to Buchan. Better just a word from a good friend. He glanced over at Bill’s machine and waved to him. The action was automatic. Probably the same as Lord Algy when he had bought it.

  Bill exclaimed, ‘Tim! I can see the group, for Christ’s sake! Tell me you can, too!’

  Rowan pulled against his harness and stared through the oil-smeared perspex. He could see bright gashes around the engine, and a piece of torn metal standing out and flapping in the air-stream.

  Then he saw the ships. Very tiny and balanced on the glittering horizon like beetles.

  He looked at his altimeter and at the sun, then at his watch. It was impossible. They should be standing much further out. Chadwick had risked everything as it was to bring unarmoured carriers so close to danger.

  Bill yelled, ‘Can you do it, Tim?’

  He said between his teeth, ‘I don’t know what I’m flying on, but I’ll have a go.’

  He cased back the stick very gently, feeling the cockpit shake and buck in protest. She was falling apart under him. But he might manage a shallow climb. Another two thousand feet. It would at least carry him within possible pick-up range.

  Rowan realised he was humming into his oxygen mask and glanced over again at the other fighter.

  He said, ‘Don’t look at me, Bill. Watch your tail.’

  Bill sounded unsteady. Emotional. ‘Don’t give me orders. I’m bigger than you.’

  Creswell chimed in. ‘Uglier anyway.’

  The trio climbed so slowly and painfully that it took an age for Hustler’s aircraft to vanish below them. And then all at once they were there. Real ships with individual shape and personality.

  ‘This is Jonah Too. Permission to land-on.’ He hesitated, remembering all those times when he had heard others say it. ‘Emergency.’

  ‘Affirmative.’ A pause. ‘You’ve nothing to land with.’

  Rowan looked at the landing gear release. He did not want to test it just yet, its drag might cost him those last precious miles. Now there was no point in bothering. He pictured the bustle, the preparations to receive him. It might take their minds off the shock of seeing so few aircraft returning.

  He thought suddenly of the crashed Seafire, the pilot’s angry stare, the undignified way his boots had stuck out as they had hauled his corpse away for disposal.

  So perhaps this was the moment after all. Right at Chadwick’s feet, like the dog in Beau Geste.

  He felt for the medallion and pressed it tightly. Here goes.

  18

  Divine Wind

  BUCHAN RESISTED THE temptation to leave the bridge and go to the chart house again. So soon after the dawn had shown itself in the sky, and the fighters had flown-off on their mission, yet it was already hot and oppressive. Around him the bridge superstructure rattled and groaned as Growler maintained her maximum revolutions, regardless of Laird’s reminders of what had happened in the Arctic when Chadwick had insisted on full speed for long duration.

  Buchan had almost accepted that the raid on the oil dump had a chance of success, if only because of the lack of enemy aircraft in this area, when Chadwick had exploded his new bombshell on the bridge.

  It had started with a signal decoded in the Operations Room, from the C. in C’s office, with all the latest intelligence about known enemy shipping movements. A Japanese troop convoy was said to have left Singapore several days back, and would be passing through the Sunda Strait on passage to ports in Java the previous night.

  Chadwick had shouted down all opposition immediately. ‘We’ll fly-off the Swordfish boys directly. The group will alter course to the nearest interception point at once.’ He had looked at Buchan confidently. ‘I’m doing Rowan and his squadron a favour at the same time. Less distance to fly home, eh?’ It had apparently amused him.

  A quick glance abeam told Buchan that all the ships were keeping station, the destroyers and frigates smashing through the endless procession of shallow troughs, the carriers and the French cruiser riding above it all like Goliaths.

  He moved restlessly in his chair, thinking of the next signal which had been received from the American admiral.

  The U.S. carrier attack on Palembang had been cancelled. Due to severe losses unexpectedly incurred at Leyte, all available warships, and many others which in fact could not be spared, would be sent to reinforce the embattled fleets around the Phillipines forthwith.

  The reports gave just the bare facts, but it seemed that the Japanese were fighting back every inch of the way, and there was some mention of suicide attacks on the larger ships by fighter-bombers. It was more likely to be accidental, Buchan told himself. But as the little group steamed at full revolutions nearer and nearer to the enemy-controlled Sumatra and Java it was one more worry to cope with.

  All Chadwick had commented was, Pity I wasn’t allowed to have a crack at the main oil refinery!’ He had scoffed, ‘Honestly, they get in a proper flap about nothing!’

  Buchan heard Chadwick re-entering the bridge and braced himself.

  The admiral snapped, ‘Any new reports from anyone?’

  ‘None yet, sir.’

  Buchan tried not to show his apprehension. As he had watched Rowan and the others vanish into the crimson sky, and then shortly afterwards the Swordfish torpedo-bombers, he had sensed disaster for them. Now, with the news of the Americans cancelling their raid, the realisation that the enemy might now be able to use ships and aircraft more freely in the Indian Ocean became more of a reality.

  Chadwick must be out of his mind. But by flying-off the remainder of his serviceable aircraft he had played a trump card. Nobody could even suggest that he had ordered the group out of the area and to abandon the aircraft to crash in the sea.

  A rating said in a hushed tone, ‘From the Ops Room, sir.’ He was looking at the admiral.

  Chadwick snatched the telephone, his eyes on the nearest destroyer. ‘Yes. Is that you, James? I see.’ He bit his lip. ‘It’s confirmed, you say?’

  Buchan watched him. Wondering.

  The yeoman, who was holding another handset, said sharply, ‘Aircraft returning, sir.’

  As if to back up his announcement the tannoy blared, ‘D’you hear there! D’you hear there! Stand by to receive aircraft!’

  Buchan looked at the yeoman. Thank God for that. The first part was over.

  ‘Make to escorts, Yeoman. Stand by to alter course.’

  He realised Chadwick was beside him. ‘The fighters are back, sir.’

  ‘Yes, I heard.’ He sounded dull. ‘That fool James has decoded another signal from the Yanks. They say the Jap troop convoy was attacked last night by their submarines in the Java Sea. It turned back.’ He looked at Buchan’s grim face. ‘So
that’s that. We’ll just have to wait for Dexter to find out for himself and return to us with his Swordfish.’ He glanced at the bridge clock. ‘Not too long, I’d say.’

  Buchan watched him, hating him. All because of his greed for glory. The fighter-bomber raid had been hare-brained enough. But to keep pushing, to go for that damned convoy even after the Americans had said they were not able to supply pressure against Palembang was sheer stupidity. A madness born out of conceit.

  Bray called, ‘Only three Seafires, sir. The remainder are circling Hustler.’

  Buchan picked up Kitto’s telephone. ‘Captain here. What’s the news?’

  Kitto sounded tense. ‘Just three for us, sir. And Rowan’s lost most of his undercarriage. I’ve done all I can, He’ll try a belly-flop.’

  A klaxon squawked, and without looking Buchan could picture the fire-fighters and medical team watching the sky.

  He said, ‘Very well. I’m turning into the wind now.’ He nodded to Bray. ‘Execute, Pilot.’

  Someone said, ‘I can see it? Poor bastard!’

  Buchan snapped, ‘Enough of that!’ To Chadwick he added, ‘I hope it was all worthwhile, sir.’

  For once Chadwick had no quick answer. He too was watching the Seafire’s dark silhouette as it started to turn in a wide arc across the stern. He could hear the intermittent bang of its engine, and even without binoculars could see the damage to fuselage and wings.

  ‘Sir!’ It was de Courcy, his flag lieutenant. ‘Spartiate had signalled that her seaplane has sighted hostile aircraft to the north of us, sir!’ He stared at the admiral as if stunned by the enormity of his own announcement.

  Buchan heard it all, the buzz of voices from the Operations Room voicepipes and telephones, the murmur of landing instructions over the bridge speaker.

  He had known a captain of many years experience, who before the war had been suddenly confronted by a giant iceberg which had come out of the night like a cliff. All his years of experience and training, his responsibility to ship and men, had been locked in time. He had been unable to move or react, could do nothing to prevent disaster. In fact, a subordinate had jumped in to give the necessary orders and had saved the ship. The captain had been doomed from that instant.

  It was how Buchan felt. His ship, all the various men throughout her vibrating hull, were being carried relentlessly into oblivion, and he could do nothing to prevent it.

  ‘W/T report that the Swordfish squadron are in contact, sir. Operation cancelled. No enemy convoy discovered.’ The man looked uncomfortable at having to tell what everyone in earshot already knew, and which the only ones still in ignorance were the returning Swordfish crews.

  ‘Order them to stand off while we get the fighters aboard.’ Buchan was amazed at his own unruffled voice. ‘Tell the gunnery officer to prepare to repel aircraft at all levels. As soon as the damaged fighter is aboard I want every aircraft refuelled and ammunitioned at once.’

  ‘Swordfish too, sir?’

  Buchan looked at Chadwick, expecting him to answer. When he said nothing, he added, ‘Yes. We’re so far from help that we’ll have to fight with every damn thing we’ve got.’

  The tannoy rattled, ‘Stand by to receive one damaged aircraft. Fire and stretcher parties at the ready!’

  He thought of the letter in his oilskin pouch and then he looked at Chadwick again.

  He slid off the chair and said harshly, ‘I’ll take over the con, Pilot. This one’s important.’

  Rowan watched the carrier sliding across his port wingtip as he made a wide arc towards Growler’s frothing wake. Everyone was waiting for him, but he could still find time to notice that the guns were all at immediate readiness along the sponsons, and on the escorting ships nearby. That meant trouble. He squinted in the reflected glare from the water and concentrated everything on the carrier’s bulky shape.

  If the engine cut now he might still get out, and be picked up by an escort. He bit his lip, seeing the ship levelling off, becoming real again. Flaps were down, as far as he could tell, but most of the switches and gauges appeared to be broken or unreliable.

  ‘God Almighty!’ He clung to the stick, watching the ship shooting up to meet him at an incredible speed. ‘Down, down, old girl!’ He groped for the throttle and was almost knocked senseless as the fighter smashed on to the deck, grinding across the lowered arrester wires and careering on towards the island. He was gasping with each violent shock, with each wild swerve and lurch. The engine was silent, the prop twisted like a giant whisk.

  He saw the island loom over him, and found time to notice a seaman running from the point of impact waving his arms in the air.

  Jonah Too still would not stop. The starboard wing was ripped off, and as the propeller boss smashed into steel plate with the force of a battering ram, Rowan thought his head would go straight through the gunsight.

  The next moments were confused and frightening. His vision was shut off by foam from the extinguishers, and he could hear feet scraping above him, then feel hands clawing at his harness and shoulders as if at any second the Seafire was going to explode.

  He was halfway between blackout and shock, and allowed himself to be carried like a corpse into the gloom of the bridge structure.

  As his nerves recovered from the impact and accepted the realisation he was still alive, other sounds crowded in on him. The bark of orders and clatter of ammunition hoists, the urgent roar of an engine as another fighter landed-on, regardless of Jonah Too’s scattered entrails.

  The P.M.O. was ripping open his flying suit and snapped, ‘Busy day, Tim. The Japs are coming our way. The sky’s full of them apparently. We’re still getting our aircraft back.’ He looked at Rowan impassively. ‘I’m afraid you’ve broken your leg. Still, it could have been worse.’

  Rowan laid back and stared at the deckhead. He thought of the smashed fighter on the hillside, and the one in the clearing, the hurrying Japanese soldiers. Both carriers had lost half their aircraft. It could have been worse.

  Bill stooped over him, his face blotchy with sweat and heat. That was fine, Tim.’ He glanced at Minchin. ‘Just the leg?’ He stood up and looked round. ‘Got to be off, Tim. We’re going up again.’

  ‘What?’ Rowan tried to struggle but felt the pain for the first time. He said, ‘Strap the leg, for God’s sake.’

  Minchin was preparing to leave the job to his S.B.A. ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Yes. Have me carried to the bridge, Doc. I’ll give Dymock a hand.’

  He felt his mouth go dry as the first guns in the group began to fire. The Spartiate’s heavy armament. Then the destroyers joined in with a sharper, more vicious chorus.

  He nearly fainted again as he was bundled roughly up the several ladders to the bridge.

  Kitto regarded him thoughtfully. ‘I thought you might arrive.’ He smiled. The Swordfish are landing-on now. We’ll talk later.’

  He returned to his intercom, and Rowan had time to see the attackers as they approached the rear of the group in two separate waves. Medium bombers and fighter-bombers. He stared at the growing pattern of shellbursts. There must be eighty-plus aircraft. They meant business all right.

  He saw another Swordfish land gracelessly on the flight deck, to be manhandled immediately to the parking area beyond the safety net. Some of the mechanics were looking over their shoulders at the shellbursts as they ran to refuel the returning aircraft, and each was probably thinking of the proximity of all that high-octane.

  Growler’s own Bofors guns were shooting now, blowing smoke-rings above the walkways and lowered aerials, while their crews watched the oncoming attack. The enemy was well out of range of the automatic weapons, but Growler’s gunnery officer was taking no chances of misfires when the time came.

  A petty officer called to Rowan, ‘The cap’n for you, sir.’

  Rowan took the handset, following a thin smoke trail down and down until an aircraft hit the sea with a flash.

  The other rating reported. ‘That was Sp
artiate’s seaplane, sir.’

  Kitto nodded. ‘Hard luck. The pilot at least gave us some time to prepare.’

  Rowan listened to the captain’s voice in his ear. Unhurried but sparing in words.

  ‘You know the score, Tim. I’ve got two fighters fuelling up now, and the A.E.O. reports that the unserviceable one is about ready to fly again. If we’re to have any chance at all, I need experienced pilots up there. I want Kitto to take that fighter. Can you do his job?’

  ‘Yes.’ Just like that. With half the fighters gone already and the sky full of Jap aircraft, he would not have much to do for long. ‘I can manage, sir.’

  ‘Good. Tell him for me.’ Buchan paused. ‘Damn glad you got back. I hear the raid was a success.’

  Kitto received the news with what could have been mistaken for relief. ‘Thank Christ for that.’ He handed Rowan the microphone and glanced at his petty officer. ‘He’ll see you all right if you feel like passing out.’

  They all jumped as the barrage opened up in earnest. Heavy armament, Bofors and Oerlikons, and then the clattering bridge machine guns. It was ear-shattering.

  ‘Leader to Control. Permission to take-off.’ Bill’s voice.

  ‘Affirmative. Watch it, Bill.’

  Then the fighter was streaking along the deck and lifting away like a comet.

  Creswell followed in minutes, his fighter still smoking from some earlier damage.

  Kitto went last, his Seafire strangely clean and bright after its rest in the hangar.

  ‘Come on, Hustler!’ The petty officer was steadying his glasses on the other carrier. ‘Let’s get moving, shall we?’

  Rowan felt his skin cringing as if under a cold shower. Shock was setting in, and it was all he could do to stop his teeth from chattering.

  A stick of bombs fell between a destroyer and the frigate Woodlark. The last in the line hit the Woodlark a glancing blow on the quarterdeck and exploded in her wake. The frigate went out of control, one screw gone, and the other almost torn from its shaft.