THE RETURN OF the small attacking force to Growler’s deck was as wild as it was moving. As the handling parties swarmed from the walkways to take charge of the aircraft Rowan could only stare at the waving arms, the grins and excited faces on every side.
Even the loss of the New Zealander’s Swordfish failed to break the obvious delight in their achievement. All the delays and preparations, the endless patrols and the ceaseless work on aircraft and machinery now seemed worthwhile.
Rowan waited below the island as Bill hurried towards him, dragging off his helmet and Mae West and taking great gulps of air.
Rowan felt the ache leaving his body, and said, ‘Not one bloody German all the way.’
Funnily enough, he had thought very little of enemy pursuit on the run back to the carrier. Fog. He kept remembering Syms’ doleful expression, and his feeling that fog was about. But the sea had been bright and clear as he has tacked back and forth across the tails of the slow-moving Swordfish.
He looked up, seeing the smoke from the engineroom vents drifting abeam as the carrier started to heel round on a new course.
Bill took a wrinkled apple from his pocket and rubbed it slowly on his jacket. ‘Heading north. Getting the hell out of it. Just the job.’
Rowan watched his friend, wondering if there was fear or uncertainty behind his homely face. He thought of his own feelings when he had at last sighted the fat carrier and her four escorts across the horizon like small fragments of land.
It had been something akin to love. The realisation that it had been more than his own life at stake. Every minute while he and the others had winged towards the target, and then started their return, Growler’s company, and those of her escorts, from admiral to junior stoker, had been waiting, almost motionless, for their reappearance. Not knowing if they had found the German tanker, or if they had all been shot down before they had even made a landfall. Knowing their own complete vulnerability.
He had been unable to resist doing a R.A.F. style victory roll above the carrier’s deck, perhaps to share his true feelings with them.
From the air, with her splayed-out masts and aerials poking from either beam, the carrier had all the looks of a portly beetle. But at that moment she had seemed beautiful.
A bosun’s mate said, ‘You’re wanted on the bridge.’ He could not resist adding, ‘Bloody well done, sir!’
Rowan noticed Bill’s face and turned to see a petty officer who was standing by the arrester wires. He was wiping his hands with a lump of waste, but his eyes were towards the horizon. It was the P.O. who was in charge of Derek Cotter’s crew. Keyed up like everyone else. Now he had nothing to do, no share in what had happened to the three young men who had died in a fireball.
He began to climb to the upper bridge, his limbs heavy and without feeling. It could easily have been Petty Officer Thorpe down there, waiting for the aircraft which would never return.
He found Chadwick pacing across the gratings, his face deep in thought. He saw Rowan and nodded briskly.
‘Damn good show. Better than I expected.’ He glanced at Villiers. ‘Told you, eh?’
Villiers looked at Rowan. ‘I’m glad you managed it, Tim.’
Rowan tried to recall what he had reported on R/T while he had waited permission to land-on.
Chadwick said, ‘Tanker destroyed, and one fighter shot down.’
Rowan looked at him. ‘And Lieutenant Ellis’s Messerschmitt was almost certainly a kill, sir.’
‘We shall see.’ Chadwick watched a steward struggling across the bridge with a jug of tea. ‘God, this is living.’
Rowan noticed the violent shaking of the bridge structure for the first time.
Villiers said quietly, ‘The Chief’s pulled out all the stops. We’re heading north to Bear Island.’
Rowan tried to clear his mind, to rid himself from the darting shadow of the attacking fighter, his smoking tracers ripping across the enemy’s wings.
He asked, ‘But surely that will draw any pursuit straight to the convoy?’
Chadwick watched him over the rim of his mug. ‘Doesn’t matter any more. There’s been a heavy U-boat attack.’
Rowan tried to discover some dismay on Chadwick’s face.
The admiral added, ‘Don’t worry. Not on the convoy. It was on the heavy support group from the Home Fleet.’
Villiers shook his head and waved a mug of tea away. ‘Fourteen U-boats. Strung out like pickets. They sank a destroyer and crippled a cruiser. Almost the worst part was that they managed to score a hit on the fleet carrier. She’s gone back to Scapa with some of the destroyers. She should make it all right if they leave her alone.’
Chadwick said angrily, ‘Bugger their problems! It makes our support vital from now on. Thank God Hustler’s with the convoy.’ He forced himself to speak more calmly. ‘The sinking of your tanker will start the Germans thinking a bit. And it proves my point. Sooner or later the Germans will start hitting the escorts first and then carving up the convoys.’
Rowan glanced through the open screen door at Buchan sitting on his steel chair, as if he were welded to the ship with it.
Chadwick snapped, ‘Must go to the Ops Room and check a few points.’ To Villiers he added, ‘You, too.’
And to Rowan he merely said, ‘Did well. I’ll see it’s noted.’
As he vanished down a bridge ladder Bray called, ‘The captain would like to see you, Tim.’
Rowan walked into the bridge, seeing the quiet routine and order which seemed to flow from Captain Buchan.
Thank you for waiting, sir.’ He felt uncertain beside Buchan. All the years, the ships, the experience, even if he had been on the beach for a time. It was something which awed him.
Buchan said quietly, ‘I’m glad you were lucky.’ For once he seemed at a loss. ‘Pity about young Cotter, but . . .’
He stood up violently and faced Rowan.
‘I’m sorry to be the one to tell you. We had a signal from Admiralty just after you took off. There was a raid last night.’ He was watching Rowan’s face, his eyes like slate. ‘Your home was hit. There were no survivors.’
Rowan stared at him, his mind stunned. The house. The wind across Oxshott Woods. His parents. Everything.
Buchan added quietly, ‘God. I hate doing this. I’ve done it too much already. But to you especially. And at this moment in time.’
Rowan wiped his mouth with his hand. ‘I’m glad you told me, sir.’ He did not know why he had said it.
Buchan replied, ‘Thank you for that. And if there’s anything I can do. Anything, you understand?’
‘Yes.’ He could feel his chest shaking, the tears running down his face. But all he could do was stand there. ‘Yes.’
Bray said urgently. ‘The admiral’s coming back, sir.’
Buchan nodded. ‘Take this officer through your chartroom and down the starboard ladder. Get him to his cabin, and then report to me.’
Commander Jolly had entered by the opposite door and turned away as Rowan and the navigating officer walked past.
Then he said quietly. ‘You learn to live with it. But you never get used to it.’
Buchan looked at him. ‘True, Edgar.’ Jolly had been his second in command since he had been given Growler. It was the first time he could recall his showing the slightest hint of compassion for anyone.
Chadwick strode amongst them. ‘I’ve just heard about Lieutenant Rowan. Whose damn-fool idea was it to tell him about his parents?’ He did not wait for an answer. ‘It won’t bring them back to life. It would have waited until we touched land again.’ He walked to the clear-view screens. ‘It’s coming into the Operations Room now. Strong surface force has left Tromso. U-boats are already closing the convoy, and I expect they’ve got every recce plane and bomber from here to blazes ready for the signal from Group North.’ He faced them grimly. ‘And when that happens I want all our people on top line. I also want them alive, not being knocked down out of the sky because they were thinking of homes and families, right?’
He swung round as Bray re-entered the bridge. ‘Check your calculations again, Pilot.’ He looked at Buchan. ‘And tell the engineroom to give us more revs. This is an escort carrier, not a bloody banana boat!’ He stormed out of the bridge.
Jolly breathed out slowly. ‘Well, now.’
The captain groped for his pipe, and then picked up the engineroom handset. He could see the knuckles on his beefy fist standing out pale as he gripped the handset with all his might. Bloody banana boat, was she? He would show him. He forced himself to think of his wife. That man.
Buchan was calm again. ‘Oh, Chief? This is the captain.’
‘Hands to flying stations! Stand by to fly-off aircraft!’
Rowan pushed his way into the Ready Room, half-listening to the mounting roar of engines, the throbbing din thrusting down through decks and cabins as a new strike of torpedo bombers prepared to take off.
It had been like that for twenty-four hours. While Growler pounded her way northwards towards the rendezvous at Bear Island, and the W/T collected an endless pile of signals about sightings of U-boats and heavy surface ships which had vanished from their Norwegian bases.
Rowan shivered despite his fleece-lined jacket and Mae West, and the press of figures all about him. He had been like it for two days. Since the raid, the news about his parents. Like being ill, or recovering from a terrible hangover. It was the only way he could describe his feelings. The doc had called it shock. Too much strain on top of all he had been doing for months. What did he expect, for God’s sake? For pilots to go on leave whenever . . . He shivered again. Even that train of thought was instantly snapped. There was nowhere to go on leave. He remembered what Bill had said after the last one. Now he would never lie in bed with old Simon at his side, listening to the night wind. He hoped that none of them had suffered. He felt the returning pain behind his eyes and tried to hold it back.
The doc had been tight of course. It was shock. But what was the use of knowing about it?
Broderick looked over the assembled air crews. ‘Good. I’ll fill you in on a few items.’
He seemed very calm, his training as Air Staff Officer pushing whatever he felt inwardly aside.
‘The convoy has been attacked again. One escort has been put down, and it’s generally believed that a U-boat was destroyed, too. Hustler’s flying patrols all over the convoy and well ahead of it, so that the U-boats will be forced to run deep for much of the time. More to the point, none of the merchantmen has been hit.’
Some of the pilots shuffled their boots and stared at the coloured charts. Others were listening to the noise from the flight deck as the last of the Swordfish roared away, the sound swallowed up within seconds.
Broderick added. ‘With luck we will be in close contact with the convoy tomorrow. It is a critical time for the commodore. U-boats ahead and possibly shadowing and trying to find a gap in his screen. And surface ships heading to intercept his last run towards the south. He has to keep in touch with the support group, but be prepared to make violent changes of course if and when Jerry can pin him down with a definite sighting.’
Cameron. ‘Lord Algy’, muttered, ‘Here we go. Focke-Wulf Blues!’
Broderick had very keen ears. ‘Right, Algy, if a Focke-Wulf or two gets to sniffing distance the convoy will really be in trouble. With the fleet carrier knocked out of the fight,’ he was ticking off the flaws in their armour, ‘the support group will have to share Hustler’s air cover with the convoy’s commodore. And to catch a Focke-Wulf you need plenty of fighters.’ He glanced at the operations officer. ‘Does that sum it up, Cyril?’
James had been staring at one of the charts. ‘Yes. There’s only one solution now. We must fly fighters direct to Hustler.’
There was complete silence, so that the sounds of creaking steel, the occasional boom of water along the hull seemed extra loud and close.
Dymock Kitto, his newly added half-stripe shining between the original faded lace on his shoulder straps, stepped up beside the desk, his chin blue in the harsh light.
‘We’ll be leaving just two fighters aboard Growler.’ His voice was quite level, as if the task of flying to a Seafire’s extreme range and finding the other carrier before the fuel ran out was mere routine. ‘I’ll take Red Flight.’ He looked at Rowan. ‘You’ll have Blue.’
They all looked at each other. Then Kitto added, “Andy Miller will have to take up his old role again and defend the ship while we’re away.’ He glanced at Marlot, a junior pilot who had joined the ship with Creswell. ‘You, too. The rest will fly-off in half an hour. Get your gear together and check with Ops and the Met. Office.’ He did not ask if anyone had any questions. There was not much point.
Rowan stood looking at the charts. He pictured the tiny aircraft hopping from carrier to carrier like flies. That great span of sea. Suppose they did run out of fuel? Or Hustler was torpedoed before they got there?
It reminded him of a cartoon he had seen on his last leave. A deep-sea diver standing in a wreck, and a message coming down to him from the salvage vessel above. Don’t bother to come up, Fred, we’ve just been torpedoed! It had made him smile, and he could feel his mouth trying to respond again.
He turned and saw Bill watching him. He said, ‘Sorry I’ve been such a bastard lately. You know how it is.’
Bill smiled gravely, ‘You’ve been fine. Forget about it.’
Kitto called, ‘Just a word, Tim.’ He waited for Rowan to join him. ‘We might spot a Focke-Wulf en route to Hustler. Use your discretion and keep one eye on your fuel gauge. My flight will be leading yours by some twenty minutes, so we’ll be able to cover quite a bit of water between us.’ He grinned. ‘That would please the admiral, eh?’
Rowan nodded. There was about as much likelihood of two aircraft meeting by accident up here as landing on the moon. But there was always the chance and you had to be ready. The great Focke-Wulf Condor was slow by comparison with a fighter, but she packed a punch which was not to be taken lightly.
Across the sea routes of the Atlantic, Biscay and the Arctic the big Condors had proved their worth time and time again. They would pounce on a convoy and keep lazily circling it until relieved by another Condor, or until the U-boat packs were homed to the kill.
The little aircraft carriers had made their work less easy, but they had the whole sea to hunt in, and a range of nearly four thousand miles to do it.
He recalled with deadly clarity the time he had met a Condor. It had not been so far from here, but it had been winter, the sea below like black glass. That particular convoy had been savagely attacked by both U-boats and then mountainous seas. Two freighters had been lost without trace, their crews drowned during the night. Seven other ships had been sunk by torpedo attack before the foul weather had enabled the commodore to shake off the pack.
Rowan had been aboard a fighter-catapult ship, a bastardised merchantman with a solitary Hurricane fighter on a catapult. Once airborne, there was no place to land. You just had to ditch, and pray that somebody pulled you out before you froze solid. If the long-suffering British public had known how flimsy were the convoy’s defences they would probably have cracked long ago.
But that one, expendable Hurricane was worth more than all the corvettes, depth charges and trained seamen in the convoy, once the commodore had shaken off the U-boats.
And on their seventh day at sea an escort had sighted a Focke-Wulf Condor.
After that it had all seemed to happen in a split second. The violent pressure as the fighter had been hurled from its catapult in a rain squall, the lines of merchantmen sliding away beneath him, as if they were steaming downhill. The rain had been their only chance. If the Condor had already sighted the convoy and had wirelessed its position to base, the detour, the fight for survival had all been in vain.
And then, just as suddenly, he had found the big German plane. Diagonally above him and filling the sky.
He watched the vapour coming back from his racing engine, knowing the rain was getting worse, and that each second was paring away his chances of finding the convoy again. In those flashing moments he had seen his whole life. He had been twenty-four then, and had wanted very much to go on living. It had seemed empty, unfair, and had filled him with an unreasoning bitterness which had pushed all caution aside.
He had flown straight for the Condor, unable to believe they had not seen him. But who would expect a fighter in the Arctic when there was no carrier for a thousand miles? He had pressed the button, and had almost flown headlong into the bomber’s port wing with stunned surprise. His guns had not fired.
Tracers had come within a few feet of his prop as the Condor’s gunners had come out of their trance. He had felt the aircraft jerk violently, and had seen oil splash across his perspex screen.
He had become very calm and had pressed the button again. That time every machine gun had fired. He had made one diving attack across the Condor’s massive tail, seeing his tracers ripping home, killing the rear gunner, and feeling at the same time that the Hurricane was already falling out of control.
Almost the worst part had been that he remembered nothing more. He had not been able to release his parachute and be dragged from the cockpit, of that he was certain. The Hurricane was starting to bum, and there had been a lot of choking smoke, and somebody yelling. Then he had remembered nothing until hands had dragged him into a ship’s whaler and somebody had started to cut his smouldering leather jacket from his back.
The rest of the convoy had reached the Kola Inlet intact. It had seemed unlikely that Rowan’s brief skirmish had destroyed the Condor, but he must certainly have knocked out the radio.
No U-boats came, and somewhere at a Norwegian base a German pilot was probably still pondering on the solitary Hurricane in the Arctic.
He sat down and filled his pipe. Trying not to think about his parents. Knowing that if he survived this convoy he would have to go to the house.
Bill sat beside him. ‘I know how you feel. I’m not fancying this flight much, but I’d rather be doing something.’
Rowan looked at him. ‘It’ll be all right, I expect. Tea and buns all round. It’ll be a home from home.’
The tannoy crackled again. ‘Range Red Flight at after end of flight deck immediately.’
Rowan tried not to think about it. At least he had Jonah again. That was something. Better to be with friends.
He nodded to Cameron and Creswell. ‘Let’s get ready. Our turn soon. I’ll check the recognition signals. I’d hate to be shot down by our own blokes!’
They nodded, hiding their true feelings, as he was from them. He turned as a rating wrote their names on the board with the blue top.
Rowan, Ellis, Cameron and Creswell. They could be sponged off in seconds.
The whistling snarl of Seafire engines told him that Kitto and his bunch were already taking off. For once he did not want to watch. He would shake hands when he reached Hustler. Or not, as the case might be.
He thought of Buchan on his chair; solid reliable. Villiers on his flying bridge, haunted and tortured by whatever had changed him to half the man he had once been. James with his charts and purring plot tables. Was he worrying about his German wife at home? How she felt in a food queue, after an air raid, when her fellow countrymen had killed some of her neighbours?
He thought of the man he had shot down over the Lofoten Islands. Was it really just a few days and hours ago? A telegram would have reached his home, too. Killed in action. His parents would be wondering about who had done it, just as Andy Miller pondered over the watch a German pilot had given him.
The hands of the bulkhead clock must have jumped forward. Rowan stood up and felt his pockets. His razor and toothbrush. Tobacco pouch and spare pipe. He touched the folded letter inside his inner pocket. It was the last he had had from home. His mother had written. Don’t worry about us, dear. Just take care of yourself.
You were not supposed to carry personal letters. But what the hell. He snatched his helmet from the chair and held the goggles up to the deckhead light. It was all he had left.
A bell jangled, and he felt the urgent tremble of the nearest hangar lift.
Time to go. Just take care of yourself.
He looked at his companions and felt strangely moved.
‘Let’s get the show on the road.’
The tannoy pursued them. ‘Stand by to fly-off aircraft.’
Bill did his usual act. A little mincing step and one large hand in the air. ‘I’ll do no such thing, you brute.’
It was always funny.
Cameron said, ‘I knew you were bent, Bill.’
Outside the air was keen, the sky bare but for a few arrows of cloud. The sea beyond the carrier’s side was furrowed with dark shadows, regular and even, the long lines of troughs rolling towards the five ships, lifting them with indifference before undulating towards the opposite horizon.
Three Swordfish were circling overhead. The returning patrol. The others were off somewhere searching for signs of a U-boat. On this harsh sea, standing as she did like a block of flats, Growler presented a perfect target.
Petty Officer Thorpe touched his arm, his grimy face worried. ‘A mate of mine is in Hustler, sir. Petty Officer Denny. He’ll look after you. Just mention me.’
Rowan smiled. It made him realise that he was leaving more than just the ship.
‘I will.’
They stood in the keen air looking at the Seafire as it was manhandled into position, its nose towards the sky. Jonah.
Bats hurried past, dragging on his helmet. He grinned. ‘Mount up!’
Three hundred empty miles. Tea and buns at the end of it.
He sighed and pulled himself into the cockpit.
‘This is Blue Leader. Ready for take-off.’
‘Stand by.’
The Affirmative broke from Growler’s yard and the nearest sloop moved even closer. Just in case someone ditched.
The engine roared and shook into life. Check every damn thing.
There was the light.
Here we go.
Rowan wriggled his toes inside his fleece-lined boots and peered carefully from side to side. The four Seafires were flying in loose formation at eighteen thousand feet. It was not the most economical height, but under the circumstances vision and the ability to spot the convoy’s screen and the carrier might prove more important. If things went badly, it could be vital.
They had been airborne for twenty minutes, and it was still a surprise to Rowan that the sea and sky could change so quickly and so much in this unfriendly place. The sky was duller now, and towards the horizon it was like bronze.
He bit his lip. The sea’s edge was blurred. He removed his goggles and examined them. Then he checked his course and speed and replaced them. The horizon was still misty.
He stared across his quarter towards Bill. He could see him quite clearly, his mouth opening and closing as if he were champing gum. In fact he was singing, his oxygen mask jerking up and down like a goatee beard.
Whenever he stopped thinking about his instruments and the other aircraft his mind kept returning to his parents. Things he had taken for granted. Their attitudes, which he had so often regarded as routine, became clearer, like a gun-sight.
His mother would ask her husband, ‘Had a good day, dear?’
His father would reply without hesitation, ‘Much as usual, my love.’
Perhaps that had been their strength. Routine. So that even their affection for each other had become unshakeable, untouched by things out of the ordinary.
And now they were dead.
He blinked as his cockpit was suddenly enveloped in tattered cloud.
‘Hello, Blue Leader.’ It was Bill. ‘I can see a ship.’ He chuckled. ‘Fine time to take a cruise!’
Rowan lifted one hand, and then craned over to look for the ship. He saw her, just below the horizon, white and buff, with tiny glittering lights along her hull, despite the brightness of day. A poor, bloody neutral, he thought. Swedish, most likely. There were precious few neutrals left, and it was harder for them to stay out of the line of fire.
Better take a look, he thought. It would give them a fright if nothing else.
Even the ship was wrong. Blurred and indistinct. He pushed Syms’ globe-head from his thoughts, his uncertain gloom about fog.
He said, ‘Line astern.’ He saw Creswell in his mirror, waggling his wings. ‘We’ll keep together.’
He heard Bill croon, ‘Take me to your arms again!’
More patches of cloud now, all bunched up and lumpy, much lower. He checked his altimeter. Probably no more than ten thousand feet.
He held his breath, not daring to blink. A harder shadow had shown itself for mere seconds amongst the clouds. A few more minutes, less even, and they might have missed it. It was a big aircraft, and he had no doubt it was steering directly for the lonely merchantman. Interest, boredom, it did not matter now.
He snapped, ‘Condor! Going down!’
Then he put the Seafire into a steep dive, knowing the rest were following close astern.
The cloud became more congested until he was flying right through it, his jaw aching as he strained every muscle to keep his fullest concentration. The clouds shivered and parted like ripped curtains as he held the fighter in a power dive. Down, down, it would be any second.
He gripped the stick harder and switched the gun button to ‘Fire’. He’d not get caught out a second time.
With the plane swaying violently he swept out into the bronze light, barely able to accept that the other aircraft was really there. Just as he had pictured it. The perfect position. He was still well above the big Focke-Wulf’s port quarter, and every small detail stood out like items in a recognition manual.
Three hundred yards. He held the German in his sights, hardly able to breathe. A split second and he pressed the button, raking the other plane with a long burst along the port wing, over the top and on towards the stem. The Focke-Wulf’s upper rear gunner was swinging towards him, metal and perspex flying in bright fragments as the deadly hail of bullets and cannon shells turned his little pod into horror.
The bomber tilted steeply, falling away like a huge, gaunt crucifix.
Rowan pulled out of his dive, seeing a pale splash of colour far below, knowing it was the neutral ship. The spectator.
He saw Bill’s Seafire diving steeply across the Condor’s full span, hammering a four-second burst into the body and perhaps the cockpit as well.
He was yelling, ‘Got him! Got the bugger!’
Smoke belched slowly and then more thickly from the Condor’s tail, and it started to go into a shallow dive. The pilot would try to ditch near to the ship. He had a good chance, and therefore a last-minute opportunity to get his signal off to base. Fighters meant a carrier. The rest would be easy.
Rowan levelled off and brought Jonah round in a tight turn, the Merlin labouring as he lifted the nose to gain more height.
He heard Creswell cry, ‘Tallyho!’
Rowan fumbled with his switch and shouted, ‘Break off, Frank!’ He saw the Seafire dropping out of the sky like a dart, guns blazing, as Creswell fanned towards the bomber’s shattered gun mounting and then swept down and beneath its oil-streaked belly.
‘Oh, Jesus!’ Rowan pressed his button, pouring a long burst into the Condor’s full length from stern to stem.
He heard the loud clatter of the German’s heavy machine guns. In his eager excitement Creswell must have forgotten about the gunner in the Condor’s belly. He must have seen it like a whaler of old sighting the huge and helpless catch, only to be destroyed himself by the giant tail.
The Seafire reeled away, rolling almost on to its back as the German staggered and then began a violent plunge towards the sea.
Rowan levelled off behind Creswell. ‘This is Blue Leader. Do you read me?’ He hesitated, his heart heavy, as the other fighter reeled to one side and then straightened up again. ‘This is Jonah.’ He kept his voice unhurried, even gentle. ‘Do you read me, Frank?’
He saw the others taking station on him, and some parachutes floating towards the sea like tiny pieces of fluff. He noticed too that the ship was end-on. Hurrying away or towards the crashing Condor, he did not know.
Then he heard Creswell’s voice. ‘Hello, Jonah, I read you.’
Rowan wiped his face. Small and jerky, the pain as near as if Creswell was right here in the cockpit.
Creswell added, ‘I made a cock of that. Sorry. Never thought –’ He coughed.
Rowan glanced abeam and saw the Condor hit the sea and explode, but it no longer mattered.
He concentrated on the solitary Seafire ahead of him.
‘What about your instruments, Frank?’
‘All right, Jonah. I – I think.’ In a sharper tone, which revealed the true loneliness of terror, he said, ‘I’m bleeding! All over the place! Oh, dear God!’
Rowan said, ‘You lead, Bill. Algy, you take tail-end Charlie.’
He took the Seafire slowly and carefully until he was flying abeam and level with Creswell’s. He was close enough to see the big holes, the shining wetness which was most likely a fuel leak. He also saw Creswell, his head lolling forward and trying to turn towards him.
Rowan said carefully, ‘Continue as before, Frank. Don’t bother about instruments. Just watch old Bill and follow him.’ He raised his voice. ‘Frank!’ He had seen the nose drop, had known Creswell had all but blacked out.
‘Keep talking. Watch Bill’s plane, and talk. Anything.’ He found he was pleading.
Creswell answered brokenly, ‘Never saw that bloody gunner. But I remember an instructor who said once –’
Rowan called sharply, ‘Said what, Frank?’ He tried again. ‘What did he say?’
Creswell replied, ‘My girl’s gone and married a pongo. A bloody soldier, can you imagine?’
‘My father was a soldier.’
Rowan blinked and darted a glance at his instruments. They were at thirteen thousand feet. Please God, they should sight something soon. Or would they all fly to the north, making conversation, and falling one by one like slaughtered birds as their fuel gave out?
Saving Creswell’s life was suddenly the most important thing in the world. He hardly knew anything about him. He was young, fresh-faced, and should have had no worries. And now he was trying to obey orders. He was probably dying, flying into oblivion, and all he could think of was that his girl had married a soldier.
When he looked again he saw dark haze on the horizon, slightly to port.
Bill called hoarsely, ‘Bear Island, if I’m any judge.’
Creswell said vaguely, ‘Fuel’s low. Must have winged me badly.’ He groaned. ‘Oh, Christ, it hurts like hell.’
Rowan said, ‘Hold on, Frank. We mustn’t break up the gang now.’ It sounded stupid, but it was all he had to offer. ‘Think of the next leave. Bill will find you a girl.’
‘Hello, Jonah.’ Bill cut in. ‘Ships dead ahead.’ Then in a voice which almost broke, ‘And two Swordfish, at three o’clock low. Oh, you dear old Stringbags! I love you!’
Rowan snapped down his catch. ‘Hello, Lapwing, this is Blue Leader.’ His mind was spinning, and yet he had still remembered Hustler’s call sign. ‘Request permission to land-on immediately.’ He pounded the throttle with his fist. ‘Answer, damn you! For Christ’s sake, answer!’
The voice when it came was very faint and dry. ‘Hello, Blue Leader. Affirmative.’
Rowan tilted slightly and sought out the escorts carrier’s blunt outline, beyond which was a great spread of shipping. She was levelling up on her new course, ready to receive them. Kitto must have arrived shortly before and got everyone on top line. He felt his eyes stinging. Bless ’em all.
‘Can’t hold her!’ It was Creswell. ‘I’ll not make it!’
Rowan saw the prop of Creswell’s plane become blurred and uneven, and then stop completely.
He said urgently, ‘I’ll follow you down.’ He changed his switch again. ‘I’ve got a pilot ditching.’ He tried to sound calm, knowing that one break in his voice would finish Creswell, like slamming a door.
‘Message understood.’
Rowan fixed his attention on the punctured Seafire as it went into a steep dive.
‘Get ready, Frank!’
For a moment longer he thought he was too late. Then he saw a slight movement in the cockpit, the yellow scarf which Creswell always wore waving into the air like a flag. Except that it was more red than yellow now.
Then he was plucked from the cockpit as the parachute tore him from the Seafire like a cork from a bottle.
Rowan dived steeply, circling and watching. Creswell tried to wave and then hung limp in the harness, drifting rapidly downwind.
‘This is Lapwing. Land-on immediately.’
Rowan watched the parachute, seeing one of the escorting sloops tearing to meet it, a bow wave rising on either side if any evidence was needed of their efforts to reach Creswell.
He said. ‘This is Jonah. Lead the way, Bill.’
Bill too sounded preoccupied. ‘Going down.’ He was able to ignore the usual qualms of landing, the fact they had found the carrier. The parachute was all that counted.
Rowan flew around the ships, seeing the two patrolling Swordfish, a boat shoving off from the sloop’s side and pulling towards the parachute as Creswell hit the water.
It was like watching himself, Rowan thought.
He sighed. He could do nothing more. He straightened up and watched the Hustler taking on personality as she grew larger through his prop. An exact twin of Growler to the last rivet. And yet completely different. Only a sailor would understand that, he thought.
He held his breath, watching the turn-down, the apparent roll of the carrier’s deck in a cross-swell, before making his decision. Strangely enough, it was the best landing he could remember.
Kitto was waiting for him.
‘Well done, Tim. The sloop’s just signalled that Creswell is alive. They’ll ferry him across at once so that the surgeon can have a look at him. The captain is fuming mad at you for taking so long to land-on. But I think he’s glad to see us all the same.’ He studied Rowan’s tired face. ‘You met a Focke-Wulf then?’
Funny. He had not even mentioned it. ‘Shot it down.’ Just like that.
Kitto touched his arm and turned as Ellis and Cameron hurried to the island. ‘Commander (Flying) will want to meet you right away, as will the Old Man.’ He smiled gravely as the three pilots shook hands.
Bill said, ‘Poor Frank.’
Lord Algy looked at the sloop as it edged nearer to the carrier. ‘Those bloody Jerries will all be safe and snug aboard that ship by now. Swedish stewardesses and lashings of booze.’
Bill grinned, but his eyes remained sad. ‘Yeh, shame, isn’t it.’
Two hours and ten minutes after landing aboard H.M.S. Hustler a fog closed in around the convoy, completely hiding every ship from her consort.
Rowan lay in a borrowed bunk, his fingers interlaced behind his head, listening to the rattle of pipes and machinery, the inexplicable noises above and around him.
It had been a very close thing.