Eagle at Taranto (Commander Cochrane Smith series)

by Alan Evans

  Bert, his face expressionless but his tone ironic, said, “Still, quite a coincidence. Yes, sir.” The drinks arrived and he took a mouthful of his Scotch then eyed Jamie’s suit. “Mind if I ask if you’re on the Staff?”

  Jamie shook his head, “I’m infantry. My truck ran over a mine and blew up. Nobody was hurt, I’m glad to say, except myself. I busted my knee. It’s still wonky and the doctors say I have to give it a few weeks before I go back to regimental duty. An infantry officer with only one good leg is a bloody nuisance to everyone.” He glanced at Bert, “You’re looking for somebody on the Staff?”

  Bert grumbled, “Like I tried to say a minute ago —” He cocked an eye at Katy but she was biding her time, letting all the talk of “coincidence” slip into the past. Bert went on: “We need a movement order and an escorting officer to go up to the front and we’re still waiting. I thought if I could get alongside some guy on the Staff he might be able to fix me up.”

  Jamie agreed absently. “You need somebody who can pull a few strings.” The Katy of two years ago was a dim memory and even then she had never been more than a big-eyed face in the background. Now he was getting messages, loud and clear. She had blossomed into a pretty little thing but was still a lightweight.

  Bert was saying, “That’s about the size of it. I need copy and I need it soon.”

  He paused to take a breath and Katy slipped in, smiling at Jamie: “I’ve managed to rent an apartment and I’ll be staying a while. Alexandria sounds fascinating. Do you know it?”

  She waited for his reply but instead Jamie lifted a hand in greeting to a group of three who had just entered. The man was in his thirties, well-dressed. The two women were younger, tall, long-legged and full-bodied in thin dresses. Following Jamie’s gaze Katy thought, French, then caught a few words of their conversation that confirmed it. The man nodded at Jamie and the women smiled as they passed, seeking a table.

  Jamie thought to himself, Disengage and retire. He prompted Bert: “They didn’t help at the Bureau?” Then listened sympathetically to Bert’s complaint about bureaucracy in Cairo as his eyes searched the faces at the bar, saw no hope of escape there and anxiously scanned the room. Another group entered then: half a dozen young naval officers in white drill. Jamie blinked in surprise, then grinned. He shoved up out of the chair and said, “Hold on a moment, Mr Keller, I’ve seen someone who may be able to help you.”

  He limped quickly across to intercept the officers heading for the bar and stood in the path of Mark Ward. “Hello! What a horribly small world it is. I had a drink the other night with a chap in the Guards who said he’d met you in here.”

  Mark nodded coldly. “I knew you were somewhere in Egypt. I asked if he knew you.”

  “Thinking of looking me up?”

  “No.”

  “No,” Jamie agreed. Then: “Look, I’ve been talking to a lady about you and she’d like to meet you. Come on over for a minute, will you?”

  He smiled but Mark did not. He looked over Jamie’s shoulder and saw the girl watching them. His eyes moved back to Jamie. “What rubbish have you told her?”

  Jamie chuckled. “I’ve told her nothing yet, except that you might be able to help her with a spot of trouble she’s in.”

  “Me? How?”

  “Come over and I’ll explain.” And Jamie added, “We’re keeping her waiting.”

  Mark hesitated, still suspicious. Tim Rogers said from be-hind him, “She’s a popsy.”

  Mark agreed with that. And besides, he could not flatly refuse such a request. He said, “I’ll see you later, Tim.”

  He walked to the table with Jamie Dunbar, who quickly introduced him to Bert and Katy then picked up the walking-stick and gestured at his chair. “Sit down, Mark, old chum.” And as Ward perched on the edge of the chair: “He flies a Swordfish torpedo-bomber. He’s seen bags of action and he’ll have plenty of er...copy for you, Mr Keller.” He smiled around at them, then: “Now, if you’ll excuse me, there’s a man I have to see. Duty calls, you know.”

  He limped away and Katy’s gaze followed him. She was not smiling now. He stopped at the table where the man and the two women were seated, pulled out a chair and settled down.

  Bert asked, “What’ll you have, Mr. Ward?”

  Mark answered shortly, “Beer, please.”

  Bert ordered it and turned back to the tall young pilot. He sat erect, politely attentive, silent, and Bert thought, Not much like a sailor on a run ashore, not exactly whooping it up.

  Mark knew what Jamie Dunbar had engineered, neatly, efficiently and with smooth charm. He had gone after what he wanted. Jamie was running true to form.

  Katy tried not to believe it. She told herself Jamie wouldn’t do that kind of thing. He had spoken the truth, gone to discharge some official duty. The man escorting the two Frenchwomen was probably an off-duty officer, or a contractor to the Army.

  Bert said, “So Captain Dunbar is a friend of yours?”

  Mark answered, “His mother and mine are cousins. He’s a distant relative.” At the moment, he thought, not distant enough. “Not a friend.”

  Bert did some quick rethinking and probed cautiously, “You don’t see eye to eye?”

  “I don’t like him.”

  Katy broke in sharply: “Why not?”

  “With respect, that’s my business.”

  “You shouldn’t malign him behind his back.”

  “He knows my opinion already. And one of these days, when I catch him in some quiet place, I’ll tell him it again.” Jamie had seduced a girl Mark knew, a friend of a friend, then walked out on her. Mark had fought Jamie in the secluded area behind the house, at a rare family gathering. They had tried to beat each other unconscious but their mutual cousin, big John Ward, had separated them. Mark found some satisfaction now in recalling that Jamie still bore the scar over his left eye.

  Bert tried to steer the conversation: “So you’re a flyer and you’ve seen action. Maybe you were in that battle the other day? It would be a big help to me if you could give me some details.”

  Mark shook his head, “I’m sorry, but I can’t do that. I’d need to get permission from my commanding officer.”

  Bert grinned ruefully at Katy. “What did I tell you? The Navy is keeping its mouth shut.”

  Mark asked, “I suppose you want to send reports to news-papers in America?”

  Bert said wrily, “I sure hope so, one of these days. People in the States want to know what’s going on. A lot of them are worried about this war.”

  Katy put in quickly, “Worried they might be dragged into it. But they won’t be. Not this time.”

  Mark frowned. “I wouldn’t be too sure.”

  Katy leaned forward. “Why? This is a European war. Why should America get involved?”

  Mark shrugged. “We’re not in Europe now. This is Africa. Italy wants the Suez Canal. Hitler and Mussolini have occupied most of Europe. Where do they go next?”

  “They won’t go to America.”

  “We’ll see.” Mark did not want to argue with this girl.

  Katy threw herself back in the chair and shot a bitter glance at Bert. Unsure of Jamie, she took it out on Mark. “Great. The British are playing the same old song. For years now they’ve been watching Hitler and Mussolini rant and rave, build up their forces, threaten and demand. Hitler grabbed Austria and Czechoslovakia and Mussolini took over Abyssinia. The Allies did nothing except appeal to the League of Nations and that couldn’t solve anything. Now the dictators have cut loose, trampled all over them and they’re yelling for help from us again.”

  Bert said, “Easy, baby, easy. The guy only came over here because —”

  “Because Jamie thought he might help. Well, he didn’t. Instead he started making sniffy remarks about an officer who was a guest in my father’s house back in the States.”

  Mark stood up, looked from Katy to Bert and told him, “Well good luck, Mr Keller. It seems to me you need it.” Bert started, “Now, hold on, son
—”

  But Katy took the point and snapped back at Mark, “Go play with your toy airplane!”

  Ward saw again the man stepping back into the whirling scythe of the Swordfish’s propeller, the spurting blood. “You can go to hell for all I care.”

  He turned and walked away, looked for Jamie Dunbar but he, and one of the glamorous young women, had already gone. Mark had a drink with Tim Rogers and then they drove back to Dekheila.

  The Swordfish were there at the request of the R. A. F. but Mark was not called on to fly the next day. He had time for his anger to cool and to think over the row. He decided he had been partly to blame, had been bloody-minded from the outset. Jamie’s smart-alec trick had riled him. And then there was the dead seaman. The girl had provoked him but she obviously thought Jamie was the cat’s whiskers and she wasn’t the first woman to feel like that. Mind, she wasn’t the type Jamie usually stalked: the tall ones with a lot of top hamper.

  She was a pretty girl and Ward realised suddenly that he fancied her.

  All right. Next time, try a little harder.

  That evening he walked into the Cecil and immediately saw Katy sitting at a table with Bert Keller. To Bert he said, “Excuse me.” Then to Katy: “I want to apologise for last night. I’m sorry.”

  Katy was silent, taken aback, but Bert said mildly, “Seemed to me it wasn’t all your fault, and maybe you had something on your mind.”

  “It wasn’t, and I had.”

  Bert nodded to a chair. “Grab a seat and I’ll buy you a beer.”

  But Mark waited for Katy. She smiled at him, “O.K. You’ve taken back your half, I’ll take back mine. One war at a time is enough.”

  Bert heaved an inward sigh of relief, then as Mark sat down, said, “So you’re off that carrier in the harbour, Eagle.”

  Mark nodded. “That’s right, Mr. Keller.”

  “Call me Bert — and this is Katy.”

  Ward said, “Mark.”

  Bert went on: “But at the moment you’re all flying from the field at Dekheila.” Mark shot him a sharp glance and Bert chuckled, held up a hand. “Take it easy. I’m not fishing, I got that from a bartender.”

  Mark shrugged, “It’s impossible to keep a thing like that secret. They see us fly out.”

  Katy said, “We saw you fly in yesterday. Those airplanes are a little old, aren’t they?”

  Mark said defensively, “Not really. Stringbags like Ethel look a bit pre-historic, but they work.”

  Bert detected Mark’s affection for the Swordfish. He had known this before in flyers for aircraft, seamen for ships.

  “Ethel?” Katy laughed. “You call her Ethel? Why? After a girl?”

  Mark smiled slowly. “No, an old aunt of mine. As I said, she looks old-fashioned, and she’s never one to hurry but very easy to handle.”

  Bert said, “Well, you sure as hell couldn’t call her Katy.” They all laughed at that.

  Later Bert took them out to dinner at Pastroudi’s restaurant and they spent a pleasant evening. Mark had relaxed and talked easily, made dry remarks that made them laugh and never mentioned the war. He saw there was friendliness and mutual respect underlying the sparring between the two Americans. Once he asked, “Are there many American women working as war photographers?”

  Bert shrugged. “Are there any other women war photographers? I only know of this one.”

  Mark was impressed, but thought that, of course, the girl would not be risked anywhere near the fighting. Towards the end of the meal Jamie Dunbar came in with the previous evening’s tall, busty beauty. They sat in a far corner of the room and Katy’s eyes shifted there from time to time. Mark did not appear to notice.

  Outside, Bert held out his hand. “Hope I’ll see you next time I’m in Alex, Mark, but tomorrow I go back to Cairo.” And with a glance at Katy, “Somebody has to look after the shop.”

  Mark shook the hand, noted Bert’s use of “I” and asked Katy, “Not you?”

  She shook her head, “I’m staying.”

  Bert asked, “Will you be in town tomorrow night?”

  “I don’t know.” Mark looked at the girl. “Are you on the phone? If I get in maybe we could eat?”

  Katy hedged, “Maybe.” But she told him the number. He did not telephone.

  3 Tobruk

  The night was clear and there was a big, yellow moon. Mark, in Ethel’s cockpit, could see the other eight Swordfish of the squadron to port and starboard, dark silhouettes marked by the dim blue formation lights on their wings. They rose and fell gently as they flew, like ships riding a moderate sea. The coast lay somewhere to port and about twenty miles away, where the dappled silver sheet of the sea ended in blackness. There was the droning clamour of the Pegasus engine and the tearing roar that was part propeller slipstream and part the windrush of ninety knots.

  Ward was no stranger to night-flying. When he won his “A” licence as a private pilot in 1937 the flying bug had set its teeth in him. In the summer of 1938 he asked his parents to let him take leave of absence from the College of Music for a year. They took little persuading, were already philosophically accepting that he showed no promise as a classical musician and they privately believed he would never return to the College.

  They were right. He knew now what he wanted to do. His songs were being sung by artists like Gracie Fields and Sam Browne, played by the bands of Geraldo, Jack Payne and Henry Hall. But the money he made from the songs he wrote for Danny Soloman he regarded as a stroke of luck, product of a talent that had come out of the blue and could as easily vanish again. But as a commercial pilot he could make a reliable living, even a career. So he went to Brooklands again and trained for his “B” licence. It took him seven months. There was a tough medical, examinations, and flying tests that included cross-country and blind flying — and a night-flying test from Croydon to Lympne. He got his “B” licence as a commercial pilot in February 1939.

  It had cost him over £300 and the second-hand De Havilland Puss Moth he wanted then would set him back another £350. He did not have that much money and would not ask his parents for their help. He was almost twenty-one, a professional man making his own way.

  He visited Aunt Ethel in Bedford, as she demanded he should every month. He found her in the garden dressed in an old overcoat and wellingtons, fiercely wielding a fork to uproot a bush. She stopped when she saw him, rubbed a grimy hand over her face red from her labour and grumbled, “Never did like the damn thing here. It has to come out.”

  He shifted it for her and afterwards she took him into the house for tea: “Wipe your feet before you come in!” And he told her about the Puss Moth. She sniffed. “So you’re a commercial pilot now. You’ve learnt about discipline. Well, I smacked your behind often enough. Glad it seems to have done some good. How much do you want?”

  “Three hundred quid.”

  “Good God!” Aunt Ethel eyed him severely. “And what do I get out of this, apart from the blame if you break your silly neck in the thing?”

  Mark had one answer ready: “The going rate of interest.” Then he thought of others. “My undying gratitude, though you’ve got that already. And, tell you what, I’ll call her after you.”

  He earned the money to repay her by flying the Puss Moth on Army co-operation flying. The Army was practising its anti-aircraft gunners to meet air-raids in Britain and needed aircraft to act as raiders. Mark had to fly at night along prescribed courses, navigating himself, for two hours or more in a night and they paid him three pounds an hour. He had put in nearly two hundred hours of night-flying by August 1939. Then he painted over the name “Ethel” on the nose of the Puss Moth, sold her and joined the Navy.

  Tim Rogers’ voice came through the Gosport tube from where he sat in the observer’s cockpit with the chartboard on his knee, lit by the orange glow of the little cockpit light: “Tobruk should be ten miles ahead and to port. Anything seen?”

  Mark leaned to his left to peer ahead and with his goggled and masked face outs
ide the protection of the windscreen he felt the full blast of the slipstream. He stayed like that for a few seconds then pulled his head in and told Tim, “No. Think we should stop and ask a policeman?”

  A snort came through the tube. “You play with your aeroplane and don’t worry. I’ll get you there.”

  “And back?”

  “One thing at a time.”

  “Play with your airplane.” Katy had said that. Mark grinned inside the mouthpiece of the Gosport tube strapped up against his face. He waited, but Tim did not speak again. He guessed the observer was nervous. He was nervous himself.

  The squadron had flown from Dekheila westwards along the coast to Sidi Barrani during the day. They were briefed to attack enemy shipping lying in the harbour of Tobruk, and it included two destroyers. The Swordfish were refuelled at Sidi Barrani and the flying crews snatched a few hours’ sleep before it was time to take off again.

  Because this was to be a torpedo attack again, Mark had recalled the strikes of the ninth of July off Calabria, and so the tunnel. The two memories were linked in his mind. Probably it was not surprising that when he slept he dreamt of the tunnel. He flew again between the black walls of the clouds but this time there was no window of light at the end. The walls ran away, narrowing in perspective, to end in distant darkness. He did not reach the darkness but woke to Tim Rogers calling him: “Tea in the mess!”

  He was not thinking about the tunnel now.

  They would turn soon. It was two in the morning and cold; he felt it on the exposed parts of his face. He wore an Irvine leather and sheepskin-lined flying jacket, serge trousers tucked into zipped-up flying boots. The heat of the day was long gone.

  A blue torch blinked a signal from the leader and the squadron wheeled to head towards the coast. Ethel’s port wing dipped as Mark took her around with the others in a banking turn that straightened into a shallow dive. He said, “Tim.” There was no answer and he reasoned that the observer had probably disconnected the Gosport tube to stand up in his cockpit and take a look.