by Alan Evans
1 “You’re a Hard Man.”
The dawn raid on Maltezana started badly. Mark and Tim came out onto the flight-deck after the briefing in the carrier’s island. The darkness was lit by the blue flames of exhausts and filled with the thunder of engines. They paused in the lee of the island to zip up the leather Irvine flying-jackets with their sheepskin linings. Their trousers were tucked into flying-boots. It was deep into October now and the nights were colder.
They both staggered as the flight-deck lifted and plunged beneath them, Eagle banging through the swell at nearly twenty knots for flying off the Swordfish. Spray flicked their faces like rain.. While his mind worked on courses and wind speeds, Tim Rogers, chartboard under arm, shouted at random above the noise: “How is that girl, Katy? Did you manage to see her while we were at Dekheila?”
Mark did not want to talk about her, tried to shrug it off: “I packed that in. It was getting to be too serious.”
Tim peered at him, suddenly attentive. “Is that the truth?”
Mark could not make out the expression on his face, and answered lightly, “‘Course it is.”
Tim shouted at him, separating his words to make them clear, “Sometimes you can be a right bastard!” He walked aft along the deck to where Ethel was ranged with the other Swordfish of the strike.
From then on they spoke only through the Gosport tube, just exchanging details like airspeed and changes of course. They flew off in the darkness. Tim sat in the airgunner’s cockpit right aft. They were leaving Campbell aboard Eagle because the Swordfish for this operation had been fitted with overload tanks to extend their range, and each tank squatted in and on top of the middle cockpit, a huge steel cylinder like a dustbin, holding sixty gallons of aviation fuel.
Maltezana was the Italian seaplane base on the island of Stampalia to the north of Crete. In the minutes before the sun showed its first edge above the eastern horizon Mark thought, Not like the raid on Rhodes. This time we’re going in with the first light and we’ll be out again before the sun is up. And: I hope to God things work out as well at Taranto.
JUDGMENT was scheduled for this next week, all the air crew were certain of that.
A blue light winked from the leading Swordfish and its nose went down as it dived towards the island ahead. One by one the others followed, Mark among them. As he eased the stick forward he said into the Gosport tube, “Here we go.”
Tim answered shortly, “Right.” Mark knew he would be standing now, manning the Vickers machine-gun and ready to fire at any target that appeared.
There below was the half-circle of the bay and a seaplane already in the water at the edge, with men working on it. Mark thought: The dawn patrol running a bit late. And the hangars loomed behind, camouflaged, but clear when you knew where to look. He pulled out of the dive, reached his left hand down to the trigger, released his bombs, and hauled back on the stick. Climbing, he leaned over the side of the cockpit and looked out past the tailplane. He saw the flashes of the bursting bombs, one of them at least in a hangar, he was sure —
He felt the kick again, as he had felt at Bomba, but not with the same enormous blast. Although Ethel was tossed sideways, he did not lose consciousness even for a second. He lost control as the plane fell away but worked on stick and rudder and pulled her out. The engine had stopped, was smoking and clearly, had been hit. He saw he was over the island — no more than two hills with a saddle between and all surrounded by the sea. The saddle was away to his left and he was heading to pass over the northern hill. Or was he going to clear it?
“Tim!” He called again, “Tim?”
There was no answer. Desperately he hoped it was simply that the Gosport tube between them had been damaged. He wondered why he had seen no flak. Maybe the Italian gunners had been shooting at someone else to start with, as he’d concentrated totally on his target. Or they’d hit him with the first rounds fired. And obviously, not only the engine had been hit. The starboard lower wingtip was completely shot away —but just outside the strut. Which was some sort of luck. The ailerons, on upper and lower wings, were connected through the strut. If that had gone then, he’d have totally lost control and Ethel would have spun to earth like a falling leaf but a hell of a lot faster. As it was, he had the stick hard over and still the starboard wings drooped and the port ones were high.
He could try to turn her around but God only knew what she’d do then: And he thought it likely there would be more Italians on this side of the island where the seaplane base lay. He wasn’t going to smash her down in their front garden.
He was achieving some sort of steep, waddling glide, and they weren’t actually falling out of the sky, but the summit of the hill was racing up at him with terrifying speed. He’d thought they would clear it and they did, just, by feet or only inches. There was thorn scrub scattered over the crest and he thought the undercarriage caught in some of that. He felt a jolt and heard a crackling — it was eerie to be able to hear outside noises like that, with the engine dead. But Ethel wallowed over and dropped down the other side, still precariously airborne.
He glimpsed a few houses on the shore of an inlet almost dead ahead, and beyond lay the sea. For an instant he wondered if it would be better to ditch in the sea? Would he be able to get Tim out? Was Tim alive? He was saved that decision because Ethel lurched into a still steeper dive. He tried to hold the nose up but she was sliding away to the right and he knew she was going to stall.
He saw the shelf then, a sort of meadow, a level clearing in the scrub halfway down the hill, like a step cut in the side of it. The shelf looked to be fairly smooth and a little bigger than a tennis court. The hill dropped away beyond it to a rocky shore. He lost sight of the shore as Ethel dropped again and knew he had to put her down in the clearing — or else. There was no question of a proper landing because if she ran at all — and he didn’t know the state of the undercarriage — it would be over the meadow’s edge to fall nose first down the hill. He just had to bang her down onto the shelf.
Nearly there now, the scrub rushing past below and very close.
He prayed that Tim would be all right, and stalled the plane. She hung, nose up, for a long second, then slammed down. The undercarriage held up and she even ran forwards a few feet but then the wheels hit some obstruction and she toppled forward onto her propeller.
He was winded, shaken and shaking, sagging half out of the cockpit and held in only by his harness. The fuselage reared up behind him, almost perpendicular. He hung there for some moments, dazed, then felt liquid dripping on his shoulder and running cold down his face, smelt it. He realised it was petrol from the overload tank looming over him; the fat drum had been holed. It only needed the tiniest spark now, and — he shuddered and struggled frantically, loosened the harness and slithered head first down the side of the fuselage to the ground. Then he had to climb up again to release Tim, who hung from the single long jock strap, secured to the cockpit floor. Mark fumbled with it, gasping in the reek of petrol. Christ! He hoped she wouldn’t burn. Not yet, anyway.
He unclipped the strap from Tim’s belt and the man’s limp weight sagged against him. He tried to climb down carrying the observer but lost his footing and fell back with Tim on top of him. He pushed the dead-weight away — not dead, surely not dead? — stood up and gripped the observer under the arms, dragged him away from the Swordfish for fifteen or twenty yards to the edge of the clearing and the start of the scrub.
He sat down then, and panted. Now he had to burn Ethel. There was an incendiary bomb aboard, carried for that purpose, or he could use the Verey pistol in the cockpit. But first he would take off his leather jacket with its dangerous stink of petrol...Just as soon as he got his breath back and his hands steadied.
But he did not have to burn Ethel. There was a quiet pop! like the lighting of a gas stove, and a tongue of flame licked up, then in seconds the fire ran the length of the fuselage. Mark felt the heat searing his face and he grabbed Tim again and hauled him away through t
he scrub until he could no longer feel that hot breath. He sat down then, stared at the pyre and thought, She just went up, could as easily have done while we were still on board.
And: Well, it’s odds on they’ll get me one day, but I’d rather not go like that.
And then: They haven’t got me yet.
He was alive and free — so far.
He examined Tim Rogers as well as he could and quickly. Tim was breathing; that was something. Mark could find nothing wrong except a wound on the side of Tim’s head. The bleeding had stopped and already showed signs of caking into a scab. There was an ominous lump.
Mark sat back on his heels, already facing the next problem. The Italians would come looking for them. When they saw the burnt-out Swordfish they might conclude there had been no survivors. Either way, he and Tim dared not stay here.
He stood up and looked about him with the wrecked and burning Swordfish at his back. Before him was the crest of the hill. He reckoned he stood within a mile or so of one end of the island, away to his left. Not much room to manoeuvre there. Most of the island lay to his right. He turned and looked past the Swordfish to the sea. That was the way he had to go eventually, to the sea — but now? No. The Italians would expect any survivors to head that way, seeking escape. So which was the least likely direction such survivors would take? He reached down with his left hand and got one of Tim’s arms around his shoulders, lifted him with his free right hand around Tim’s waist and started up through the scrub towards the crest. He was heading back towards the distant seaplane base. He would probably be able to see it from the crest but he didn’t intend to climb so high.
In fact he barely staggered twenty yards before he halted and set down his burden. For one thing, there was a track ahead of him, running along the side of the hill. For another, he could not carry Tim that way. He took out his handkerchief and lashed the unconscious man’s wrists together, then heaved him up again and went on, now with the body on his back, legs dangling, arms around his neck, held crossed on his chest. The observer was a slightly built man, several inches shorter and two stones lighter than he. Even so the effort already had him running with sweat, and the sun still not clear of the horizon.
When he reached the track he paused. He would not follow it because he would be too exposed. As for crossing it, although the track itself was only a few feet wide, the bare ground between it and the scrub on either side was ten or fifteen yards in width. And while the scrub might be only waist-high, so that he stuck up out of it, for as long as he was in it, he could sink down into its cover at a moment’s notice. So he squinted up and down the track, made sure it was empty, and then left the scrub and crossed to the other side of the open ground as quickly as possible. He almost achieved a wavering trot, carrying Tim that way. When he was a good fifty yards up the slope and into the scrub he took a rest, laid the observer down and sat beside him.
Tim showed no sign of recovering consciousness. Mark wondered, briefly, if he should have left him on the track to be found. He might have been taken to a doctor — but Mark felt he could not abandon his friend like that. Or should he just surrender the pair of them to the first soldiers he could find? He rejected that idea, too. It was a serviceman’s duty to attempt to escape and anyway, he wanted to. The alternative was, at best, long years behind the wire as a prisoner. He would dare anything to escape that, and so would Tim.
That settled, after a minute or two he lifted the observer again and climbed on up the hill, angling across it to his right to make an easier climb and because that was the way he wanted to go. It was hard work, his load dragged and the scrub caught and tore his trousers. But he laboured at it, first quietly, doggedly, and then fiercely, with hatred of the hill and anger at being shot down and the whole bloody mess.
Every forty or fifty yards he rested for some minutes. He was rising after one of these halts when he saw the soldiers. Already he had taken on the caution of the hunted animal so he was on his knees, his head lifted just above the scrub and turning, eyes searching. There were eight soldiers marching up the track in file about two hundred yards below and to his left. They wore shirts open at the neck, baggy trousers wrapped round below the knee with puttees, boots on their feet. They carried rifles slung over their shoulders. He kept very still, only his eyes moving, following them as they trudged steadily across his front and away to his right to disappear around a curve in the hill. Smoke still rose in a thin wisp beyond them where the wreck of the Swordfish smouldered. He thought it must be a good quarter-mile away.
He had not realised he had come so far, though every muscle in his body confirmed the distance when he lifted his burden again and went on. He and Tim had still not gone far enough.
He was meandering along the face of the hill now, not climbing, midway between track and crest. Higher on the hill the scrub broke into scattered clumps with wide stretches of bare, rocky ground. He did not want to be caught on one of those. Here he was winding between the clumps and always able to drop into cover. He stumbled along with his head turned, looking back, and so he saw one of the Italian soldiers returning.
Mark crouched, slid Tim off his back, then slowly raised his head until he could see above the scrub. The man was sauntering easily down the track, retracing the soldiers’ line of march. Mark thought, Returning to some base, to a telephone or wireless to report? While the others poked through the wreckage of the Swordfish — or searched for Tim and himself? He waited until the man had gone around a bend in the track and then struggled on.
There was a bulge in the hill about three or four-hundred yards ahead. He hoped that once they had got around it they would be out of sight of searchers coming from the Swordfish. He covered fifty yards or more but then, when he was resting, saw the soldiers again. There were two above the track and five below it. They carried their rifles with the barrels pointing down into the scrub ahead of them and they were searching through it.
Mark swore. Now he had to keep out of sight, moving on hands and knees, crawling with Tim on his back and Tim’s boots dragging behind. He had to stay in the scrub and skirt around the patches of open ground. It took him a long time to work around the bulge in the hill, until he could rise cautiously, look back and see only scrub, know he was hidden from the soldiers.
He dropped down again. He had glimpsed, far below him and beyond the track, the village set in a steep cliff by the sea. He wondered if anyone down there would see him if he stood up to walk? He could make better time that way and he had to if he was to stay ahead of the search.
He heard engines then, faintly at first, but they grew louder and then stopped. He chanced a look round and saw two trucks on the road. Their open bodies were packed with soldiers who began to drop out over the sides and tail-boards as he watched. An officer wearing a tasselled forage cap climbed down from the cab and started shouting orders, waving his arms and pointing. The soldiers moved off along the track and out of sight, splitting into two parties as they went. Mark could guess what was happening: they were joining the others to extend the sweeping line. There would be thirty or more men in it now. The two drivers stayed with their trucks, squatting side by side in the shade of one of them, smoking. They faced up the hill towards him and would see him if he stood.
So he had to go on crawling, shoving through the scrub, cursing and sweating, Tim’s weight growing heavier and heavier. He fell into a narrow little ravine, only two or three feet deep, in the bottom of which ran a trickle of water. He crawled through that, up the other side and on. His only plan was to try to keep ahead of the search, which he knew was impossible but stubbornly kept at it.
Until he had to stop. He could hear soldiers calling to each other, very close to him. The sun was overhead, he was exhausted and had to rest. He could not fight them all. When they came up to him he would have to surrender.
He thought of Katy. She would not be waiting for him through his years of imprisonment. She had her own life to live. He and she had finished.
He
saw the head of one soldier bobbing above the scrub, turning, questing, then another. A whistle shrilled and for a moment Mark thought one of them had blown it because he had seen Tim and himself sprawled beneath the scrub — or perhaps had heard the sobbing rasp of his breathing. But then the whistle shrilled again and Mark realised it came from further down the hill. The heads bobbed away, disappeared.
Had they called off the hunt, just when they were set to walk onto him? They had not; he saw the soldiers gathering on the track, sitting with legs stretched out wherever they could find shade. They were eating; Ward could see bread and more than one wine bottle: lunch break. The officer sat apart from the others on a canvas chair, eating from a small camp table.
Mark knew he had only been given a brief reprieve. He could stretch out his lead while they ate but they would soon make that up. He would be a prisoner long before nightfall —
Not if he could help it. He surveyed the land behind the Italian soldiers. No, he bloody well wouldn’t be taken.
He took up Tim again and started to crawl back the way he had come. The men on the road below were quiet for a moment, intent on eating. Tim said quite clearly, into that silence “The squadron’s caught them on the hop this time. Good old Eagle. We’ll be halfway home before —”
Mark nearly let him slip down from his back, hissed up at him, “Shut up, Tim!”
That had no effect. Tim rambled on, incoherent for the most part but now and then phrases came clearly: “What say to another beer? These bloody desert strips!”
Mark kept on crawling through the scrub. Tim was delirious. His babbling sounded loud to Mark but although the soldiers were hardly more than a hundred yards away, all of them seemed to be talking now, and they did not appear to have heard. No one shouted or came running up the hill. After a time, Tim was silent.
Mark stopped twice to rest and each time peered down at the track, saw the soldiers still lounging there. He was about to rest for the third time when he recognised the narrow little ravine before him so he kept on and slithered down into it, coming to rest by the stream that ran down its floor.
