Between The Hunters And The Hunted

by Steven Wilson

  “For them to do so,” Bimble said, searching through the clutter for a cigarette box, “she must do something that she has not shown a penchant for doing as yet.”

  “Sir Joshua?”

  “She must fill the airwaves with continued transmissions. She has been maddeningly closemouthed. We can’t count on her becoming talkative now, can we?”

  “No.”

  “No. Indeed. All right, Hawthorne. Let me get back to this foolishness.”

  “There is something else, Sir Joshua.”

  Bimble lit a cigarette, took a deep draw, and blew the smoke into the darkness. “Go on.”

  Hawthorne stepped aside and motioned into the hallway. A thin figure stood in the doorway. Even in the gloom Bimble could see that it was a Royal Navy officer.

  “With your permission, Sir Joshua, this is Lieutenant Anthony. He’s with the Wireless Telegrapher section. Shall I turn on the light?”

  “No.”

  Hawthorne nodded at Anthony to begin.

  “My division survails U-boat transmissions, Sir Joshua. We keep pretty close tabs on who is out there and what they have to say. Of course these are all coded messages so we detect and copy the messages, in code, and send the information up to Crypto. They are the fellows who actually determine what’s being said. My best man at that sort of thing is Watkins. Twenty years in W.T., sir.” Anthony hesitated. “He’s come up with some information, Sir Joshua. I’m not quite sure what it means.”

  “Continue,” Hawthorne prodded the officer.

  “Yes, sir. Everything that goes out for U-boat W.T. transmissions goes through Goliath, that’s their network, and everything that comes in from them takes the same route.”

  “I understand what you’re saying, Anthony,” Bimble said. “What is the point?”

  “Yes, sir,” Anthony said. “Watkins was told to monitor those fifteen boats lined up west of Greenland. These U-boats kept the air burning with W.T. transmissions. Watkins got their call signs easily enough. It’s very odd, you see, because U-boats are naturally chatty, but these blokes are working overtime at it. So he began to track them.”

  “That’s what he’s paid to do, isn’t it?” Bimble said.

  “Yes, sir. Of course, sir. Fifteen U-boats, fifteen call signs, all matched up. He was quite certain about that.”

  “We know there are U-boats out there,” Bimble said, pinning Hawthorne with a fierce glare for wasting his time with this nonsense. “We know the number and the general location and for reasons that you aren’t to know they are causing us some concern.” Bimble’s tone became harsh. “That is why you are doing your job, but for the life of me I don’t know why you are here at this ungodly hour wasting my time.”

  “Well, sir, this is where it gets a bit queer,” Anthony said, unfazed by Bimble’s outburst. “You see, every W.T. has his own way of keying, fisting, we call it. That is to say, how he taps out a message. Watkins can close his eyes and tell who’s on the other end by just listening to the transmission.”

  “And?”

  “He noticed something very odd and started keeping track, giving the operators’ names, you know. Fifteen U-boats, fifteen call signs, fifteen operators, fifteen names.” Anthony handed a slip of paper to Hawthorne, who handed it to Bimble.

  “What does this mean?” Bimble said, holding the list under the feeble light of the desk lamp.

  “It’s the enemy W.T. operators that Watkins named. Those that he identified. The W.T.’s sending out all of those transmissions.”

  “William,” Bimble read, “Robert, and Thomas.”

  Anthony nodded.

  “Are you telling me,” Bimble said, “that you’ve only been able to account for three U-boats?”

  “In a manner of speaking, sir,” Anthony said. “But more to the point—Watkins has been able to account for three W.T.s. There’s three chaps out there pretending to be fifteen. They switch call signs but it’s three W.T.s and only three. I’d stake a month’s pay on it.”

  “Three U-boats masquerading as fifteen,” Bimble said thoughtfully. He looked up. “How sure are you about your chap? Watkins?”

  “Sir Joshua, I’ve worked with Watkins for eight years and he’s got the keenest mind when it comes to wireless telegraphy that I’ve ever seen. The man’s ability to understand the nuances of radio transmissions is absolutely frightening. When he told me what he’d found I spent nearly ten hours listening to the transmissions with him to see if he might be mistaken. He identified the elements of each that I was to listen to, at almost the moment that the transmission began. There are three, Sir Joshua. I’m convinced of it. Three W.T.’s sending those messages.”

  Bimble studied the list of names again and nodded. “Thank you, Anthony,” he said. He leaned back in the chair and tossed the paper on his desk as the young officer left. “What a bloody mess.”

  Hawthorne waited for a signal to speak. It came with a simple “Well?” from Bimble.

  He moved to the desk, took a sheet of stationery from a pad, and sketched out the situation. “Here is where we thought the fifteen U-boats were.”

  “And may still be,” Bimble said.

  “Perhaps, Sir Joshua. Here is Prince of Wales.” He drew an X. “Here is where we think Sea Lion is.” He drew a large circle. “If those chaps are right, Prince of Wales can turn west now and make a high-speed run to Newfoundland, chancing the U-boats.”

  “If there are only three U-boats. But see here, suppose Jerry has his three out front as skirmishers, with twelve behind covering a much smaller area with a much better chance of getting Prince of Wales?”

  “Perhaps the U-boats are within range of air reconnaissance from St. Johns. Surely the Americans will help us with air reconnaissance? They did with Bismarck.”

  “Perhaps,” Bimble said. “But the fact is we don’t know where the missing twelve U-boats are or what they plan to do.”

  “They could have been arrayed south of Prince of Wales as a means of trapping her if she continues on that course. The three to the west acting as beaters, if you will, driving Prince of Wales south. So if Prince turns west now, she is safe.”

  “Yes,” Bimble said. “From the U-boats. But with Sea Lion behind her, and we have no idea where, she can then turn southwest and cut Prince of Wales off.”

  “But she has no idea where Prince of Wales is.”

  “If we can pick up W.T. transmissions between Group North and Sea Lion,” Bimble said, “the Germans can pick up W.T. transmissions between us and Prince of Wales. Besides,” he said, picking up the stationery, crumbling it into a ball, and throwing it into the dustbin next to his desk, “we don’t know where Sea Lion is. She could be within sight of Prince of Wales at this very moment. Have you at least some good news to share with me about Coastal Command’s search?”

  “I’m afraid not, Sir Joshua. They’ve got everything capable of flying aloft. The only news that they passed on is that one of their Hudsons went down.”

  Bimble crushed out the spent cigarette in the blackened glass ashtray at his elbow. “I suppose it would be too much to hope that she crashed into that damned German battleship, wouldn’t it?”

  Cole felt himself being swept along. He had no idea where he was, no recollection of anything; just a sense of movement. He couldn’t see anything, but that wasn’t important, not that he shouldn’t be troubled by it—just that for some reason sight was out of his control as was a sense of danger, or fear, or even concern. It was all very strange. He bumped against something solid and woke up.

  He was outside N-for-Nancy, or at least the back half of her. Her tail was hanging in the air and he saw the trailing edge of her wings just below the surface of the water. She must be intact, Cole thought, but he couldn’t see her nose.

  He pushed away from the fuselage and looked for the door. Most of it was underwater and he suddenly realized that he was alone.

  “Johnny! Prentice!” he shouted. A wave slapped him in the face for disturbing the tranquility of th
e wreck site with his shouting and he swallowed a stomachful of water. It tasted of gasoline and oil. He retched heavily and vomited. The stench of it almost made him vomit again. He paddled away from the scene, thankful for the buoyancy provided by his Mae West. “Peter?” He spun around, searching the water. “Hey!” He looked back at N-for-Nancy and saw that she was settling lower into the water. He thought for a moment about swimming back and trying to get inside the aircraft. Maybe one of the men was trapped inside, or maybe he could find the life raft. But he shrank from the thought of entering N-for-Nancy for any reason. She could suddenly sink and he would be trapped in her forever.

  “King!”

  Cole looked around frantically, trying to locate the source of the voice.

  “King. Over here.”

  It was Johnny. He was in the bright yellow life raft about thirty yards behind Cole. The gunner was alone.

  Cole heard a gurgling noise and saw N-for-Nancy slowly slide beneath the waves. He was still staring at the site when Johnny called to him.

  “For Christ’s sake get into the dinghy, King. You’ll freeze to death in no time if you don’t get out of the water.”

  Cole thought it strange that Johnny was worried about him freezing to death as he swam to the raft. He wasn’t cold at all. He thought it would be worse if he got out of the water and into the life raft, but he didn’t have time to consider it—he felt Johnny’s hands grasp the fabric of his flying suit and drag him into the life raft.

  “Help me along, will you?” Johnny pleaded.

  Cole slapped heavily at the life raft until he managed a handhold, and pulled himself in—falling awkwardly into the tiny craft. He lay still for a moment, drained from the exertion, sucking in great gulps of air. “Where’s … ?” he managed to gasp.

  “Dead,” Johnny said. “We’re it. Poor young Prentice smashed his brains against the gun support frame. The other two never had a chance. We must have bounced off our tail and driven the nose right into the sea. Bloody bad end for good men. How about you? Anything broken or cut?”

  Cole shook his head, surprised at how exhausted he was. Worse, he was beginning to chill. He was trembling and the cold seemed to pour into him, invading every part of his body.

  “The adrenaline’s wearing off,” Johnny said. “Felt just fine in the water, didn’t you? It was the shock of all that happened. Now that that’s passed, you’ll feel the cold.”

  “I can’t talk you into building a fire, can I?” Cole said, his teeth chattering.

  Johnny smiled. “Swallow much water?”

  “Just enough to throw up. Now I guess we sit and wait, huh?”

  “Nothing to do but that. Prentice got our emergency call out. If there was anyone close enough to hear it and come to our rescue, we’ll have a warm bed and hot rum in no time.”

  Cole wrapped himself in his own arms, trying to control the shivering. “It’s a big ocean. May take a while. How are we fixed?”

  Johnny unzipped a waterproof pouch and pulled back the flaps. “Tins of food. Small jug of water, enough of that, I hope.” He pushed the contents to one side, searching. “Flares. Line and hooks for fishing. You any good at that, King? Fishing?”

  “I couldn’t catch a cold in a snowstorm, let alone catch a fish.”

  “Pity. I’m no good either,” he said, continuing. “Bits of material to catch rainwater. Enough odds and ends to keep us going.” He grew somber. “They counted on four chaps.”

  The death of Peter, Bunny, and Prentice suddenly hit Cole hard. It was Peter that Cole focused on. He didn’t like Peter much and it was apparent to Cole that the feeling was mutual. But Peter had taken over the controls of N-for-Nancy when Bunny had been wounded and he had fought to keep the aircraft aloft to give the others a chance to prepare for ditching. Peter was a hero. Peter was dead.

  “It’s no good, King.”

  Cole looked at Johnny.

  “Thinking about the others,” Johnny said. “It’ll give you nothing but hurt and it won’t change things. They’re gone, the poor blighters, and we’re alive. All we can do is try to stay alive until someone comes and pick us up.”

  “I’ve never been through this before. Knowing guys that were killed.”

  “It’s a bloody tough thing to deal with. You never really forget,” Johnny said. “Blokes I know who bought it, I see their faces right out of the blue. I don’t know why, they just pop up in my mind. I hate it. Maybe that’s my penance. That’s what I pay for living when they died. So don’t you go dwelling on it. They’ll come back to you often enough without you making a habit of thinking of the poor bastards. All we need to do is stay alive until someone comes and finds us.”

  Cole nodded, scanning the endless ocean, knowing that he was unlikely to see anything. He heard a strange noise coming from Johnny’s end of the raft.

  “Are you humming?” Cole said.

  “I am,” Johnny said. “Takes my mind off things. Never learned to whistle, so I hum. I hum everything.”

  “I don’t hum and I don’t whistle,” Cole said.

  “Deprived, are you?” Johnny said. “Fancy a sing, then?”

  “What?”

  “To keep our spirits up,” Johnny said. “Normally, I’d have a pint in me hand with me mates down at the pub, but this will have to do. I’ll sing one and then you sing one.”

  Cole laughed. It seemed somehow disrespectful to laugh so soon after men had died. Perhaps, Cole thought, I’m laughing out of relief that I didn’t die like the others. Regardless of the reason, he decided, it felt good.

  “King,” Johnny said with a look of contrived pity, “do you think it makes a bloody difference out here whether a chap can sing or not? There’s nothing but fish and mermaids. Now, here I go—

  “My uncle’s a hell of a hunter,

  He hunts up big bottles of gin.

  For ten bob he’ll save you a good one.

  My God, how the money rolls in,

  Rolls in, rolls in.

  My God, how the money rolls in, rolls in,

  Rolls in, rolls in.

  My God, how the money rolls in.”

  Johnny beamed at Cole. “Well?”

  “Sounds like someone squeezing a cat,” Cole said.

  “Can you do any better?”

  “I can recite poetry.”

  “Go on.”

  “There was a tall lady from Ender,

  Whose big bosom nearly upend ’er.

  Hiring Willy and Ted,

  With a breast on each head,

  She then had a human suspender.”

  “That was bloody pathetic,” Johnny deadpanned. “God help us if that’s all you Yanks bring to this war.”

  “I told you I couldn’t sing,” Cole said, smiling.

  “You’ve proved it, haven’t you? How does that bloody limerick go?”

  “What?” Cole laughed.

  “Teach me yours and I’ll teach you mine,” Johnny said.

  Despite everything that had happened, Cole smiled again. “Okay, listen up.” He repeated the limerick several times before Johnny said that he knew it.

  “You got it?” Cole said.

  “It isn’t Ode to a bloody Grecian Urn, is it now, King?” Johnny cleared his throat dramatically. “You lead off and I’ll jump in.”

  “Okay,” Cole said. “Ready?”

  “There was a tall woman from Ender,

  Whose big bosom …”

  Johnny joined in, their voices drifting over the waves, accompanied by the green waves slapping against the sides of the yellow life raft.

  “Nearly upend ’er.

  Hiring Willy and Ted,

  With a breast on each head …”

  The little raft slid down a gentle swell, into a shallow trough, and up another wave, pausing briefly at the crest.

  “She then had a human suspender.”

  The raft spun slightly, a tiny craft on the vast open plain of the inhospitable sea; settling into another trough, carefully tended, for the mom
ent, by the endless waves.

  “I’ve got one,” Johnny said. “There was a young virgin from Glasgow… .”

  The voices of the men grew fainter as they laughed at the ridiculous words, the wind gently pushing the raft over the waves, farther away from the unmarked grave of N-for-Nancy and the men that lay entombed within her.

  Chapter 24

  H.M.S. Firedancer, the North Atlantic

  Land rubbed the stiffness out of the back of his neck and paced the narrow confines of the tiny bridge. He glanced at the stoic form of Prometheus, beating her way through the sea, two points off the port bow of Firedancer.

  Hardy had tried to edge Firedancer well off the cruiser’s starboard bow after Firedancer had switched stations with Windsor and Eskimo. He was going to place her far ahead of the position prescribed by Whittlesey, but Prometheus caught on and sent Firedancer’s pennants up the yardarm. Resume your station, Firedancer had been told, and not once, but three times.

  Each time Hardy had cursed the signalman’s message and replied, simply: “Tell the bastard, ‘Acknowledged. ’” He had reluctantly ordered Land to make the necessary course alterations, rather than to perform the distasteful duty himself.

  “Number One,” Hardy said, squeezing between the chief yeoman of signals and the voice tubes, “are we properly stationed for His Majesty over there?”

  “We appear to be, sir,” Land said. “At least our pennant hasn’t made an appearance in the last hour.”

  “We must be thankful for small miracles, mustn’t we?” Hardy said. “I am blind to port because of Prometheus, so let us hope that the enemy has the good sense to come from starboard.”

  “Signal from flagship, sir,” the chief yeoman of signals reported.

  “Oh, what the bloody hell is it now?” Hardy exploded. “We’re where we should be, aren’t we? Number One, have you taken her one point out of station without my permission?”

  “No, sir.”

  “‘Flagship to Firedancer.’” The yeoman read the Morse lamp signal. “‘Aircraft down. Sixty miles, bearing 183 degrees. Proceed to rescue. Rejoin squadron when rescue effected. End of message.’”