by Bodie Thoene
“You will be well cared for, Claude. And you as well, little Jean.” It was a kind voice, raised just enough so Michelle could hear her clearly.
The gate slammed shut. The iron bolt slid back in place. Michelle retreated alone back along the Huchette the way she had come.
Trevor Galway and his ship, HMS Fortitude, were still off the coast of South Africa. Having successfully escorted a convoy of ships past the Cape of Good Hope and into the Indian Ocean, the destroyer was headed northward again. She kept company with a freighter called Doric Star. For months there had been reports of a German raiding vessel operating in the South Atlantic, but the pocket battleship had not been located.
Captain Pickering was in a relaxed mood. A coastal steamer had just notified the destroyer of seeing the British battle cruiser Renown a hundred miles up the coast. Renown was more than a match for any German ship afloat.
The British presence in the South Atlantic was increasing, and as a result, the losses to merchant shipping were declining. No matter that the land war was a hopeless stalemate; at sea the Allies were succeeding. A battle group including the cruiser Essex was operating off of South America, and soon the ocean from Brazil to the Ivory Coast would be as safe as a pond back home.
When the outline of another ship appeared on the horizon, Lt. Commander Galway studied her intently, as did the captain. “It’s Renown,” Pickering announced. “Have wireless contact her.”
“Sir,” the helmsman reported, “there has been an explosion of some kind.”
Pickering and Galway jammed their glasses back to their eyes.
A bright flash appeared on the other vessel. A billow of gray fumes drifted upward, from which the prow of the ship speedily emerged like the snout of a dragon coming out of its lair. Another flare of light and then another. “Where is that wireless contact?” Pickering demanded. “Mr. Galway, go below and attend to it personally.”
Trevor had just exited the bridge into the alleyway that led sternward when a shell ripped into Fortitude. It struck the destroyer between the two forward gun turrets, shredding number one and leaving only the revolving ring to show where the second emplacement had been. Trevor was knocked off his feet by the impact and thrown against a bulkhead. From behind him he could hear Pickering shouting to break out the signal flags. To let Renown know about this terrible mistake.
The freighter sailing behind Fortitude was also being shelled. Trevor caught a glimpse of the Doric Starjust after a blast amidships blew a gaping hole in its side. The steamer went dead in the water, and a column of thick black smoke rose upward.
Trevor had only regained his feet when another crash rocked the Fortitude. This one penetrated the armor of the hull opposite the base of the first stack. Like twisting a dagger in someone’s ribs, the piercing shell penetrated into the vitals of the destroyer and exploded with devastating force.
The deck under Trevor’s feet leaned away from him as the Fortitude sagged in the middle. The stern of the warship rose out of the water, as if a giant hand were pressing down between her funnels and bending her into a U shape.
Clanging gongs and shrieking sirens mingled with the screams of men. Explosion followed explosion as the destroyer folded in on herself. Aft, the canisters of the depth charges fell from their racks, crushing the men caught on deck. The aft gun turrets pointed uselessly up at the sky, and their crews struggled to escape the confines of the steel cages.
The ship was doomed. Trevor lost his footing again and rolled down the passageway, jolting against the partition that was now more a hatch than a doorway beneath him. The loudspeaker was blaring, “Abandon ship! Abandon ship!” Fortitude was settling, sinking. In a minute more she would go to the bottom, carrying most of her crew trapped inside the hull. Trevor got up quickly and tried to pull the hatch cover upward while standing awkwardly on the frame around it, when it suddenly dropped open and fell the other direction.
Wavering above a fall to where the ship’s midsection had been, Trevor saw swirling blue water rushing over the hull. As he hesitated, still another blast ripped into the ship, propelling him through the opening and into the sea.
When the bridge and the bow of the ship poised like a giant shark leaping down to devour him, he struck out swimming in frantic terror. More men were around him in the water, some paddling and others floating lifelessly. A sailor in a small raft beckoned to him. “Come on, sir, you can make it!” The young seaman pulled Trevor over the side of the inflated island of safety. Less than three minutes had passed since he had left the bridge.
Together the two paddled away from the dying destroyer. For all the violence of the attack, the end was a silent one. Fortitude’s bow and stern saluted each other, almost touching, and then the warship sank beneath the waves.
Thirty minutes later, Trevor and the sailor, whose name Trevor never learned, were plucked from the water by a boat from the attacking ship. Trevor could see that one of its smokestacks was a sham, and part of its superstructure was camouflaged to make it resemble Renown.
“What is that ship?” Trevor asked in Deutsch of the obviously German officer who retrieved him.
Thickly accented English answered him in a tone full of pride. “Graf Spee,” the Kriegsmarine lieutenant replied. “Greatest commerce raider in the world.”
Stormy weather grounded the fighter patrol on the Kentish coast. If British aircraft were unable to fly, it was reasoned, neither would the German Luftwaffe venture out in gale-force winds.
David Meyer had taken advantage of every occasion to visit London . . . and Annie Galway. Today he opened his umbrella as he stepped onto the West Canterbury train platform. The wind instantly tore the black fabric and twisted the frame into something that resembled a feather duster. Pulling up the collar of his topcoat, he caught sight of Annie and Duffy laughing at him from the warm comfort of the depot. He tucked his head and dashed into the building. The door slapped open in the wind, refusing to close again until David leaned his full weight against it.
“Lovely weather we’re havin’,” Annie teased as his breath exploded with relief in the warmth of the station. Duffy rushed past her and jumped up to put his enormous front paws on David’s shoulders in an eye-to-eye greeting.
“Lovely enough.” David pushed the dog down and slapped the rain from his coat. “I’m not flying today, and here you are. Very nice weather, if you ask me. Thanks for coming.”
She kissed him lightly and let her hand linger on his cheek. “Yesterday they had all of us student nurses cleaning out the basement of University College Hospital as a maternity ward. Air-raid precautions order. They say women will be having babies even in air raids, and we should be prepared. Truth is, we all think the war will be over by Christmas. The hospital will be left with a very lovely basement.”
“I’m glad you got it all done yesterday.”
“I caught the first train to Canterbury the minute your wire came. I’ve missed you, Davey,” she whispered quietly. They were not alone in the depot. Two elderly women observed the meeting with interest as they warmed themselves beside the coal fire at the far end of the small room.
The sight of Annie was enough to make him forget the bone-deep chill of the howling storm outside and the scrutiny of the old women inside. “You’re famous. I’ve named my Hurricane after you. Annie. Painted in bright red letters. Trimmed in gold.”
Suddenly shy, Annie inclined her head toward their audience. “Let’s get out of here. What do you say?”
The torrential rain let up just long enough for the couple to make their way up St. Dunstan Street to the tiny Falstaff Inn in the shadow of the ancient West Gate of Canterbury. The sign above the heavy wood door of the inn rocked crazily in the wind, threatening to pull loose from the iron standard that held it.
The head of the proprietor snapped up with surprise at the entrance of David, Annie, and Duffy. The beams above the bar were set low, requiring the tall barkeep to duck beneath each timber as he stroked the zinc-topped bar affection
ately with a cloth. He was permanently stooped after years of duty at his station. With every step his head bobbed forward on a long, thin neck, giving him the appearance of a turkey strutting in a coop. The dark oak-paneled room of the pub was nearly empty except for an English cleric who read the Times and languidly sipped his tea at a snug little table in the corner. What fool would venture out in such weather?
“A day trip,” Annie explained as they took a table before the fire, and Duffy curled up in contentment at their feet.
“Lousy weather for it.” The proprietor grinned. “Pilgrims come t’ see the cathedral, or just t’ sun yourselves?”
“Picnic,” Annie replied.
“Well, here’s the place for it. Me missus makes the best kidney pie in England. Isn’t that so, gov’?” He addressed the cleric, who seemed either not to hear him or to choose not to reply. “The old padre is deaf as a post. You can say what you like an’ he’ll not hear a word. Can I get you a bite to eat? It’s a slow day, and I’ve got a bit of work to do in the cellar.”
They ordered hot tea and a ploughman’s lunch—heavy bread, stilton cheese, and tart chutney. This was served and then the barkeep disappeared down the narrow steps, leaving David and Annie alone in front of the fireplace. Soft dance music was playing through the static on the enormous radio. The walls of the room were decorated with etchings of Falstaff and scenes from Shakespeare’s play Henry IV.
David leaned close to examine the fat, drunken character of Falstaff. “Did you ever notice how much this Falstaff guy resembles Hermann Göring?” he quipped. “Comforting to think that somebody who looks like that is head of the German air force. A couple of Spitfires shot down a German bomber off the coast yesterday. Laying mines most likely.”
Annie’s expression was sad and serious as she listened to him talk. “You’re not in danger . . . I mean, not a lot of danger, are you?”
“Does this mean you lie awake at night and worry about me?”
“Of course. I can’t help it. You’re the only pilot I know.”
“Are there other fellas who keep you awake thinking about them, too?’
“Yes. Sailors mostly.” At his obvious disappointment she added, “My brother Trevor and the crew of the Fortitude.”
“In that case, I’ll let you in on a secret so you only have to worry about one of us . . . I haven’t even seen a Jerry. The closest I’ve gotten is sitting here looking at Falstaff and wishing I could get a target that big in my sights.”
She reached out and took his hand across the table. “I’m glad. I hope you never meet a German plane. I hope you stay here in England and that things go on like this forever.”
“Me too.”
The hour passed quickly. David tossed a load of coal on the fire as Duffy snoozed. The cleric in the corner sat as unobtrusive as a wooden Indian. Then the music on the radio was interrupted by the sound of the BBC Westminster chimes. The pub owner reappeared at the top of the cellar steps.
The reality of war suddenly intruded on the timeless peace of the rainy Canterbury afternoon:
“Information has been received that the HMS Fortitude has been attacked by a German raider and sunk with all hands. The urgent communiqué was received from the ship yesterday at . . .”
Annie was ashen. “I’ve got to ring Da. Got to get in touch with the Admiralty. They’ll know about Trevor.” She scanned the room for a telephone.
“What is it, miss?” the pub man asked, catching her alarm at once.
David answered for her. “Her brother is on the Fortitude.”
The barkeep led them upstairs to his apartment and pointed at the telephone as the news droned in the background.
“The HMS Fortitude was the second British ship to be sunk within a week and the seventeenth ship to go down in the Atlantic since Saturday.”
Winding the crank of the old-fashioned telephone, Annie raised the operator and asked to be connected to the offices of the Admiralty.
“It is reported that she has been sunk in the South Atlantic. The presumption, therefore, is that she was attacked by the German pocket battleship Admiral Graf Spee, which is reported to have been in that area.”
The wait for the call to reach London seemed interminable. Annie wiped away tears with the back of her hand and stubbornly refused to sit when the wife of the pub’s owner brought her a chair.
David stood beside her as the Admiralty secretary transferred her call.
“My name is Annie Galway. My brother, Trevor Galway, was lieutenant commander aboard HMS Fortitude. Yes. Yes. I’ll wait.” She closed her eyes, and her lips moved in a silent prayer of hope. A moment later her eyes snapped open with alarm, and her ashen complexion grew more gray. “I see.” Her voice was barely audible. “Yes. Thank you. My father . . . you say the wire has been sent. Yes. Thank you. . . .” She clicked the receiver and sank into the chair. There was no need for anyone in the room to question the outcome. She covered her face with her hands. “Ah, Trev.” She sighed.
“I’ll fix some tea,” offered the owner’s wife.
“A spot of brandy would be better,” argued the barkeep.
Annie looked up pleadingly at David. “Da’ll be needin’ me in London. Can you come?”
David nodded. “For a couple days.”
“You’ve just got time to catch the train, lad,” said the barkeep. He solemnly shook Annie’s hand as though he were standing in the reception line at a funeral of an old friend. The missus was crying, wiping her tears with her apron. They did not even know Annie’s name. “Our fine, brave lads. I’m awfully sorry, miss. Do come back on a better day, will you?”
7
In the Interest of Foreign Relations
The duties of patrol and intensified combat training did not give David any additional time to spend with Annie. David had seen her only once since she’d heard the news about her brother—on the day of the remembrance service held at St. Paul’s for the sailors of twenty ships that had fallen victim to German raiders. She clung to the hope that Trevor had somehow survived, that possibly he had been rescued. There was no word of hope, yet Annie was resolute in her belief.
But now she was all alone. Her father was burying his own worry under a mound of twenty-four-hour workdays in Dover. Annie stayed aboard the Wairakei, still moored on the Thames, and labored toward the completion of her nursing studies. More than anything else, she seemed to miss David. Her letters, like the one he kept inside his flight-jacket pocket, were full of brave sentiments, but David could sense that she was terribly lonely.
Coming out of his turn, David looked down from ten thousand feet on the length of the railway line between Ashford and Tonbridge. He was on a refresher flight in cross-country navigation, and the next marker he needed to spot was the second branch line to the right. Locating it would anchor the Hurricane onto the last leg of the Iron Dog route that led directly to the Croydon aerodrome—the goal of this exercise. Miss the turn, and he could end up over the coastal defenses, where some eager antiaircraft crew might put embarrassing holes in the Hurricane. They might even scratch the gold-trimmed red letters on the engine cowling that said Annie.
There it was, just where it was supposed to be. David guided the Hurricane into another turn, adjusting the throttle and correcting a little swing with a touch of right rudder. This flight had gone so well that David had a lot of time to think about Annie, and he realized that he missed her terribly, too.
He also knew that there was nothing to be done about it. Now the young pilots were given almost no spare moments. If it wasn’t flying patrols over the Channel, it was the endlessly repeated drilling: formations, attacks, evasive maneuvers, gunnery drills. It just went on and on, and David got more and more withdrawn as he fretted about Annie. He was so on edge that he had quarreled with his mates, Simpson and Hewitt, and that was no good for a combat team. David had hoped that the long cross-country hop would give him a chance to think things through. But with the end in sight, he felt no closer to sorting it
all out.
David roused himself to go through the mental checklist for landing: flaps, trim, propellor pitch, throttle. All as it should be. David took his left hand off the throttle knob to release the undercarriage lever. His eyes flicked over to the indicator lights, then looked again. Instead of a pair of green lights, one of the two continued to wink red.
David’s first reaction was to grab for more altitude. Back up to twelve thousand feet he soared, to give himself time to think things over. There was no other problem with the aircraft, and ample fuel, but this one snag was bad enough. After several futile attempts raising and lowering the control mechanism, David radioed for assistance.
“Croydon,” he called on the radio, “I have a little problem here.”
“Reach behind the gear-release lever,” he was told. “There you’ll find a T-shaped handle. Pump it vigorously, and see if the increased hydraulic pressure won’t release the gear.”
“Negative. I tried that already, Croydon.”
“Try it again. It may take several minutes, but it should fix the problem.”
It did. Less than five minutes later, David was rolling to a stop beside the Croydon hangar. As he got out, he noticed a number of airmen stare at him curiously, but no one spoke as he went into the headquarters office and reported in. He had to file an incident report and got a lecture on being more familiar with the equipment, so it was two hours before he could get back outside. David was even more glum than he had been before.
Since the second half of the mission was night navigation back to his base, David left the airfield and headed for the nearby Kings Arms pub for a bite to eat. When he got there, some of the bystanders who had watched his landing were already present, and it was clear from the volume of their voices that they had been drinking for two hours.
And Badger Cross was one of them. The burly man approached David. “So, assassin . . . Tinman,” he said with a little slur to his words. “Heard you had a spot of trouble today.”
