The group would be making a rendezvous off Iceland.
The captain need not have said anything further for the old hands, and Rowan guessed he must have been thinking along those lines as he continued, ‘It will be a very important convoy to North Russia. Tanks, munitions, aircraft, fuel, everything.’
Rowan sat staring at the opposite bulkhead, oblivious to all the others in the wardroom. Russia. It was like a nightmare returning.
The captain continued evenly, ‘It is essential for our Russian allies to make all the headway they can before the next winter sets in and the whole front becomes ice-bound again. The German general staff are fully aware of the time limit and the importance of the next few months. They are short of fuel, they will do everything to hold the front in stalemate, regardless of human losses, until the winter comes to their aid. I’m certain that everyone in this group is well aware of the trust placed in our protection.’ There was the merest pause, as if the captain was trying to think of the right ending, then, ‘Thank you.’
The tannoy speakers faded, and like characters in Sleeping Beauty the five hundred human beings throughout Growler’s complex hull came back to life.
Kitto said dully, ‘Russia. Jesus!’
‘But it’ll be better at this time of the year, surely?’ Cotter, the newly joined New Zealander, looked from face to face.
Rolston turned on him, his eyes angry. ‘Grow up, can’t you?’
Ellis said calmly, ‘Take it off your back, Nick!’ He smiled at Cotter. ‘It’s warmer, that’s all. But there’s hardly any darkness, and the ice barrier will be as far north as Bear Island. So it’ll mean a long, long haul. We’ll be nearer to Spitsbergen than Norway before we turn and run south for Uncle Joe Stalin’s homeland.’
Rolston interrupted harshly, ‘By which time Jerry will have plenty of opportunity to get ready. To throw the bloody lot at us!’
Cotter sat down, his tanned face set in a frown. ‘I see.’
No you don’t. Rowan watched him. Seeing himself a few years ago. There had been miseries like Rolston aboard his first ship, too. But they sometimes made sense. This convoy would be much as he had described. Long, empty days, with the ships steering north and further still. Watching for the Focke-Wulfs, praying that they could be shot out of the sky before they could flash their sighting reports to Group North in Norway, to the U-boats and the big cruisers, and even capital ships like Tirpitz and Scharnhorst which were said to lurk amongst the fjords.
He watched the stewards laying the tables for lunch, heard the sound of a crooner coming from the intercom. We’re going to get lit up when the lights go on in London . . .
Van Roijen, one of the Dutch pilots, settled down in a chair beside him. He was a big man, not unlike Ellis.
‘You’ve done one of these Russian things, I think, eh?’
Rowan came out of his thoughts. ‘A couple. A year or so back.’
‘Back?’
‘Sorry. I mean, ago.’ He turned to look at the man, thinking of Ellis’s Czech girl, of all the others who had no country, no news of home.
He smiled. ‘I’m Tim Rowan.’
‘And I am named Peter.’ The Dutchman dragged out a wallet. ‘And this is my wife and my little son.’
He looked up as a steward said, ‘Commander (Flying) wants you on the hangar deck, sir.’
Van Roijen stood up and nodded. ‘I go now. But I will come back and we talk some more. Too damn right eh?’
The other Dutchman, Jan de Boer, tiny by comparison, sat in the empty chair.
He said simply, ‘Peter is a good man. My friend.’ He did not look at Rowan. ‘Be easy with him and his little pictures. He has no wife. No little boy. Some traitor told the Germans he had come to England to continue the fight.’ He shrugged. ‘They reacted the only way they know.’
Rowan stared at him, thinking of the wind in Oxshott Woods. The old dog by his side.
‘Not both of them?’
‘Yes. They were taken away by the S.S. Peter still hopes. But for his sake and theirs I pray they are dead.’
He laid one hand on Rowan’s arm. ‘I know what you are thinking, but do not reproach yourself. Your freedom from the Germans is our only hope now.’ He looked away, his voice harsh. ‘So we will get this convoy to the Russians and to anyone else who can lift a rifle or use a knife. The rules are broken now. When I see the enemy I feel only hate.’
The deck lifted unsteadily, and along the tables the crockery began to rattle in unison.
Rowan sat back and tried to relax. Growler was feeling the first big rollers. The Atlantic again. Nothing changed.
A shadow fell across the chair and Lieutenant Commander Miller stood looking down at them, his devil’s beard jutting aggressively.
‘All pilots will be required in the Ops Room after lunch, so don’t eat too much and fall asleep, right?’ He nodded at the Dutchman. ‘Settled in?’
‘Thank you, yes.’ De Boer eyed the squadron commander thoughtfully. ‘This operations officer,’ he hesitated and then continued bluntly, ‘I have heard he is married to a German.’
Miller replied, ‘Perhaps.’ He glanced questioningly at Rowan.
‘So?’
The Dutchman stood up and stretched. ‘I was merely curious, sir.’ He walked away.
Rowan said, ‘I didn’t know about that.’
‘Does it concern us, then?’ Miller glared at him. ‘Don’t tell me you’re going round the twist as well!’
Rowan grinned and watched Miller’s square shape bustle out of the door. His talk with the Dutchman and Miller’s sudden anger had in some strange way steadied him. He looked at Ellis.
‘Let’s go and eat, Bill. May be the last well cooked meal we get for a while.’
Ellis caught his mood. ‘What, spam and chips? A really fine lunch for a naval officer, I must say.’
Rowan peered through a salt-misted scuttle. How dull the sea looked, like rough pewter. It was funny, he thought. When he looked back at his childhood he could never remember a summer when it was not sunshine and blue sea.
Ellis groaned. ‘And I was only kidding!’ He gestured towards the stewards. ‘But it really is bloody spam again!’
The dream progressed much as usual. Dark sea, with only the necklace of surf to make a moving pattern against the perfect sand. And there was the girl, very pale against what must be the night sky at the top of the beach. Walking slowly and steadily towards him without getting any closer. It was always the same.
Rowan awoke with a gasp, his throat like dust as he tried to collect his wits.
He was in the Ready Room, but instead of dozing in one of the comfortable chairs he was sitting bolt upright, his dream gone as the tannoy barked, ‘Duty air crews report to Air Staff Officer immediately!’ He was on his feet, seizing his helmet and jacket and already through the door as the speaker continued, ‘Range a strike of two Swordfish and one Seafire on flight deck immediately. Hands to flying stations! Stand by to fly-off aircraft!’
Bells jangled in other parts of the hull, and he heard a stampede of feet along the nearest walkway. He had been on the bridge that morning and knew vaguely where the group was. Steering approximately north-west and standing well out into the North Atlantic, with the little islands of Barra and South Uist hidden somewhere to starboard.
He pushed through the figures in the Operations Room and saw Broderick, the A.S.O., mentally ticking off the breathless arrivals.
He frowned impatiently as Villiers, and James, the Operations Officer, came through the opposite door, and then said, ‘We’ve had a signal. An eastbound convoy has been having a spot of bother with a U-boat pack.’ He raised a pointer to his great coloured wall-chart. Sinkings and convoy routes, minefields and known U-boat areas. It was a panorama of war.
‘It’s about here.’ The pointer rested on a little numbered flag. The convoy was almost home. Almost by comparison with all the hundreds of miles they had come to reach this far. The Air Staff Officer added, ‘Approximately o
ne hundred miles to the nor’-west of us. They have a good escort,’ he paused as the observer of one of the Swordfish scribbled a few notes on his pad, ‘and are coping as well as can be expected. But the Admiralty reports two or more U-boats in direct line ahead of their route. The convoy’s commodore dare not make another big alteration of course. Too many of the German pack still at his heels, and a Liberator is on way to rendezvous and do what it can.’ He looked meaningly at Rowan. ‘The convoy had no air cover of its own.’
Villiers looked at Rowan too, his eyes very bright. ‘Right, Tim? You fit for it?’
Rowan felt his lips frozen in a grin. ‘Piece of cake.’
Lieutenant Commander Rathbone, who commanded the Swordfish squadron, snapped, ‘I’ll lead.’ He nodded to van Roijen. ‘You take Number Two.’
That was it. Nothing to it.
Rowan tugged his leather helmet over his unruly hair and zipped up his flying jacket as he hurried through the door. He did not see anyone or distinguish a single voice. His mind was blurred. Like the dream.
And yet in that short while since he had jumped from his chair in the Ready Room this small fragment of war had gone into operation.
Commander (Flying) was already dashing for the bridge where he would find the captain giving orders to the engine room. Bats and the handling parties were assembled along the flight deck. Signals jerked up to the yards, and Growler tilted a grey shoulder into the sea as she altered course and headed into the wind, two escorts moving up watchfully on either beam.
The wind along the flight deck was cold after the quarters below. Or perhaps he was imagining it. He ran, half bowed, towards the three aircraft at the after end of the wooden deck.
He saw a fitter giving him a white grin and a thumbs-up as he clambered up and over the cockpit, seeing the name, Jonah, in a red glare, the men bending near the tail, a petty officer, hair standing upright in the wind, a check list in one greasy hand.
Rowan felt the canopy snapped into place, felt the wind cut off as he ran his eyes over the neat dashboard and adjusted his microphone across his mouth. The air was full of static and inhuman voices.
He leaned back and tightened his harness and eased the awkward parachute like a cushion. It was taking far too long. He peered at the dashboard clock. In fact, it had taken exactly thirteen minutes since the order to range aircraft.
He rubbed an oily smudge off his perspex canopy and peered to port. He could see the other carrier at a different angle, to show the speed with which Growler had altered course.
Rowan saw the leading Swordfish already rolling forward, K for King, that would be Rathbone. He was not leaving this to a new pilot. He saw the twin wings swaying and dipping as the plane trundled along, the black helmeted heads of the observer and gunner just showing above the big rear cockpit. Bats made a brief signal to the bridge and seconds later the Affirmative broke out from Growler’s yard. The leading Swordfish let out a great roar and gathered speed along the centre line, puffing out blue smoke and making a bright diamond light from its exhaust as it tore towards the bows and then off, tilting steeply as it turned to starboard.
The second Swordfish was already following, the Dutchman’s arm waving above his head to someone as he brought the plane on to the white centre line.
Rowan took a deep breath, watched for the stab of an Aldis lamp and then opened the throttle slowly and firmly, hearing the great throaty roar of the Rolls Royce Merlin engine as it responded instantly. Because of the big engine immediately in front of the cockpit Rowan could not see the centre of the flight deck and had to weave the plane evenly from side to side as it started to roll towards the bows. It was all in his mind and he went through the motions without conscious thought. He could not take too long taxiing without dangerously overheating the engine. He prepared to kick the rudder when the usual swing developed. Ease the stick forward. A bead of sweat ran down under his goggles. Not too much, you idiot! Or you’ll have the prop ploughing up the deck! He opened the throttle wider, seeing the island sliding past the starboard side, the pale blurs of faces on the signal platform. Stick back. Easy, for Christ’s sake! He felt the plane shiver, and when he turned his head he saw the rear admiral’s bright flag waving below him like a church steeple. He was off.
He retracted the wheels and then pulled the stick back, his left hand gripping the throttle with unusual tightness.
There were the two Swordfish, seemingly unmoving against the clouds. He adjusted his mouthpiece.
‘Hello, Leader, this is Jonah. Do you read me?’
‘Yes, I read you.’ Rathbone did not waste words apparently. ‘Take station.’
Rowan relaxed slightly and listened to the Merlin’s whistling roar as he began to climb towards the cloud bank, his mind only partly involved with the course to steer, the right boost. He was thinking of the hundred miles ahead. The same back again. If the weather closed in it might be hard to find the carrier. Impossible.
He thought too of the U-boats which were supposed to be across the convoy’s path. If they could sink just one, or even cripple it, he knew the loss of all three aircraft and crews would be worth it. As Ellis had remarked when the idea was put to him, ‘Sounds fine and dandy from down here, chum!’
The wings quivered as the Seafire sliced through the cloud and up into bright sunshine. He levelled off, smiling as he peered out at the foaming clouds beneath him. It never failed to fascinate him. The Swordfish would keep at their most economical level below. His job was to protect them from something faster and better armed than they were, which covered almost everything, he thought.
He checked the instruments more slowly and then pressed his right thumb firmly on the firing button on the joystick. Just a short burst from the two twenty millimetre cannon and four machine guns. The whole plane vibrated as if it enjoyed it. Rowan frowned and looked in the mirror above his cockpit. Remembering when he had pressed a button once before and nothing had happened. He shivered.
He unclipped his mouthpiece and leaned back as far as he could. He could feel the sun on his face through the perspex, the sudden warmth running through his body like a drug. He felt elated, as if he wanted to put the Seafire into a steep climb or point her down through the clouds. He grinned, peering to starboard and port, through occasional gaps in the cloud to the sea, thirteen thousand feet below. How grey it was.
The two Swordfish could not manage more than a hundred and thirty miles an hour with their full load of depth charges. It was criminal to keep throttled back for their benefit. He weaved from side to side, feeling Jonah answering his messages, purring and roaring without hesitation.
He thought of the people on the railway station who had watched the dog-fight. Jonah would look like that from the ground.
He glanced at his clock. Twenty minutes. He adjusted his goggles and studied a cloud directly across his path. It rose up from the rest like a great frothy glacier, glittering and solid.
Rowan twisted his head sharply as the two Swordfish rose sedately through the clouds about half a mile to starboard.
‘Hello, Jonah. This is Leader. Do you read me?’
Rowan tipped his wings in reply. It saved time.
‘Submarine on the surface dead ahead! They’ve not seen us. Attacking now!’
Rowan gripped the stick with his right hand, the other resting on the throttle. The Dutchman knew about flying. He saw the other Swordfish tilt steeply to fall in line behind Rathbone’s K for King.
Rowan watched the two aircraft dip into the clouds, swallowed up, smothered. Then he too was in the great towering one, seeing the broken streamers of it like steam through the racing, four-bladed prop.
He pushed the stick forward and kept his eyes on the compass as he turned slightly before continuing in a steep dive.
Patches of dull grey came through the thinning cloud, several little wavecrests, tiny on the Atlantic’s vast spread, and then as he roared clear of the cover he saw the submarine.
It was a darker grey. A pencil-lik
e shape which could have passed unnoticed but for her arrowhead of bow wave, the frothing wash around her casing.
Rowan levelled off, seeing several things happening at once. The Swordfish flying purposefully towards the submarine’s port quarter, the sudden flash of automatic fire from the conning tower, and the fact that the German was not attempting to dive.
He tried to think clearly. It could be damaged. No. It would not remain here with the convoy and escorts so near. He peered towards the dull horizon. Haze, or was that funnel smoke from some elderly freighter in the convoy?
He heard Rathbone’s voice on the R/T. ‘Tally-ho!’
Rowan banked steeply to watch the U-boat’s length blotted out by the attacking Swordfish. He stiffened, seeing the air come alive with leaping green tracer. There were tons of it. Ripping towards the slow-moving plane in a bright, lethal cone. The U-boat had some multi-barrelled cannon on her bandstand abaft the conning tower. What the hell was happening? He saw a depth charge detach itself and plummet towards the sea. Seconds later a great leaping column of water burst up from the surface, but the charge had fallen well short.
As Rathbone twisted and weaved his plane clear, Rowan imagined he could see the tracers passing through it, tossing it about like a bit of waste-paper in a wind.
He bit his lip. The Dutchman was going in. He thought of his little photographs, the smiling woman and little boy.
No, we will not do this by the book. He opened the throttle and turned firmly towards the U-boat, watching it growing and lengthening across the racing propeller as he dived straight for it.
Funny, nobody had said anything about this sort of gun mounting. He gritted his teeth as a smaller machine gun hurled a spray of tracer in his direction. He was well out of range, but they had seen him. The German commander was probably wishing now that he had dived. They only had to damage his boat to keep him out of the fight.
Winged Escort Page 5
