Winged Escort

by Douglas Reeman

  He waited, gripping the joystick, his thumb on the button, his eyes almost watering as he stared at the target which was now reaching out on either side of him like a great, slime-coloured whale. Here comes the bloody tracer. He held his breath. Five hundred yards. Three hundred. He pressed the button and watched his own tracer ripping down, churning the sea into a seething pattern of white feathers and then cutting diagonally across the U-boat in a torrent of fire.

  He pulled back the stick, throwing the Seafire violently on its side as he swung away, the Merlin labouring as he twisted to avoid the green bars of tracer.

  Something made the pad behind his head jerk painfully, and he saw two holes appear in the port wing. He banked again, pulling Jonah round in a tight turn just in time to see the Dutchman’s depth charge explode almost alongside the U-boat’s hull.

  His head-on attack must have caught the German gun crew out completely. Van Roijen had kept flying in as before and had done what he had come to do.

  The surfaced U-boat was reeling in a great oval pattern of broken water, like soap suds. The charge would not sink her, but the next one might.

  Rathbone called, ‘Am attacking now!’

  As he swept past Rowan, some five hundred feet below him, he saw the long rents in the fuselage and wings, and also that the air gunner had fallen back into the cockpit, his arm still caught around his gun.

  The Swordfish carried two charges each instead of their customary torpedoes or bombs. Rathbone was flying dangerously low towards his target, the green tracer reaching towards him, crossing his path like a glittering mesh. But not every gun was firing, and the one on the conning tower was pointing at the sea. Rowan’s attack must have raked the bridge as well.

  There was a bright explosion and the Swordfish seemed to split apart in mid-air, the fragments making great splashes in every direction.

  Rowan pushed the stick forward, seeing the multi-barrelled gun swivelling round, following him as he tore into another attack.

  He shut his mind to the scattered remains which patterned the sea like shavings. The U-boat had a weak spot. He gunned the engine and roared down almost to sea-level, the shock-wave from wings and prop ripping the choppy water like some invisible speedboat.

  Round and still further round, with the port wing-tip barely inches from the sea. The U-boat looked huge now, and as he straightened up and eased the stick very slightly he saw the submarine end on towards him, the multi-barrel mounting masked and impotent behind the conning tower.

  He heard the Dutchman’s voice on the intercom, crackling but wild, as he yelled, ‘What you do, Tim? You going to land on the bloody thing?’

  Rowan did not trust his voice to speak. He had never been able to at times like this. Not like Bill and some of the others. Like Rathbone.

  And then he was right there, the conning tower with some white faces above it, and a flapping wet pendant from the periscope standards. He saw it all in the smallest part of a second. The open hatch. A body sprawled below the machine gun. And then with a great, deafening roar he was cutting down towards her stern, every gun hammering like mad things. Two cannon and four machine guns, even like this within the proper spread of fire, were more than enough. He felt his spine tingle and throb as he pulled away, half expecting to feel the tracer ripping after him.

  By the time he had managed to regain control of himself the Dutchman had dropped his charge. It exploded level with the conning tower and must have caved in one of the ballast tanks. Even as he watched Rowan saw the periscopes start to tilt over.

  He said quietly, ‘Well done. Bloody well done.’

  The Swordfish turned again and dropped two smoke markers near the floundering U-boat. Then it circled the drifting fragments astern of the U-boat and the men who were already releasing rubber dinghies and crowding out of the conning tower and hatch like bewildered insects.

  Rowan circled round well above the little drama. A quaint-looking Swordfish searching for any sign of life from Rathbone’s plane. A cable or so clear, the U-boat starting to settle down, her crew laid bare and impotent.

  He watched them grimly and recalled the other Dutch pilot’s words. When I see the enemy I feel only hate. These Germans were fortunate he was not here today. Rowan had no doubt what he would have done. He rubbed the firing button with his thumb. And why not? Where was the point of letting an enemy who had probably killed hundreds of unarmed merchant seamen go free?

  He sighed and held the mouthpiece to his face. ‘We will return to base.’ There were no survivors. He had known it. ‘That was a fine job of work, Peter.’

  Rowan peered at the compass and at the sky. Once again. He had made it. Once again.

  He snapped down the catch. ‘Hello, Foxtrot, hello Foxtrot. This is Jonah. One U-boat destroyed.’

  He broke off with a sigh. There was no response, and he guessed that he was either out of range of Growler’s R/T or, more likely, a bit of flak had put his set out of action.

  Rowan waited for the Dutchman to pick up the course back towards their carrier and then climbed again towards the sun.

  In due course three homes would be getting telegrams. Killed in action. Commander (Flying) or maybe the captain would write to their families. But they did not really know any of them. There had been no time.

  He dragged out a handkerchief and blew his nose. Funny how it always made it behave like that after a fight.

  Then he saw Growler and her escorts, and further off still the other carrier.

  He saw the flash of a signal, and pictured the hasty preparations, the grim looks when they realised that one aircraft was missing.

  Round past the nearest sloop, the Turnstone, and banking steeply as if to follow Growler’s long, curving wake.

  The usual juggling to change hands on the stick while you lower the undercarriage with your right hand. Flaps down. A careful, steady approach, the tiny aircraft carrier now yawning wide like a broad steel cliff. There were some seamen waving from the isolated gun mounting on the quarterdeck.

  Nice and easy. He saw the arrester wires as he crossed the turn-down above the quarterdeck, felt the sudden pressure of his harness as Growler took hold of one of her own.

  Men were running towards him from either side, while others still watched for the slowly-circling Swordfish.

  He slid open the canopy, sucking in salt air like a man saved from drowning.

  Bill was hurrying from the walkway as the engine died away in a great trembling sigh. Rowan dropped to the deck and heard his friend say, ‘Welcome back, Tim.’

  ‘Thanks.’ He watched a petty officer who was following the handling party as they manhandled Jonah to safety beyond the crash barrier. He was pointing at two holes. They must have missed Rowan’s body by less than six inches. He added huskily, ‘I’m luckier than I thought.’

  4

  Disagreement

  BY THE TIME Rear Admiral Chadwick’s Air Support Group had reached its anchorage at Akureyri on the north coast of Iceland it was apparent that most of the convoy was ready to sail.

  It had been gathering for some weeks, and even the men of the escorts, whose past optimism had been blunted by the savage opposition along the routes to Russia, were impressed. This was no make-do collection of ships of varied ages and tonnage, where the faster ones would be kept at a snail’s crawl because of the more elderly members of the convoy. Thirty-five in all, and only two or three more than ten years old, they gave a meaning to the importance placed on their safe arrival at Murmansk and Archangel.

  Shore leave for the Growler’s company was minimal, and as Bill Ellis commented, ‘Just as well. All those lovely girls, and no chance of laying a finger on ’em. It’s enough to make a bloke ill.’

  It was strange about the hostility of the Icelandic townsfolk. Did they look on British and American servicemen in the same way as the people of occupied Europe saw the Germans? It baffled Rowan, but did not trouble him much.

  Whatever happened, Iceland would look just fine on th
e return trip, he thought.

  August was drawing to a close when the final preparations were approved. There were many comings and goings amongst captains of escorts, senior officers of the merchantmen, base staff, and all the other desk-bound people from headquarters in Reykjavik who made this vast, complicated mass of ships and men into a single, controllable force.

  The weather was unusually calm, with hardly a breath of wind to build up the familiar swells along the Denmark Strait. Every day was long, bright and wearing for the nerves. The ships, the aircraft, the guns and machinery were as good and ready as they ever could be. The waiting was as usual worse than the doing.

  On the last day of the month Captain Buchan assembled all of Growler’s officers in the wardroom. The moment had apparently arrived.

  Buchan held himself very upright while he waited for everybody to find a seat or something to lean against.

  He began in his resonant tone, ‘The convoy will weigh tonight and complete assembly during the forenoon tomorrow.’

  He smiled briefly at the big sigh which came from almost everyone.

  ‘I know, gentlemen. Not a moment too soon.’

  He nodded to James, the Operations Officer, who waiting like a conjuror’s assistant beside the pantry hatch, unrolled a large coloured chart.

  Rowan studied it, his mouth very dry. He had seen it, or similar ones, many times. The Denmark Strait, then north-east to Jan Mayen Island, further still, up and away towards the summer ice-edge and Bear Island, that lonely, dismal outpost between North Cape and Spitsbergen. Dotted arcs to mark the extent of Allied air cover from Iceland and Scotland. A much larger one to indicate the reach from the German airfields along the Norwegian coast. Anchorages, minefields, areas which were especially dangerous because of enemy destroyer bases or bigger units which lay hidden in their deep fjords. Altogether it looked like a blueprint for war itself.

  Rowan glanced at Cotter, the young New Zealander. There was no sign of uncertainty or doubt. More like excitement. A boy in a toyshop before Christmas.

  Buchan walked slowly to the chart, his shoes squeaking on the deck.

  Thirty-five ships, gentlemen. They will have an escort of an A.A. cruiser, ten destroyers and eight minesweepers.’ He brushed his fingers lightly across the chart. ‘Units of the Home Fleet will carry out a constant sweep to the north of the convoy. Two battleships with suitable escort, and perhaps another carrier.’ He faced them gravely. ‘So you can see how strongly everyone feels about this.’

  Rowan bit his lip. All told, the spread of warships would equal the merchantmen. Cotter would probably think it disproportionate and unnecessary. Rowan knew, and had seen otherwise.

  Buchan said, ‘Our group will be on call at all times. The admiral will use the two carriers as he thinks fit or is directed to meet each eventuality as it arises.’

  Rowan pictured the aircraft taking off round the clock. With almost endless daylight, it would soon become automatic, and some of the newer hands might become bored. Careless.

  ‘The enemy will be aware of our convoy, although I hope he does not know everything about us yet.’ He smiled. ‘But we must be ready to give him a bloody nose before he can rally a big force to delay us.’ The smile faded. ‘This convoy will not scatter. No matter what.’

  Rowan watched him, wondering if he was referring to the bitterly remembered convoy, P.Q.17, which had been ordered to scatter because of a misunderstanding, and in consequence had been decimated.

  Buchan asked, ‘Anyone want to put a question?’ He tried to bring back the smile, but he looked strained and tired, despite his neat uniform and freshly shaved chin.

  Lieutenant Ian Cameron stood up and drawled, ‘Might I ask what the convoy is carrying, sir?’

  Buchan regarded him calmly. ‘Everything. Tanks, aircraft, munitions, weapons. Even a railway engine or two, I understand.’

  Someone called, ‘Sit down, Algy, you’ll be able to come home by train if the worst happens!’ Everyone laughed. It helped to snap the tension.

  The captain seemed glad of the interruption, and said curtly. ‘The group will slip and proceed at six tomorrow morning. Flying stations from the moment we rendezvous with the convoy.’ He looked at the deck. ‘After that –’ He shrugged. ‘We shall take it as it comes.’

  Jan de Boer whispered, ‘We give it too, eh? Too damn right, we do!’

  The captain left the wardroom, the chart was rolled and carried back to the Operations Room, and the bar was opened within five minutes of Buchan’s departure.

  Rowan saw Kitto pushing between the crowd, his blue chin set as he made towards him.

  He asked, ‘All right, Dymock?’ He watched the other man’s grim expression. ‘You look like a wet Sunday.’

  Kitto showed his teeth. ‘I’ve just been told. I’m taking over the Seafire squadron. Getting a half stripe to boot.’

  Rowan smiled. ‘I’m glad for you.’

  Kitto hurried on. His promotion seemed to embarrass him. ‘Dusty Miller has been told to take over the Swordfish boys. The admiral seems to think they’ll be more important on this convoy than fighters.’ He scowled. ‘I’ve got news for him!’

  Rowan thought about it, seeing the Swordfish torpedo bomber bursting apart under the onslaught of the U-boat’s multiple cannon fire. Lieutenant Commander Rathbone was dead. One more pilot killed in action. But not so to the admiral. Rathbone should be here now. Leading his Swordfish. And of course, Miller was the obvious choice. He had flown just about everything, and he was known and respected. He studied Kitto. And if they had to have a change, then he too was the best they had. All his experience before the war as a mercenary, a stunt pilot, and his ability to make a plane keep in the air when there was very little of it in one piece, made him a first-class leader.

  Kitto grinned at him. ‘You’ve not understood, have you, Tim?’ The grin widened. ‘You are now my senior pilot, so how about that, eh?’

  Rowan stared. Of course. He should have realised. He examined his thoughts. Pleasure? Pride? His stomach muscles contracted. There was nothing but a sense of shock.

  Kitto added quietly. ‘It’s been coming, Tim. You must have known. A lot of good blokes have bought it, but you’ve always kept your head.’ He punched his arm. ‘Just as well. You’ll probably have to keep my back in one piece now!’

  Rowan nodded. He wanted to be in his cabin. Alone on the flight deck. Anywhere but here. But a piano had started, and some of the officers had begun Bless ’em all. His inner feelings would affect nothing. It was the night before sailing. He glanced round the faces, the voices washing over him like rain. Some of them would never know another carefree night in harbour. He sensed something like panic.

  Kitto gripped his arm. ‘Come on, Tim. Bill’s coming over to us.’ He tightened his hold. ‘One more time, eh?’

  Rowan nodded, unable to speak. He had seen it on Kitto’s face when he had come to tell him his news. But he had not recognised it. This sort of promotion was because of one thing only. The other rungs on the ladder above you were suddenly empty.

  Everyone knew about it. In stations around the British Isles it was taken for granted. Here for breakfast. Dead by tea-time. He had often heard the R.A.F. pilots joking about it. They had to joke about it. He forced himself to smile and face the packed bodies around the piano.

  ‘Of course. It’s only a game. I heard the admiral say so.’

  The admiral’s quarters were as crowded as the wardroom. The whole place was filled with visitors. Mostly captains of other ships, officers from the base, and a good sprinkling of R.A.F. and American uniforms to make up the balance.

  Buchan paused between two panting stewards who were carrying enough glasses to serve a regiment, and tried to catch the admiral’s attention.

  Chadwick saw him and raised an eyebrow.

  Buchan had to shout. ‘Can I have a word, sir?’

  The admiral smiled. ‘Won’t it keep, Bruce?’ He took a glass from his solemn steward. It looked like champagne.
‘It may be a while before the next party!’

  Buchan stood firm. ‘I’ve a lot to do, sir.’

  ‘Very well.’

  The admiral led him to the small office which opened off his personal quarters, nodding and smiling to his guests.

  With the door closed the party seemed muffled. Unreal.

  Buchan said, ‘I’ve been studying your special orders, sir.’

  ‘Oh?’ Chadwick looked at himself in a bulkhead mirror. ‘What is that supposed to mean?’

  ‘At all the briefings nothing was said about independent action by our group.’ Buchan kept his eyes on the admiral’s broad shoulders, willing him to turn.

  Chadwick replied dryly, ‘It’s meant to be secret, Bruce.’

  ‘Up to a point, sir.’ He tried to find the right words, seeing the contempt in his wife’s eyes whenever Chadwick was mentioned. That man. ‘We’re an Air Support Group. We can’t exist as a completely separate unit. It’s not practical.’

  Chadwick turned and regarded him calmly. ‘Neither is buggery. But quite a lot of it goes on, I believe.’

  He seemed to sense that Buchan was unmoved.

  ‘It’s a theory I have.’ He examined his hands. ‘I saw some chaps at the Admiralty and the War Room.’ His steely eyes lifted slowly to Buchan’s face. ‘Quite important chaps, actually. They seemed to agree with my ideas.’ He continued without emotion, ‘I have believed for some time that our support groups are being misused. Just added to the weight, so to speak. But it’s not enough. Nor ever was.’

  ‘According to your orders, sir,’ Buchan spoke carefully, trying to examine each word before it left his mouth, ‘we will supply air cover to the convoy.’ He swallowed hard. ‘But if another target presents itself, we will act with total independence.’ He shook his head. ‘It won’t work, sir. It can’t.’

  Chadwick gave a sad smile. ‘They said that in Western Approaches until Max Horton took over. And until captains like Walker proved with sheer guts and skill you could go after the enemy and kill him for a bloody change. Instead of leaving the poor, plodding convoy bleeding itself over thousands of miles of ocean and taking everything that Jerry could hurl at it!’ His voice was sharper. ‘Like this convoy. Our convoy. I’ll bet they know to a pound of margarine in Berlin what we’re carrying. Every enemy agent in Iceland will have had plenty of time to count the ships, gauge their value. What they can’t discover they can guess, just as you would under similar circumstances.’