He craned his head round, the sun following him in his mirror. Watch for the Hun who comes out of the sun. And they were not home and dry yet. Not by a long shot.
6
News from Home
THE RETURN OF the small attacking force to Growler’s deck was as wild as it was moving. As the handling parties swarmed from the walkways to take charge of the aircraft Rowan could only stare at the waving arms, the grins and excited faces on every side.
Even the loss of the New Zealander’s Swordfish failed to break the obvious delight in their achievement. All the delays and preparations, the endless patrols and the ceaseless work on aircraft and machinery now seemed worthwhile.
Rowan waited below the island as Bill hurried towards him, dragging off his helmet and Mae West and taking great gulps of air.
Rowan felt the ache leaving his body, and said, ‘Not one bloody German all the way.’
Funnily enough, he had thought very little of enemy pursuit on the run back to the carrier. Fog. He kept remembering Syms’ doleful expression, and his feeling that fog was about. But the sea had been bright and clear as he has tacked back and forth across the tails of the slow-moving Swordfish.
He looked up, seeing the smoke from the engineroom vents drifting abeam as the carrier started to heel round on a new course.
Bill took a wrinkled apple from his pocket and rubbed it slowly on his jacket. ‘Heading north. Getting the hell out of it. Just the job.’
Rowan watched his friend, wondering if there was fear or uncertainty behind his homely face. He thought of his own feelings when he had at last sighted the fat carrier and her four escorts across the horizon like small fragments of land.
It had been something akin to love. The realisation that it had been more than his own life at stake. Every minute while he and the others had winged towards the target, and then started their return, Growler’s company, and those of her escorts, from admiral to junior stoker, had been waiting, almost motionless, for their reappearance. Not knowing if they had found the German tanker, or if they had all been shot down before they had even made a landfall. Knowing their own complete vulnerability.
He had been unable to resist doing a R.A.F. style victory roll above the carrier’s deck, perhaps to share his true feelings with them.
From the air, with her splayed-out masts and aerials poking from either beam, the carrier had all the looks of a portly beetle. But at that moment she had seemed beautiful.
A bosun’s mate said, ‘You’re wanted on the bridge.’ He could not resist adding, ‘Bloody well done, sir!’
Rowan noticed Bill’s face and turned to see a petty officer who was standing by the arrester wires. He was wiping his hands with a lump of waste, but his eyes were towards the horizon. It was the P.O. who was in charge of Derek Cotter’s crew. Keyed up like everyone else. Now he had nothing to do, no share in what had happened to the three young men who had died in a fireball.
He began to climb to the upper bridge, his limbs heavy and without feeling. It could easily have been Petty Officer Thorpe down there, waiting for the aircraft which would never return.
He found Chadwick pacing across the gratings, his face deep in thought. He saw Rowan and nodded briskly.
‘Damn good show. Better than I expected.’ He glanced at Villiers. ‘Told you, eh?’
Villiers looked at Rowan. ‘I’m glad you managed it, Tim.’
Rowan tried to recall what he had reported on R/T while he had waited permission to land-on.
Chadwick said, ‘Tanker destroyed, and one fighter shot down.’
Rowan looked at him. ‘And Lieutenant Ellis’s Messerschmitt was almost certainly a kill, sir.’
‘We shall see.’ Chadwick watched a steward struggling across the bridge with a jug of tea. ‘God, this is living.’
Rowan noticed the violent shaking of the bridge structure for the first time.
Villiers said quietly, ‘The Chief’s pulled out all the stops. We’re heading north to Bear Island.’
Rowan tried to clear his mind, to rid himself from the darting shadow of the attacking fighter, his smoking tracers ripping across the enemy’s wings.
He asked, ‘But surely that will draw any pursuit straight to the convoy?’
Chadwick watched him over the rim of his mug. ‘Doesn’t matter any more. There’s been a heavy U-boat attack.’
Rowan tried to discover some dismay on Chadwick’s face.
The admiral added, ‘Don’t worry. Not on the convoy. It was on the heavy support group from the Home Fleet.’
Villiers shook his head and waved a mug of tea away. ‘Fourteen U-boats. Strung out like pickets. They sank a destroyer and crippled a cruiser. Almost the worst part was that they managed to score a hit on the fleet carrier. She’s gone back to Scapa with some of the destroyers. She should make it all right if they leave her alone.’
Chadwick said angrily, ‘Bugger their problems! It makes our support vital from now on. Thank God Hustler’s with the convoy.’ He forced himself to speak more calmly. ‘The sinking of your tanker will start the Germans thinking a bit. And it proves my point. Sooner or later the Germans will start hitting the escorts first and then carving up the convoys.’
Rowan glanced through the open screen door at Buchan sitting on his steel chair, as if he were welded to the ship with it.
Chadwick snapped, ‘Must go to the Ops Room and check a few points.’ To Villiers he added, ‘You, too.’
And to Rowan he merely said, ‘Did well. I’ll see it’s noted.’
As he vanished down a bridge ladder Bray called, ‘The captain would like to see you, Tim.’
Rowan walked into the bridge, seeing the quiet routine and order which seemed to flow from Captain Buchan.
Thank you for waiting, sir.’ He felt uncertain beside Buchan. All the years, the ships, the experience, even if he had been on the beach for a time. It was something which awed him.
Buchan said quietly, ‘I’m glad you were lucky.’ For once he seemed at a loss. ‘Pity about young Cotter, but . . .’
He stood up violently and faced Rowan.
‘I’m sorry to be the one to tell you. We had a signal from Admiralty just after you took off. There was a raid last night.’ He was watching Rowan’s face, his eyes like slate. ‘Your home was hit. There were no survivors.’
Rowan stared at him, his mind stunned. The house. The wind across Oxshott Woods. His parents. Everything.
Buchan added quietly, ‘God. I hate doing this. I’ve done it too much already. But to you especially. And at this moment in time.’
Rowan wiped his mouth with his hand. ‘I’m glad you told me, sir.’ He did not know why he had said it.
Buchan replied, ‘Thank you for that. And if there’s anything I can do. Anything, you understand?’
‘Yes.’ He could feel his chest shaking, the tears running down his face. But all he could do was stand there. ‘Yes.’
Bray said urgently. ‘The admiral’s coming back, sir.’
Buchan nodded. ‘Take this officer through your chartroom and down the starboard ladder. Get him to his cabin, and then report to me.’
Commander Jolly had entered by the opposite door and turned away as Rowan and the navigating officer walked past.
Then he said quietly. ‘You learn to live with it. But you never get used to it.’
Buchan looked at him. ‘True, Edgar.’ Jolly had been his second in command since he had been given Growler. It was the first time he could recall his showing the slightest hint of compassion for anyone.
Chadwick strode amongst them. ‘I’ve just heard about Lieutenant Rowan. Whose damn-fool idea was it to tell him about his parents?’ He did not wait for an answer. ‘It won’t bring them back to life. It would have waited until we touched land again.’ He walked to the clear-view screens. ‘It’s coming into the Operations Room now. Strong surface force has left Tromso. U-boats are already closing the convoy, and I expect they’ve got every recce plane and bomber from here
to blazes ready for the signal from Group North.’ He faced them grimly. ‘And when that happens I want all our people on top line. I also want them alive, not being knocked down out of the sky because they were thinking of homes and families, right?’
He swung round as Bray re-entered the bridge. ‘Check your calculations again, Pilot.’ He looked at Buchan. ‘And tell the engineroom to give us more revs. This is an escort carrier, not a bloody banana boat!’ He stormed out of the bridge.
Jolly breathed out slowly. ‘Well, now.’
The captain groped for his pipe, and then picked up the engineroom handset. He could see the knuckles on his beefy fist standing out pale as he gripped the handset with all his might. Bloody banana boat, was she? He would show him. He forced himself to think of his wife. That man.
Buchan was calm again. ‘Oh, Chief? This is the captain.’
‘Hands to flying stations! Stand by to fly-off aircraft!’
Rowan pushed his way into the Ready Room, half-listening to the mounting roar of engines, the throbbing din thrusting down through decks and cabins as a new strike of torpedo bombers prepared to take off.
It had been like that for twenty-four hours. While Growler pounded her way northwards towards the rendezvous at Bear Island, and the W/T collected an endless pile of signals about sightings of U-boats and heavy surface ships which had vanished from their Norwegian bases.
Rowan shivered despite his fleece-lined jacket and Mae West, and the press of figures all about him. He had been like it for two days. Since the raid, the news about his parents. Like being ill, or recovering from a terrible hangover. It was the only way he could describe his feelings. The doc had called it shock. Too much strain on top of all he had been doing for months. What did he expect, for God’s sake? For pilots to go on leave whenever . . . He shivered again. Even that train of thought was instantly snapped. There was nowhere to go on leave. He remembered what Bill had said after the last one. Now he would never lie in bed with old Simon at his side, listening to the night wind. He hoped that none of them had suffered. He felt the returning pain behind his eyes and tried to hold it back.
The doc had been tight of course. It was shock. But what was the use of knowing about it?
Broderick looked over the assembled air crews. ‘Good. I’ll fill you in on a few items.’
He seemed very calm, his training as Air Staff Officer pushing whatever he felt inwardly aside.
‘The convoy has been attacked again. One escort has been put down, and it’s generally believed that a U-boat was destroyed, too. Hustler’s flying patrols all over the convoy and well ahead of it, so that the U-boats will be forced to run deep for much of the time. More to the point, none of the merchantmen has been hit.’
Some of the pilots shuffled their boots and stared at the coloured charts. Others were listening to the noise from the flight deck as the last of the Swordfish roared away, the sound swallowed up within seconds.
Broderick added. ‘With luck we will be in close contact with the convoy tomorrow. It is a critical time for the commodore. U-boats ahead and possibly shadowing and trying to find a gap in his screen. And surface ships heading to intercept his last run towards the south. He has to keep in touch with the support group, but be prepared to make violent changes of course if and when Jerry can pin him down with a definite sighting.’
Cameron. ‘Lord Algy’, muttered, ‘Here we go. Focke-Wulf Blues!’
Broderick had very keen ears. ‘Right, Algy, if a Focke-Wulf or two gets to sniffing distance the convoy will really be in trouble. With the fleet carrier knocked out of the fight,’ he was ticking off the flaws in their armour, ‘the support group will have to share Hustler’s air cover with the convoy’s commodore. And to catch a Focke-Wulf you need plenty of fighters.’ He glanced at the operations officer. ‘Does that sum it up, Cyril?’
James had been staring at one of the charts. ‘Yes. There’s only one solution now. We must fly fighters direct to Hustler.’
There was complete silence, so that the sounds of creaking steel, the occasional boom of water along the hull seemed extra loud and close.
Dymock Kitto, his newly added half-stripe shining between the original faded lace on his shoulder straps, stepped up beside the desk, his chin blue in the harsh light.
‘We’ll be leaving just two fighters aboard Growler.’ His voice was quite level, as if the task of flying to a Seafire’s extreme range and finding the other carrier before the fuel ran out was mere routine. ‘I’ll take Red Flight.’ He looked at Rowan. ‘You’ll have Blue.’
They all looked at each other. Then Kitto added, “Andy Miller will have to take up his old role again and defend the ship while we’re away.’ He glanced at Marlot, a junior pilot who had joined the ship with Creswell. ‘You, too. The rest will fly-off in half an hour. Get your gear together and check with Ops and the Met. Office.’ He did not ask if anyone had any questions. There was not much point.
Rowan stood looking at the charts. He pictured the tiny aircraft hopping from carrier to carrier like flies. That great span of sea. Suppose they did run out of fuel? Or Hustler was torpedoed before they got there?
It reminded him of a cartoon he had seen on his last leave. A deep-sea diver standing in a wreck, and a message coming down to him from the salvage vessel above. Don’t bother to come up, Fred, we’ve just been torpedoed! It had made him smile, and he could feel his mouth trying to respond again.
He turned and saw Bill watching him. He said, ‘Sorry I’ve been such a bastard lately. You know how it is.’
Bill smiled gravely, ‘You’ve been fine. Forget about it.’
Kitto called, ‘Just a word, Tim.’ He waited for Rowan to join him. ‘We might spot a Focke-Wulf en route to Hustler. Use your discretion and keep one eye on your fuel gauge. My flight will be leading yours by some twenty minutes, so we’ll be able to cover quite a bit of water between us.’ He grinned. ‘That would please the admiral, eh?’
Rowan nodded. There was about as much likelihood of two aircraft meeting by accident up here as landing on the moon. But there was always the chance and you had to be ready. The great Focke-Wulf Condor was slow by comparison with a fighter, but she packed a punch which was not to be taken lightly.
Across the sea routes of the Atlantic, Biscay and the Arctic the big Condors had proved their worth time and time again. They would pounce on a convoy and keep lazily circling it until relieved by another Condor, or until the U-boat packs were homed to the kill.
The little aircraft carriers had made their work less easy, but they had the whole sea to hunt in, and a range of nearly four thousand miles to do it.
He recalled with deadly clarity the time he had met a Condor. It had not been so far from here, but it had been winter, the sea below like black glass. That particular convoy had been savagely attacked by both U-boats and then mountainous seas. Two freighters had been lost without trace, their crews drowned during the night. Seven other ships had been sunk by torpedo attack before the foul weather had enabled the commodore to shake off the pack.
Rowan had been aboard a fighter-catapult ship, a bastardised merchantman with a solitary Hurricane fighter on a catapult. Once airborne, there was no place to land. You just had to ditch, and pray that somebody pulled you out before you froze solid. If the long-suffering British public had known how flimsy were the convoy’s defences they would probably have cracked long ago.
But that one, expendable Hurricane was worth more than all the corvettes, depth charges and trained seamen in the convoy, once the commodore had shaken off the U-boats.
And on their seventh day at sea an escort had sighted a Focke-Wulf Condor.
After that it had all seemed to happen in a split second. The violent pressure as the fighter had been hurled from its catapult in a rain squall, the lines of merchantmen sliding away beneath him, as if they were steaming downhill. The rain had been their only chance. If the Condor had already sighted the convoy and had wirelessed its position to base, the detour
, the fight for survival had all been in vain.
And then, just as suddenly, he had found the big German plane. Diagonally above him and filling the sky.
He watched the vapour coming back from his racing engine, knowing the rain was getting worse, and that each second was paring away his chances of finding the convoy again. In those flashing moments he had seen his whole life. He had been twenty-four then, and had wanted very much to go on living. It had seemed empty, unfair, and had filled him with an unreasoning bitterness which had pushed all caution aside.
He had flown straight for the Condor, unable to believe they had not seen him. But who would expect a fighter in the Arctic when there was no carrier for a thousand miles? He had pressed the button, and had almost flown headlong into the bomber’s port wing with stunned surprise. His guns had not fired.
Tracers had come within a few feet of his prop as the Condor’s gunners had come out of their trance. He had felt the aircraft jerk violently, and had seen oil splash across his perspex screen.
He had become very calm and had pressed the button again. That time every machine gun had fired. He had made one diving attack across the Condor’s massive tail, seeing his tracers ripping home, killing the rear gunner, and feeling at the same time that the Hurricane was already falling out of control.
Almost the worst part had been that he remembered nothing more. He had not been able to release his parachute and be dragged from the cockpit, of that he was certain. The Hurricane was starting to bum, and there had been a lot of choking smoke, and somebody yelling. Then he had remembered nothing until hands had dragged him into a ship’s whaler and somebody had started to cut his smouldering leather jacket from his back.
The rest of the convoy had reached the Kola Inlet intact. It had seemed unlikely that Rowan’s brief skirmish had destroyed the Condor, but he must certainly have knocked out the radio.
No U-boats came, and somewhere at a Norwegian base a German pilot was probably still pondering on the solitary Hurricane in the Arctic.
Winged Escort Page 10
