Winged Escort

by Douglas Reeman

  There was never a day when he did not think about it. The farmer, his wife and their attractive daughter, and one old man who worked around the yard. Surrounded by shouting Germans, threatened and pushed.

  Villiers had known enough about the enemy to recognise that those soldiers were not old veterans who were retained to guard prisoners, nor had they been ordinary garrison troops. They had been from a local S.S. unit, called in to assist the search for the escaped prisoners.

  He had known that the young German lieutenant had been asking over and over again for information about the escapees. He had taken out his pistol and had shot the old man dead before their eyes. Then he had shot the farmer. The two women had been dragged screaming and weeping into a truck and the soldiers had departed.

  The Danes’ silence had convinced the Germans. But their inability to draw either information or a confession had ended in their brutal murder.

  When the Resistance men had come for Villiers they had looked at the two corpses, and then at him, without a word.

  All he had had to do was to walk down that ladder and surrender. It might have saved their lives, and he would have certainly have been returned to the prison camp.

  The fact he had not haunted him and was daily destroying him.

  He almost cried out as the alarm bells jangled violently and his leading hand shouted, ‘Sir! Enemy aircraft reported to the south-west of the convoy! Thirty-plus of them!’

  The screen door grated open and the man turned quickly to see Rowan struggling around the damp steel, muffled in a leather flying jacket, with his cap jammed over his eyes. He had one arm round a stoker of the damage control party, and explained, ‘Doc says I can come up . . .’ He swallowed salt air. ‘If I can help in any way rather than . . .’ The sudden realisation that no one was moving or answering drove away the pain like an icy shower.

  Then the leading hand said desperately to Villiers, ‘Did you hear, sir? Thirty-plus bandits closing the convoy from the south-west!’

  Rowan lurched to the screen and saw Villiers’ face. It was like a wax mask. Stiff and uncomprehending.

  He snatched up the red handset, asking the communications rating, ‘Readiness?’

  ‘R-Red Flight, sir.’

  Rowan watched Villiers’ shoulders. He had not moved. ‘Red Flight? Scramble!’

  Loud-hailers around the bridge joined in the noise.

  ‘Short-range weapon crews prepare to repel aircraft!’

  It was a little lighter, and as Rowan trained his glasses abeam he saw the activity aboard the other carrier, the mounting wash from the nearest sloop as she began to work up speed to her defensive position.

  A few signal lamps shuttered demands up and down the lines of merchantmen, and below Growler’s bridge Rowan saw the first Seafires being manhandled into position for take-off.

  The leading hand gave him the thumbs-up and he picked up his handset.

  ‘Hello, Red Leader, do you read me?’ He imagined Kitto’s surprise at hearing his voice. Rowan had understudied Villiers many times, as had most of the senior pilots, but never in a real emergency.

  ‘I read you. Loud and clear. Over.’ Then, ‘What the hell’s going on?’

  A small speaker below the screen intoned, ‘Stand by.’

  The leading hand muttered, ‘Bridge, for you, sir.’

  He held out a telephone, but Villiers blocked his way, his voice brittle as he snapped, ‘Give it to me, man. What’s the matter with you?’

  He said more calmly, ‘Commander (Flying), sir. Yes. Red Flight. Yes.’ His head nodded, his eyes watching the Affirmative jerking up to the yard. ‘Lieutenant Rowan is assisting me, sir.’ He added with sudden anger, ‘I just said so, didn’t I?’ He slammed down the telephone.

  ‘Make the signal. The captain is holding this course and speed. The wind is in our favour.’

  The light stabbed across the screen, and one by one the Seafires coughed and then snarled into movement.

  Other fighters were preparing to take-off from Hustler. It would give the enemy something to chew on, Rowan thought.

  Far away, ahead of the convoy and slightly to starboard, he heard the crump crump crump of gunfire as the destroyers and smaller escorts tested the range.

  ‘All Red Flight airborne, sir.’ The rating studied Villiers as a man would watch a dangerous dog.

  ‘Very well. Inform Operations.’ Villiers removed his cap and let the wind blow through his hair. ‘Range a new strike of three Seafires on the flight deck immediately.’

  He jammed his cap back on his head, his faced screwed up with the effort of thinking. ‘Lieutenant Ellis will lead.’ He looked at Rowan. ‘G for George, right?’

  Rowan watched him. ‘Right.’ Villiers was losing his memory. Breaking up like an aircraft in heavy flak.

  Villiers said suddenly, ‘Much easier to do a dangerous job yourself, you know, than to order someone else to do it.’

  Nobody said any more until the next aircraft had been hurried from the lift and arranged at the after end of the flight deck.

  ‘Hello, G for George?’

  Rowan wanted to take the handset from Villiers, to speak with Bill.

  ‘Yes. Thirty-plus. Climb up and over them.’

  The rating called above the mounting din of engines, ‘Clear for take-off, sir!’

  Rowan saw Bats, his body swaying precariously above the sea as he signalled to the advancing leader. Bill. He pictured him sitting there, filling the cockpit. Would he still be able to sing? Thirty-plus bandits. But they would be after the ships. They had probably been waiting for days for a crack at this convoy, and now having flown all the way from their field in Norway would have eyes for little else.

  The gunnery loud-hailers came alive again. ‘Aircraft! Green four-five! Angle of sight two-oh!’

  ‘All airborne, sir.’

  Rowan watched Bill’s trio rising away like hawks, making a fast climb towards the clouds. Lord Algy and Nick Rolston, the latter no doubt cursing all and sundry with his usual ferocity.

  ‘Hello, Foxtrot, this is Red Leader.’ Kitto’s voice faded and then crackled noisily on the repeater. ‘Now at twelve thousand feet and taking position. Over and out.’

  Then Bill’s voice, very slow and concentrated. ‘Ten thousand feet and in position. Over and out.’

  The centre of the convoy seemed to explode upwards in a great cone of stabbing flames. The anti-aircraft cruiser had opened fire with everything she had. Medium and short-range weapons hurled a torrent of shells and tracer across the convoy’s starboard bow, and as if waiting for the signal, all ships on that side of the formation joined in. Every merchantman carried guns of some sort, and as the destroyers and sloops weaved back and forth they too kept up a continuous barrage across the path of the oncoming attackers.

  Rowan trained his binoculars, searching for the enemy. It was all so slow after the snap decisions of the air. Slow, but even more deadly on the nerves.

  Then he saw them, even as the speakers barked, ‘Torpedo attack!’

  They were Heinkel 111 bombers, dropping down in great, swooping dives and fanning out in line abreast, half a cable or more between each aircraft. The sky beyond and above them was soon pock-marked with shellbursts, but still they flew on. Well-rehearsed, deadly.

  The gunnery speakers shouted, ‘Commence! Commence! Commence!’ and for the first time Growler began to jerk and quiver to the mounting clatter of her own defences. Bofors and Oerlikons, their crews working like demons, fired long bursts across the Hustler’s bows, as a seaman yelled, ‘Christ, here they come!’

  Rowan watched, unable to move as the unwavering line of bombers came down to some thirty feet of the water. He could hear them now between the sporadic crash of gunfire and the ear-scraping rattle of automatic weapons.

  Each one would be carrying two torpedoes. He tensed as the deck tilted steeply, and knew that Buchan was responding to the commodore’s signal to alter course.

  A Heinkel fell blazing into the sea, a
nd as somebody started to cheer the others released their torpedoes in one great, simultaneous salvo. As they struck the water and gathered speed their tracks raced towards the convoy like some giant, terrifying comb.

  The Heinkels were gaining height, swinging away, two trailing black smoke as more cannon fire ripped into them.

  Three black dots burst through the clouds, and ignoring the tracer and drifting smoke bursts, charged down on the rearmost Heinkels.

  Rowan wanted to watch as the Seafires swept across the retreating enemy planes, their guns clattering, but could only look at the lines of ponderous merchantmen as they altered course towards the torpedoes.

  A sloop, one of their own, lit up with a vivid explosion and started to turn turtle, dropping astern in seconds. There was a second flash, right in the centre of the convoy, then a double detonation, and as he swung his glasses round Rowan imagined it was one of the ammunition ships. But it was another warship, the anti-aircraft cruiser, blasted apparently by two torpedoes.

  Another torpedo hit a Canadian freighter just abaft her bridge, the shockwave of the explosion rolling through the convoy and against Growler’s hull like a hammer on an oil drum.

  A man called, ‘That’s the Bristol Lady, sir.’ Then he added with amazement, ‘God, she still going!’

  Rowan tasted smoke and charred paint on the air, and saw the big freighter thrusting through falling spray like a steel pier.

  Voices echoed through pipes and telephones, and he saw men hurrying along Growler’s port walkway, a fire-fighting party running from the forward lift to join them.

  Then he saw the anti-aircraft cruiser looming through the dull light, her hull almost diagonally across the carrier’s line of advance, smoke and flames gushing from her side and bridge. Out of control, steerage way gone, she was listing badly, displaying the great double crater which linked her maindeck to the water alongside. Several of her guns were still firing after the retreating Heinkels, but even they fell silent as the order to abandon was passed.

  She was now almost abeam of the carrier, lying right over, the wash from the convoy rippling and surging over her broken side like waves across a reef.

  Men, small and unreal, were dropping into the sea. Others were casting off the floats and rafts, while some were dragging wounded comrades towards the tilting stern. Rowan bit his lip. It was terrible to watch. The way men so often searched for the highest point in a sinking ship, prolonging the agony.

  A light stabbed from the signal platform, and Rowan knew Buchan was ordering the tug Cornelian to do what she could.

  One of the communications ratings said harshly, ‘Hawfinch has gone, sir. Poor bastards.’

  That was the sloop, Growler’s faithful companion since the group had been formed.

  ‘Hello, Foxtrot, this is Red Leader. Have sighted twenty-plus bandits directly south of you.’

  The air quivered as more explosions shook the listing cruiser, bringing down a mast and a great tangle of rigging.

  Kitto was shouting, ‘Ju 88s! Going down! Tallyho!’

  Villiers said dully, ‘Above the clouds. They’ll try and bomb the ships through the gaps.’

  The intercom was muzzy with voices, and Rowan knew someone had left his set switched to ‘send’. He heard Kitto, and in the background someone else shouting like a madman. Bill must have joined the others. He could see it as if it were right here in front of him.

  A column of spray shot up from the starboard rank in the convoy, and the nearest lookout reported, ‘Ship torpedoed, sir.’

  They watched as another freighter started to fall out of the line, streaming smoke and steam, while the next astern altered course violently to avoid a collision.

  Gunfire, depth charges, it was continuous. A submarine had sneaked under the screen and had surfaced between it and the convoy. It had scored a direct hit on the freighter, but before her commander could take her down she too was bracketed with shellfire and the depth charges of two circling Swordfish from Hustler.

  A twin-engined Ju 88, flaming like a torch, burst through the low cloud and passed directly above one of the destroyers. She tracked it round with a long burst of cannon fire, and then it hit the sea and exploded.

  The torpedoed freighter was drifting past, and Rowan saw that the fires had got a firm hold. It was strange how two separate torpedoes could have such different results. The Canadian ship had survived her explosion and was still keeping position in the line. This one, her decks loaded with crated aircraft and trucks, would not last another hour. Great gouts of fire punched up through her hold covers and decks, isolating little groups of stampeding men, licking them aside without effort or pity.

  Another alteration of course brought the ships wheeling round with blind obedience, their masters trying to close the gaps, to keep their proper distances.

  A second bomber plunged through the clouds, struck the sea and threw fragments over the reflected glare. Two parachutes drifted above Growler, but were forgotten as another Ju 88 streaked down towards the port side, guns clattering, and a stick of bombs catapulting from its belly into the teeth of the flashing tracers.

  Bullets ripped across the flight deck, gouging tall splinters, and then hammered like a bandsaw into the steel bridge. A bomb exploded right alongside, and Rowan saw another pass in front of his eyes in a black blur. It burst between Growler and the sinking freighter, and he felt the splinters crack into the hull, and heard others whine above his head like demented demons.

  The bomber was swinging round, zigzagging violently as Growler’s starboard side guns took up the challenge. A sloop too was firing at almost point-blank range, until the bomber’s belly was torn open, spilling out a trail of fire like blood.

  ‘Cease firing!’ The gongs along the gun sponsons slowly took effect on the dazed seaman. ‘Cease firing!’

  The enemy aircraft had vanished, leaving only the drifting smoke above the water to mark those which had been destroyed. The A.A. cruiser was on her side now and half submerged, the rescue tug standing as close as she dared, her single funnel streaming smoke like a banner. The freighter was lifting her stern higher and higher, and as the guns fell quiet Rowan heard the tearing crash of those massive crates falling from their lashings, or machinery thundering through the darkened hull to complete the destruction.

  Then Kitto’s voice, very near. ‘This is Red Leader. Bandits driven off. Six destroyed. Have sighted heavy units to the east of you.’ The merest hesitation, as if he was steadying his voice. ‘Makesafe. Repeat, Makesafe is joining you.’

  Rowan removed his cap and pushed his fingers through his hair. Makesafe was the codename of the Home Fleet’s heavy screen.

  Villiers was speaking on another handset, his voice strange. Then he said to Rowan, ‘Tell them. Return to base. Hustler will resume anti-submarine patrols immediately.’

  Rowan passed the order and then said, ‘We did it. I think they’ve had enough.’

  A dull explosion echoed across the water, and he knew the freighter had dived and her boilers had burst apart.

  The leading hand said, ‘Message from the bridge, sir.’ He waited, watching Villiers, who was leaning against the screen, apparently studying the merchant ships.

  Rowan limped across the gratings. ‘You all right, sir?’

  Villiers made as if to turn, and then fell awkwardly beside the man by the telephones.

  Rowan could not bend his leg, and shouted urgently, ‘Help him, for God’s sake!’

  A seaman thrust his arm under Villiers’ shoulders and then lowered him again. When he withdrew his hand it was covered with blood. It looked black in the dull light.

  He stared incredulously at Rowan. ‘’E’s dead, sir!’

  Rowan took the telephone. When those last bomb splinters had hit the ship one small, red-hot fragment must have struck Villiers. He had not cried out, but had just stood there, willing it to kill him. The agony must have been terrible, minutes of unbearable torture for him. But as Rowan looked down at his face he
thought he had never seen him look so peaceful. So content.

  ‘This is Lieutenant Rowan, sir. I have to report that Lieutenant Commander Villiers was killed in that last attack.’

  Buchan’s voice. ‘I see.’ He must have put his palm across the mouthpiece. Then he said, ‘Get those fighters flown-on. Then report to the sickbay. I’ll send someone else to take over.’

  Rowan asked. ‘Did you wish to say something, sir? I mean, before I reported his death?’

  Buchan said heavily, ‘It doesn’t matter now. It’s closed and done with.’

  Rowan walked back to the screen, remembering the shriek of splinters, wondering what it had been which had really destroyed Villiers.

  Chadwick must have been about to summon him to the upper bridge. If that had happened Villiers would have been unable to control his anger and his despair.

  He watched a seaman cover Villiers’ face with a piece of canvas.

  Now, nothing could hurt him, and he would be thought of only as Rowan remembered him.

  A lamp clattered from the platform, and a signalman called, ‘First Seafire in sight to starboard, sir!’

  Rowan nodded. They were all returning. That was something.

  A shaft of brighter light filtered across the lines of merchantmen. Only one missing. Chadwick had done as he had intended. No matter what the enemy did now, those ships would get to Russia. With the Home Fleet screen joining forces and the big German units driven off, nothing could stop them. He tried not to think of the cost. Escorts and aircraft. And ordinary men like himself.

  ‘Hello, Foxtrot, this is G for George. Permission to land-on.’

  Rowan saw the Seafire making a steep turn around the ship, wheels and flaps down, the light glittering across the cockpit.

  He took the handset. ‘Hello, Bill.’ He hesitated. ‘This is Jonah. Affirmative.’