Winged Escort

by Douglas Reeman

  She said, ‘It’s four o’clock.’

  He could tell from her voice that she was shivering. He took her hand. It was like ice.

  ‘I feel a proper idiot.’ He struggled to his elbows. ‘It must be freezing.’

  ‘No.’ She was watching him. He could feel it. ‘I’m fine. I might have a hot drink in a minute. When you’re settled.’

  Rowan took her hand again. She did not resist or flinch in any way. It was like holding a small, terrified animal, he thought. One move and the spell would be smashed.

  ‘I find this very unsettling.’ He felt the hand start to pull away and gripped it tightly. ‘Please. I didn’t mean it to come out like that. To spoil it.’

  She touched his hair with her other hand.

  ‘Poor Tim.’ She was speaking huskily. ‘You couldn’t spoil anything.’

  Rowan was almost afraid to speak or breathe. He could feel the want, the ache churning inside him like fire. He could not help it.

  He released her hand and laid his own on her hip. She was rigid, yet inwardly trembling. All this he could feel as if it were part of himself.

  In a second he would awake. It would be over. Lost.

  He moved his hand and touched her skin. It was very cold. As smooth as silk.

  She said quietly, ‘Oh God, Tim. You’d better stop now.’

  He pulled her gently beside him, feeling the yearning like a physical pain. He stroked her, feeling her breast under his fingers, the nipple hard against his hand. She was moaning very softly, turning towards him, her mouth partly open as he leaned over her.

  Then all at once she was helping him, throwing the nightdress to the floor, then pulling his pyjamas away, kissing him, murmuring small, secret words which he could not hear or understand.

  He explored her body, feeling her excitement and need rising to match his own, until neither could stand any more.

  ‘Tim!’ She reached out and held him, prolonging the agony a moment longer. ‘Now.’

  They made love with the tenderness of youth, and with the passion of wanton experience. Then they fell exhausted, their limbs entangled, their bodies still joined.

  The feel of her, the hot scent of her lithe body, their need for each other gave them little rest, and when the first grey light showed around the heavy curtains it was like an enemy.

  She swung her legs over the side of the bed, but he held her, his hands about her waist, his lips touching her skin.

  ‘I must go.’ She ruffled his hair with her fingers, watching him. ‘We’ll not be alone much longer.’

  As if to bear out her words, Rowan heard someone walking on the path below the window. The major perhaps, lost in his own world, separated from the darkened room above him, and all else.

  She groped for her gown, her limbs white in the gloom.

  He said, ‘Please, Honor, I don’t want –’

  She came back to the bed and laid her hand on his mouth. ‘Don’t say it. I have no regrets,’ She let him touch her again. ‘No. I must go.’ She was part laughing, but in another second would be unable to leave.

  He stood up and held her against his body, her tousled curls pressing into his throat.

  ‘God, I wanted you, Honor. I didn’t know how much.’

  She stepped away from him. ‘Nor I.’

  Long after she had left the room Rowan sat on the bed, staring at the door’s polished rectangle.

  What had he done? What did she really think about it?

  He strode to the windows and threw open the curtains. It was raining again.

  He stretched out his arms and yawned hugely. The rain no longer mattered. And as he made his way to his dressing room, and his scarred leg scraped against a stool in the half light, he did not notice that either.

  Captain Bruce Buchan sat in his big leather chair and watched his wife pouring tea.

  The refit was over, and with his company returned from leave, Buchan had brought his ship around the north of Scotland to Rosyth. There was still some work going on, and he could hear the occasional stammer of a rivet gun from the hangar deck.

  His wife had never been far away, and they had put up in a small hotel for some of the time, and then moved to Edinburgh, where she would have shops to explore to take her mind off the ship when he had gone.

  He looked at the new chintz curtains which she had insisted on doing herself. Through a sealed scuttle he could see the hurrying clouds above the dockyard. January in Rosyth.

  His eyes moved to a newspaper on the table.

  SEA BATTLE IN SNOW BLIZZARD. SCHARNHORST SUNK.

  He thought of the Arctic as he had seen it. As it must have been just last week off North Cape when the German battle-cruiser had been destroyed by Admiral Fraser’s Duke of York.

  It was like a jigsaw coming together. A picture forming at last. Bismarck and Scharnhorst gone. Tirpitz out of action. It was a strange feeling to be winning instead of barely holding your own.

  Buchan tried not to mull over all that he had to do before his ship was as he wanted. Trials to complete, new hands to be sorted into their best positions. Damage control, fuel, ammunition, perishable stores, medical supplies. Each and every one had a team, and someone to supervise it. But all lines led to the captain. As ever. Perhaps he was just being extra cautious.

  His wife sat back in the chair and laid her hands in her lap.

  ‘Well, dear.’

  He smiled. ‘Aye. Another day.’

  Feet clattered overhead, and he imagined the Air Engineer Officer checking all the landing gear. The aircraft would fly-on once the ship was at sea. Seafires, and an entirely new bunch of Swordfish torpedo bombers. Fresh faces to greet, to penetrate.

  She said suddenly, ‘No news from London, I suppose?’

  Buchan stirred uneasily. It was the first time she had mentioned it.

  Throughout his leave he had visited the ship at irregular intervals. To watch over work progress. To catch out anyone who was slacking or abusing the ship’s equipment. On one particular visit he had been surprised to find a man waiting with Commander Jolly to see him.

  From the Admiralty. A severe looking little man in a crumpled blue suit. A senior clerk perhaps. Someone checking on a stores return which had gone adrift?

  In fact, it had been a vice-admiral, a very important gentleman indeed from Operational Planning.

  He had gone over the reports of that convoy to Russia. Had anything been left out? Glossed over?

  It had been after the little admiral had departed, and Buchan had gone over it all in the quiet of his cabin, that he realised something he had not dreamed of before. Somebody, somebody very high up, did not like Chadwick. The slant of the questions, the casual references to positions and distances of the Air Support Group and the convoy escorts, Hustler’s part in the final battle against the heavy cruiser, what Growler was trying to do. Whoever was investigating Chadwick’s much-publicised victory must have known of the rift between him and Buchan. Would guess that little would leak out about the informal interview. He thought of Jolly and felt worried. He might have spoken with Chadwick.

  Buchan looked at his wife and forced a smile. ‘No. Nor will there be. Storm in a teacup.’

  She poured the tea. ‘That man cannot be trusted, Bruce. He’s so full of his importance. So devious. If he discovered you had been going behind his back . . .’

  ‘But I was doing no such thing. Ellen!’

  ‘I know. I’m only saying what he’ll make of it.’

  Buchan frowned. ‘Anyway, it’s right that he should get a rollicking. He took a stupid risk. He had no real intelligence that the Jerries were putting in that cruiser, or that the oil tanker was so damn vital!’

  ‘Don’t swear, dear.’

  He grinned. ‘Sorry. But it’s true. He very nearly blew out this ship’s boilers. As it was, we had to stop. Could have been tin-fished there and then.’ He was getting angry as he relived the tension, the anxiety. ‘No, I’m not sorry I spoke to the admiral from Operations.’r />
  She nodded. ‘Well, be on your guard. That man never gives up.’

  Buchan watched her with sudden warmth. Neither do you.

  It had been sickening to read the scant news in the papers about their convoy, of how Chadwick’s skill and dash had been compared with Drake and Nelson.

  He had been plain, down-to-earth lucky, and somebody high up knew it.

  ‘Anyway, we’ll not be carrying him when we weigh anchor, dear. Give us time to shake down as a going concern again.’

  She did not look at him. ‘I’ll miss you terribly, Bruce.’ Her lips quivered. ‘All that way. It seems so much worse.’

  Buchan watched her sadly. ‘Don’t you go telling everyone, Ellen, or my head will be on the block and no mistake.’ He tried to reassure her. ‘Ceylon. It’ll be safer there. No ice, no U-boats milling around like killer whales.’

  She nodded briskly. ‘Drink your tea, and I’ll pour you another cup.’

  He smiled. Bless you. ‘You just take care of the garden. I’ll take care of me.’

  Later, as she made to leave, she said, ‘I’ll think of you every day, Bruce.’

  Buchan looked away, stunned. She thinks I’m not coming back this time.

  At the head of the brow he watched her growing smaller as she walked between the towering gantrys and dockside sheds. Then he looked up at Growler’s boxlike bridge, at the crisp new ensign which floated from the gaff.

  ‘Well, I am,’ he said aloud.

  They stood in front of a small fire which a railway porter had lit specially for them in the tiny waiting room. Side by side, their hands outstretched towards the little flames.

  Rowan said quietly, ‘It was good of you to come.’

  ‘I’m glad you let me.’ She glanced at his profile. ‘But I hate losing you.’

  They had just come from the house, from the churchyard where Rowan had found the grave in which one of his uncles had had his parents buried.

  He had signed papers, spoken to a local policeman he had known for years. The man had said, ‘I was first in the house, sir. They was all dead under the stairs.’ As if to help he had added, ‘Not a mark on ’em. Killed by shock. Best way.’ By ‘all’, he had meant the dog. Old Simon had been with them when the stick of bombs had come down. He would have been.

  Afterwards he had said, ‘Let’s go to a pub and have a drink. I’ll have to get the train after that.’

  ‘Are you sure you want me, Tim? Some of your friends may think you picked up some –’

  He had squeezed her hand. ‘What about your friends? What would they say if we met some of them, eh?’

  She had refused to be drawn. ‘I’m older than you. That’s all I care about.’

  Now they were in the waiting room. Remembering. The great house. Each day a rediscovery. Every night their love.

  Suppose Chadwick had caught them? Just thinking about it made him sick for her. Chadwick had been back to the house three times, just for a few hours, and never at night.

  If she knew what her husband was up to in London she never once mentioned it. But after each of his brief visits she had made love to Rowan more wantonly, more desperately than ever.

  Now it was finished. Back to Growler. Off to some challenge or other. He should have felt something. He was not just another pilot. He was taking over the squadron. Just like that. They must be short of men.

  The door opened a few inches. Train’s comin’, sir. Stops most of the way to Waterloo, I’m afraid. I’ll get yer cases ready.’

  He withdrew, and she put her arms up and around Rowan’s neck.

  ‘Thank you for making me so happy, darling Tim. I will never forget you. Never. You’ll find someone else of course, and I expect I shall end up as the wife of our new First Sea Lord one day.’ She was speaking quickly, as if to stop the tears.

  He kissed her hard, tasting the salt.

  He said, ‘I’ll be back. You see. I’ll not be a nuisance, but I’ll be there if and when you need me. Always remember that.’

  The train rumbled into the small station and doors started to slam.

  ‘Stay here.’

  He kissed her again and walked quickly to the train where the man was holding a door for him. He jammed a pound note in the surprised porter’s hand.

  When he wrenched open the window the train was moving, and he saw her watching him through the waiting room’s doorway. She did not move or wave, but held one hand in the air until the train was out of sight.

  Then she turned up the collar of her fur coat and walked out towards the waiting car.

  13

  Wives and Lovers

  ROWAN HESITATED OUTSIDE the office labelled Commander (Flying) and then rapped on the freshly painted steel. It would be strange not seeing Villiers with his strained features and haunted expression.

  ‘Come!’

  Rowan sighed. The whole ship felt strange for that matter. The same yet different. Perhaps it was just him. He had only recently come aboard and had not met any of his friends. The quartermaster had explained that he was wanted right away. Up here.

  He walked into the office and stared.

  Kitto was watching him across the metal desk, his face set in a mask of mock severity.

  ‘Well?’

  Rowan said, ‘I didn’t know. I’d heard you’d been sent off somewhere. It seemed a bit odd that you didn’t leave any messages.’ He leaned over the desk. ‘Congratulations. I can’t think of anyone who could do the job better.’

  Kitto grimaced. ‘That’s what they keep telling me. Christ, look at me. A desk-wallah. I was a flier just a month or so back. Now I have to tell others what to do. Just as well I used to understudy Eric Villiers. They only gave me a couple of weeks at the local air station to buff up on procedure.’

  Rowan moved a pile of dog-eared files from a chair and sat down.

  Kitto watched him curiously. ‘Leg all right?’

  ‘Fine. Stings a bit when I take a bath.’

  ‘Then stay dirty like me. Help cut fuel costs.’ He grinned, his blue chin shining in the January glare from a scuttle.

  Rowan thought quickly of all the months he had known this man. Other places and ships. Dymock Kitto. The old pro. The ace.

  He glanced down at his gleaming new stripes on his reefer jacket. They had come a long way in a hurry. She had got that done for him. Through a tailor she knew. How did she trust the man to say nothing to her husband? Maybe she didn’t care any more.

  Kitto seemed to read his thoughts. ‘I know. Dead men’s shoes. You’ll have your work cut out with your bunch, I can tell you. That’s why I wanted to see you first.’ He prodded some papers. ‘You’ve lost two of your Seafire pilots. Drafted to other carriers. Things are a bit tight, I gather. You’ve still got Bill and Nick Rolston, Frank Creswell, and of course Lord Algy.’ He grinned. ‘The new boys are so green they make Frank look like Richthofen!’ He became serious again. ‘They’ve done all the usual stuff. Simulated landings and take-offs. And that’s about all they know. You’ll have to keep a tight hold on them. But I don’t have to tell you. We’ve both had some good teachers. And Andy Miller was the best, bless him.’

  ‘What about the Swordfish people?’

  ‘Usual mixture, I believe. Their new boss is off a fleet carrier. A two-and-a-half called Dexter. A regular officer. Twice decorated for something or other. Said to be a bit of a goer.’

  Rowan smiled. ‘Like us. Pity they didn’t give it to van Roijen.’

  Kitto rolled his eyes. ‘He’s a bloody foreigner! How can you suggest such things?’ Then he sighed. ‘You’re right of course. Especially as he’s the only one left aboard from the old bunch.’

  They listened to thumps and bangs on the flight deck, the whirr of cables as a dockside gantry rumbled along its tracks.

  ‘We’re loading crated aircraft, Tim. Convoy defence and freight humpers, that’s us.’

  Rowan considered it. Kitto, as a member of the bridge team, would know exactly where Growler was going next. H
e would not divulge this information outright, but the mention of crated aircraft suggested a fair distance.

  No more Russian convoys. No more Western Ocean either.

  He said, ‘I’ll go and unpack.’

  ‘Yes. You’re going ashore this afternoon to the local air station to meet your chaps.’ Kitto kept his gaze steady. ‘And pick up your new kite.’ He waited. ‘How d’you feel about it?’

  Rowan shrugged. ‘Fair enough. I’ll be okay once I’ve been up again.’

  He could see Jonah falling, the smoke trailing behind, until she hit the angry water. The parachute searing his shoulders. The blood seeping through his boot. Oblivion.

  ‘Good. I’ve already been over to look at her. She’s brand-new. Folding wings, so you’ll be able to carry her on leave next time.’ He asked casually, ‘Was it a good leave, by the way?’

  ‘Yes.’ He felt guilty. ‘Very.’

  Kitto grinned. ‘Thought so. Especially as you’re so talkative about it.’ He opened another folder. ‘You push off. The Old Man will probably want a word with you.’

  Rowan turned by the door. ‘No rear admiral’s flag this time then?’

  Kitto’s face was expressionless. ‘No. Not yet anyway. Does it bother you?’

  Rowan forced a smile. ‘Of course not. Why should it?’

  Kitto watched him go. It bothers you all right.

  That afternoon Rowan was picked up by a staff car, and along with Lieutenant Commander James, the Operations Officer, was driven at high speed by an uncommunicative Wren who had apparently never heard of the Highway Code.

  James said he had a few bits and pieces to clear up at the Fleet Air Arm station, but Rowan thought he was coming just for the ride. He looked very tired and worried, as if his leave had been something of a disappointment.

  Rowan had asked him briefly about it. James had replied curtly, ‘It was splendid. Grand to be home.’

  Rowan settled down in the rattling Humber car and thought about Honor Chadwick. She would forget him in days. Her life as the wife of a senior officer, her position in her local community, its war effort of W.V.S. and Red Cross meetings, bundles of clothing for bombed-out families, endless work which probably helped her to stay sane. She could not afford to get involved. He looked at himself in the mud-splashed window. A young, temporary officer without prospects, even if he lived through the war. She would do well to forget him.