by John Harris
As the depth charges were hoisted into place and secured to their racks, a refueller appeared on the other side of the machine. The sense of tension was touching everybody. Most of the men doing the work weren’t quite clear what the fuss was about but a few rumours had started and they were all aware that they had to work fast and accurately. The aircraft were going to be needed before long.
By the time they had finished the AOC’s signal had reached every base on the West Coast and they were all preparing to move aircraft towards Freetown, while their own moorings were readied for the arrival of other aircraft from further south. It was a case of when-father-turns-we-all-turn, all the way back to South Africa and round the corner to Santa Lucia Bay in the Indian Ocean.
As he watched his machines taking up their new positions, Molyneux decided to contact Inspector Yorke. Yorke remained silent for a second or two after Molyneux had finished but, when he finally spoke, even over the assorted cracklings and whistles of interference he sounded worried.
‘I think you’re probably right about those machine guns,’ he said. ‘None of my people report seeing lorries on the move north. I’ll try to contact Cazalet but until I do I think we’re going to have to do something on our own. I’ll get the navy to land a few chaps at Mamo across the river to work north. Can you get a few to Makinkundi to work south?’
‘We’re hardly trained for that sort of thing,’ Molyneux pointed out. ‘But I’ll see what I can do.’
Two
‘I want volunteers,’ Molyneux said to Hobson. ‘What have you got in the way of time-expired men?
Hobson listened as he explained and as usual promptly offered the mooring party and the pinnace crew. ‘I expect we can find a few more, too,’ he said. ‘How are you going to get them up there?’
‘What about Groupie’s boat?’
‘He’ll never permit it.’
But he did. The AOC arrived in a bad temper while they were discussing the matter and made his decision at once.
‘The White Bird,’ he said emphatically, `is to be returned at once to the marine craft section, where it will remain henceforward.’
By getting Sergeant Maxey to push back into the water a tender that had been up the slip for service, Hobson raised two tenders, a scow and the pinnace. Twenty-odd time-expired men of all trades, including even a few clerks from headquarters and main stores, were stuffed aboard the White Bird, most of them complaining loudly because carrying rifles and wearing webbing in a temperature that was enough to suffocate an ox wasn’t what a decent clean-living time-expired airman ought to expect when he was awaiting a ship to take him home. Sergeant Maxey, no less time-expired and no less indignant, was stuffed aboard after them, sweating like a fountain as he pushed his way into the cabin.
‘Make sure you don’t get too near to him, dear.’ Trixie Tristram, also time-expired and spiteful at having to dress up and look like a soldier, leaned towards one of his boyfriends. ‘He gets a bit high when he’s warm.’
Standing on the jetty, Molyneux tried to explain just what they were expected to do.
‘You’re not supposed to be commandos,’ he explained.
‘You’re telling us, dear,’ Trixie’s acid voice came from the back.
Molyneux’ grim look stopped any laughter. ‘West African troops are being landed opposite Pepel and will approach from that side. More will approach from Hawkinge Town as soon as they arrive. You can leave the serious fighting to them. All you’re supposed to do is keep your heads down and keep them busy. Their intention’s to prevent our kites stopping their submarines sinking ships – and one of those ships might well be the one that’s due to take you lot home.’
It was a shrewd point because to the time-expireds the idea of someone sinking their ship was enough to stiffen anybody’s determination, and they frowned at each other, trying to see themselves as warriors.
The White Bird was just on the point of casting off when Hobson saw Ginger Donnelly leaning on his stick by the pinnace. ‘You, Ginger,’ he said, jabbing a finger. ‘Go with Sergeant Maxey. You know Makinkundi and seem to have influence there. He might be glad of help.’
As the White Bird drew away, Molyneux stared after it. One boat and twenty men didn’t seem much and the party for the second seaplane tender looked like being even thinner on the ground because with the big anti-submarine operation just over the horizon, he knew he couldn’t expect men to be taken off boats or aircraft maintenance. Then Warrant Officer Hacker pointed out that a new draft had just arrived from England and were at RAF, Hawkinge, awaiting posting to Takoradi and Bathurst.
‘How many?’ Molyneux demanded.
‘Forty-nine, sir.’
‘Grab ’em.’
‘They’re all flight mechanics, fitters and riggers, sir. All white knees. Brand new in the service even.’
‘I presume they’ve all been taught to fire a rifle.’
Hacker held back a smile. ‘Probably not with much success, sir.’
‘We’re not looking for snipers,’ Molyneux said. ‘Just someone to make a lot of noise.’ He looked at Hobson. ‘How long would it take to go round by sea to Bic creek?’ he asked.
‘The pinnace does it in a couple of hours.’
‘Right. Let’s have some of this new lot round there. Then we’ll be on three sides of the bastards and they might just decide to throw their hands in.’
Molyneux was just wondering whom he could put in charge when the padre appeared. ‘I was beginning to think there was never going to be any excitement round here,’ he said.
By now darkness was almost on them, and Molyneux heaved a sigh of relief. Darkness would give them a few hours’ respite and instructions were issued that no lights were to be shown. Orders had also been given that dinghies carrying armed men should patrol the lagoon, while full aircraft crews, save the captain and navigator, who could well be needed at any moment for briefing, were ordered aboard with waist guns cocked and ready to fire.
The new arrivals from England, snatched from what had appeared to be a reasonably comfortable billet at Hawkinge and brought in lorries to some God-forsaken place which seemed full of mosquitoes, surrounded by water and mud and occupied by savages, were beginning to gather near the pier in front of the hangar, bewildered and perspiring under rifles, ammunition and water bottles. They were all freshly in the RAF and brand new to West Africa, and were wearing the new-issue shirts that were a cross between a bush jacket and a shirt and were a dead loss in either role. They hadn’t even yet thrown away the vast heavy solar topees that were issued in England by some idiot who’d doubtless never had to wear one, and they were all wondering what the hell was happening, because in England ground crews weren’t usually involved in shooting and getting shot at.
Hobson counted them and ordered half of them aboard the pinnace. Fortunately, there was rain about and it was cooler than normal with brooding clouds clinging to the hills, but the pinnace was so packed with humanity it seemed that if anyone moved too suddenly half a dozen would fall overboard; and to add to the crowding they had hoisted the punt inboard, its outboard detached for safety because it would more than likely sink on tow beyond the mouth of the river.
They had rounded the corner of the creek and begun to head north when the remainder of the party of armed men were ordered aboard the second seaplane tender, and the first man had just put his foot on the rattling boards of the jetty when firing started from across the river. Lorenz had found a point on the west bank from which he could see the trots of aircraft and two automatic weapons had been hurried forward. They were placed in position just as it began to grow dark.
At the sound of the firing, Molyneux swung round and, pushing past the crowding airmen, ran to the end of the jetty. Hobson was there to superintend the loading, because everybody at Jum wasn’t a sailor and some were distinctly ham-fisted in boats.
‘What’s happened?’ Molyneux asked.
Hobson gestured out towards the river. ‘Seems to be coming from
the other side. Somebody’s flashing.’
He had grabbed the piermaster’s Aldis and was watching the signals.
‘“Machine gun fire,”’ he read. ‘“From far side of river.”’
‘Ask him what they’re shooting at.’
The lamp clattered and Hobson turned. ‘He says, “Me.”’
‘Ask him if there’s been any damage.’
The Aldis clattered again and Hobson turned once more. ‘He says there are holes in the hull. Near the tail.’
Molyneux frowned. ‘Who is it?’
‘T-Tommy. There he goes again. “Do we return fire?”’
Molyneux frowned. He was in a difficult position. T-Tommy, like all the other aircraft, had been bombed-up and ammunitioned for early take-off. If they used their ammunition firing across the river they would have to be resupplied.
‘Tell them to try to keep their heads on. Then ask Hacker to get airframe fitters on those holes. And pray for rain, Hobbie.’
By a miracle Molyneux’ prayer was answered and when the rain came a few minutes later it put a curtain of water across the river and the firing stopped. There had been little damage but it had proved that the Germans meant business.
There was no sign of hostility as the White Bird came alongside the loading jetty at Makinkundi. Half a dozen tipper wagons, plastered with mud, stood forlornly on the rails above their heads. Moored alongside was a heavy motor lighter.
At Maxey’s signal, the airmen scrambled ashore, their khaki black with sweat under the rifles, fifty rounds of ammunition and water bottles. They were followed by Maxey, looking more like a wet boiled egg than ever. This, he decided, was a job for the RAF regiment but, since nobody expected bases in West Africa to be attacked and there was no RAF regiment there, it had been dropped in the lap of Horace Maxey, a first-class coxswain who not only wasn’t a soldier but wasn’t even really an airman but a sailor.
It was growing dark and he was uncertain what he should do. In the light of the hurricane lamps and naphtha flares from surrounding houses, a few small boys appeared, begging cigarettes, then the know-all wide boy offering his sister. ‘Very good jig-jig,’ he said. ‘No mammy sickness. She schoolteacher. All clean and white inside.’
‘Who wants her?’ Trixie observed to his neighbour. ‘Mind you, the little boys look nice.’
A black policeman shooed away the children. A few mammies, smelling of sweat, charcoal and palm oil, called out softly, laughing at the burdened white men and, feeling fed up and far from home, Maxey was just wondering what to do next when the firing towards the aircraft started. Heads jerked up and the laughter of the mammies stopped at once as they hurried to scoop up their children and bustle them away to the safe side of the houses. It was at this point that Ginger Donnelly decided he was being pushed about by too many people, and as Maxey looked round for a safe spot, he slipped off quietly towards the village.
Lizzie Morgan was still shaken by the uproar that had resulted in Pfitzner’s death and Ginger put his arm round her as she started shivering again.
‘What happened?’ he asked.
She pointed to the door. ‘Brudder belong me come. Plenty palaver.’
‘Good for brudder,’ Ginger said. ‘Where brudder now?’
‘Brudder at mine. I tell him, “You go work, police no find. De Lord Jesus look after.”’ She remained worried and explained what had happened. ‘Many men come. I see guns. Boy tell me dey done got mine bosses locked up. If army come, mebbe brudder get hurt.’
‘Why don’t he do a bunk?’
‘He scared. Mebbe he get shot. Dey all scared.’
‘Of comin out?’
She nodded and Ginger frowned. ‘Mebbe we ought to make ’em more scared o’ stayin’ in,’ he observed.
As he set off through the trees and past the scraggy little patches of barley and Indian corn, the stunted mangoes and the banana plants, the fact that a man had died there three nights before didn’t worry him at all; everybody in Makinkundi knew Ginger well enough to ignore him. Beyond the palms the whitewashed stone houses were like old bones in the fitful moonlight, and round the roaring naphtha lamps the foliage glowed unnaturally green. He could hear crickets and frogs, and a few dogs burst from the shadows towards him, barking with lunatic frenzy before disappearing just as quickly.
Reaching the edge of the village, he stopped at a shabby hut that looked as though it had mange. Its thatch was untidy and there were holes in the walls. The man who appeared from the dark doorway was old, his kinky hair grey, his face lined, his body stooped, his legs thick with elephantiasis. He wore a mangy-looking leopard skin and about him hung an assortment of ju-jus – a child’s finger bone, a chicken leg, a bunch of feathers, a snake’s skin, all the appurtenances of a witch doctor with a large clientèle. He beamed a welcome at Ginger.
‘’Lo, Ibrahim,’ Ginger said in an offhand manner, never one to show too much enthusiasm. ‘’Ow’s the old fetish these days?’
The old man indicated a gaudy red, black and yellow basket of cane and raffia with a tightly fitting lid tied with a twisted straw cord. ‘I busy, boss Ginger. I got snakes.’
Ginger prised open the lid a fraction, then shut it again quickly at the ominous rustling sounds inside.
‘Dem snakes be for Luki, de snake man. I go take ’em.’
‘I’ll take ’em for you,’ Ginger said. ‘Save you a walk with them old legs of yourn. ’Sides, old Luki keeps a nice palm wine. I’ve got me stick in case one of ’em gets out. I got something I want you to do, see. Special. For me. As a mate, like.’
As Ginger moved about his private business indifferent to the war, the rain came, noisy and drenching. The spasmodic firing stopped and Maxey heaved a sigh of relief and went once more over his instructions. The job wasn’t likely to be difficult, he’d been told. The army would be along eventually to take over. All he had to do was make a lot of noise and be a nuisance to this group of Germans who were supposed to be somewhere on the spit of land between Makinkundi and Mamo. When the firing had started he had done what he considered the most sensible thing and got his men to cover, but now that it had stopped it seemed less important to advance with flying standards and shouts of ‘Hurrah!’ than to find some sort of shelter from the bloody rain.
Spitting the water from his lips, he formed up his party in threes, and marched them to the centre of the village, where, finding the thatched shelter where the market was held, he got his men underneath. It was a large square construction on poles with low structures like sawing horses set in the ground where on market days the mammies rested their baskets. Wet through and weary, Maxey’s men used them as seats.
Maxey frowned. The chief snag, as he saw it, was that he didn’t know where the enemy was. Neither, it seemed, did anyone else. Not Hobson, nor Molyneux who had set the thing up, nor the group captain. Not even the AOC.
But, though Sergeant Maxey didn’t know it, they were on the point of finding out.
Catalina B-Beer – known to its crew as B-Awful, because the port engine never delivered the correct number of revs and the automatic pilot was faulty – had landed from her patrol just as darkness came. She approached from the north and, turning over the mine at Yima, swung round to land against the tide.
Her pilot, Flying Officer Kitchen, a twenty-one-year-old with curling hair, innocent blue eyes, and one of the most extensive vocabularies of oaths on the station, was cursing his luck. For the most part the Catalinas had the respect of their crews but they required plenty of muscle and pilots dreaded handling them when the automatic pilot went out. After twelve hours of it Kitchen was exhausted because he’d been flying for the most part at five hundred feet and, with the temperature in the nineties, the sun through the Plexiglass had left him drained.
‘Pity we can’t crash the bloody thing and get a new one,’ he complained.
‘We could try pawning it,’ the navigator suggested.
‘She’s too bloody old. Nobody would have her.’
‘She always gets us home, Skipper,’ the navigator said soothingly. Kitchen wasn’t noted for the smoothness of his landings and the navigator always kept a drawerful of freshly sharpened pencils to plug the holes when the rivets popped out of the hull during his worst efforts.
The dinghy appeared alongside as they made fast to the buoy, and they climbed in, tired, sweating and fed up after twelve hours of boredom looking at nothing but empty sea. Kitchen was still complaining as he made out his report in the squadron office.
‘I’ve flown hundreds of bloody hours,’ he was saying ‘and I’ve never fired a gun, dropped a bomb or even seen any sign of the enemy. He signed his report sourly. ‘Not a damn thing all day,’ he went on. ‘Not even a bloody seagull. There’s more activity going on at that mine at Yima than we’ve ever seen.’
Molyneux, who was just inside his office heard him and swung round at once.
‘What did you see?’ he demanded.
‘Nothing, sir,’ Kitchen said. ‘It’s in the report. Just miles and miles…’
‘At Yima, man!’ Molyneux snapped. ‘At the mine at Yima!’
Kitchen looked puzzled. ‘Dozens of chaps, sir. Running about like a lot of blue-arsed flies.’
‘What else?’
‘Nothing else, sir.’
‘Dammit, man, you know how to make a report! Make one!’
‘Yessir.’ Kitchen stiffened. ‘I saw a string of lorries as we came over – just before the rain arrived. We were a long way away and it was dusk but I was using the binoculars and I could see movement. There were a lot of men.’
‘How many?’
‘About thirty, sir. But nobody seemed to be doing much work. They seemed to be preparing for a siege, if you ask me. I saw guns.’
