The Restless Sea, page 17
The men swallow their laughs and, ashamed, get on with what they were doing. He turns to Jack. ‘Well done, son,’ he says. ‘Keep your wits while the world throws what it’s got at you, and we’ll all get home safe.’ He would rather they rang the bell every time than left it too late. He knows better than most about the terrors of convoys. He has crossed the Black Pit in the Atlantic many times, where the U-boats congregate, ready to attack.
In almost perpetual daylight, the sky remains bright and clear and the sea empty. It seems the Germans are not expecting the British to send supplies to Russia. Mart spits over the handrail, watching the other ships around them. ‘Reminds me of Dunkirk,’ he says.
‘You were at Dunkirk?’ Jack asks.
‘Near enough.’
‘Bose is being modest,’ says Burts. ‘He took his brother’s fishing boat over.’
‘Twice,’ someone else adds.
‘You had someone there, did you?’ says Mart.
‘My dad and brother.’
‘Did they get out?’
Jack shakes his head. Mart puts a hand on Jack’s shoulder and squeezes. ‘You’ve got to let it go,’ he says. ‘This here ship’s your home now, and this crew’s your family.’
The convoy reaches Archangel without incident. The land sticks starkly out of the water as they make their way through the White Sea. They unload their cargo among the sullen Russians on the dilapidated wharf. No one speaks on the docks. The soldiers watch them suspiciously. There is nowhere onshore for entertainment. The only amusement is to marvel at the women piloting their own ships, a novelty to everyone on board the Aurora. The crew is delighted when it is time to leave. Mart watches Russia recede into the shimmering sea. ‘Congratulations, lads,’ he says. ‘You’ve just completed the first convoy to the Soviet Union. A big thank-you from that Commie bastard Uncle Joe, and a slap on the back from our own Mister Churchill. Now let’s get home.’
CHAPTER 10
Charlie
Charlie’s carrier is scouring the Atlantic for the pride of the German fleet. His spirits were restored a little by seeing Olivia – and Captain Pearce has moved on at last so they have a decent captain once again. But it has been a long stretch. Some of his squadron have been lost. You never become numb to it. But it does become a kind of normality. One of the hardest things is when a plane takes off and never returns. Not to know whether the men you were sitting next to in the officers’ mess only yesterday have been shot down or miscalculated their route and run out of fuel, or whether the plane has failed … Sometimes he likes to think they’ve just flown away, on to another land where there is no war, no torpedoes, no gunfire. But of course, there is no such place, apart from in his memory.
The German ship they are looking for is the largest battleship ever built. Only two nights ago she scored a big Nazi victory, sinking a ship carrying more than fourteen hundred British men. Only three survived. She is a threat to every convoy bringing supplies across the Atlantic for hungry, bombed Britain, and she needs to be stopped at all costs. But the ocean is great and wide, and sometimes it feels as if they’re chasing the impossible. The pilots fly day and night, scanning the waves, but still there is no sign. Lookouts are on edge. Everyone is on edge. The ships are constantly zigzagging to avoid the U-boats. No one is sleeping. No one is speaking.
Charlie has returned for some well-earned rest, struggling out of his clothes and into his bunk. It feels as if his head has only just hit the pillow when the call comes to action stations. The ready room is packed with men. The air is stale and warm. At last there is news.
‘She’s been spotted by an American pilot.’
‘How far?’
‘Half a day.’
Charlie’s heart quickens. Only an hour or so in a plane.
The CO points at the chart. ‘Last spotted here,’ he says. ‘The plan is to attack from all sides. Draw her fire. Confuse her. We’re sending the first squadron up now. If they’re unsuccessful, then you’ll go.’ He nods at Charlie and Frank and the others.
They wait anxiously. Charlie cracks his knuckles. Frank and Mole argue about which homeland is better, Wales or Ireland. They play cards and wait some more.
The other squadron returns. Their attack has been problematic. Charlie’s squadron is scrambled immediately. The weather is getting worse. The flight deck crew have brought all fifteen of their planes up from the hangar. They have unfurled the wings, and the great machines wait at the end of the deck in a herringbone formation, rising up and down with the motion of the ship on waves as big as mountains. Charlie’s plane crouches among them. He can just make out the long torpedo slung beneath her undercarriage, wet and glistening with seawater. Spray pours across the deck in a torrent. The wind lashes his face, and the rain appears in undulating sheets. Up there, it will be colder, wetter, windier. But it is always a thrill going on the attack – and this would be quite some prize.
The clouds are low and ominous. The carrier rolls and bucks as they take off. A heavy northwesterly blows in fierce gusts. The flight deck is a glistening puddle. The Swordfish take off one by one, their outstretched legs lifting apparently without effort into the air, their bodies rocking from side to side. Charlie is in the first formation of eight. Frank and Paddy are to his right and left. They signal to each other, arms extended, thumbs up.
‘Right, boyo,’ says Mole. ‘Let’s find this German Fraülein and show her what real men are made of.’ The clouds are a dark rolling mass, their edges seeping into the sky in black wisps, like blood unfurling into water. It’s going to be bumpy. The advantage is that they can fly above it for now, unseen by whatever lurks below. On they fly. The rain pours down on them. It drips inside the cockpit. It settles in patches on Charlie’s legs. It works its way into his gloves, down his back, his thighs. It patters against his leather helmet. But up here, in control of his plane, the world makes sense. Charlie knows what is expected of him.
It takes them an hour to find her. As they approach the coordinates, Charlie’s heart starts to pound. He dampens the fluttering in his belly and concentrates on the plane, the instruments, the torpedo. They know the ship is there before they dip below the clouds, because she starts to fire. And then the clouds part and she is revealed in all her glory, every inch of her covered in guns that have swivelled to face them. A torrent of tracer fire blazes against the storm clouds, flecks of light painting the way for the barrage that follows. She is the largest ship Charlie has ever seen. Larger than his aircraft carrier. And the guns … rows and rows of them hammering away like thunder, one after the other, boom, boom, boom.
Frank and Paddy drop away, falling off to the side. Charlie fights the instinct to pull his plane up higher, out of harm’s way. He has to fly lower still, to get to the right level to send his torpedo on its way. Endlessly down, down.
‘That’s it, boyo. Hold her steady.’ Mole’s voice reaches his ears, calm and reassuring.
The rain drives straight into them. The wind rattles and blows, buffeting the plane. He tries to focus on the ship. She is enormous. He is a gnat buzzing at her. It seems impossible that he could so much as sting her.
‘Hold her there,’ says Mole.
Charlie swallows. His mouth is dry. His heart pounds in his throat. Frank and Paddy swoop from the same side as him. Wilson, Bob, all the others come in from the other side. They may be small, but they are mighty. The ship tries to take evasive action, but she is too large to avoid an attack from both sides. She swings one way and then the other. But the Swordfish swarm at her, together more powerful.
‘Dive!’ says Mole.
Charlie flies still lower and levels up. Now they are in danger from the waves lunging at them from below. The surface of the water is only a few yards away, the spray from the bullets splashes over them. The ship is firing everything she has. The noise of her guns is so loud that it drowns out the wind and the propeller and the blood beating in his ears. He feels shrapnel sting his cheek. He hears it clatter against the plane. He is surrounded by black puffs of flak. The rain mingles with the spray from the sea. His eyes sting. He is soaking. But the blood coursing around his body keeps him warm. Surely they are low enough to launch their torpedo. The world slows. The water rolls. The wind blows. The rain streams across the plane. Charlie’s chest tightens. The guns batter and blast. Bright flashes of flame inside white clouds of smoke.
‘Steady,’ says Mole. The observer’s voice brings the world back into focus. ‘Steady.’ He can feel Mole’s weight shift and lean in the cockpit behind him.
‘Now?’ says Charlie.
‘No! Not yet!’ He glances over his shoulder. Mole is leaning right out of the cockpit, mad Welshman that he is.
‘Wait …’
The battleship is firing. The rain is slapping into them, but it isn’t rain, it’s shrapnel. And then there is a great burst in the sea, and a fountain of water flies up in front of them as if a depth charge has gone off, and now the ship is firing into the sea in front of them, trying to knock them off course. They are looking down the colossal barrels of this monster ship and the noise is tremendous and Charlie wants to press the button …
‘Wait …’
They are almost within rifle shot of the ship. Charlie’s vision is clear. He is so close that he is sure he will smash straight into it. The plane is taking a battering. ‘Now!’ says Mole. ‘Let it go!’
Charlie presses the button and the torpedo is released from its clamp. The cylinder falls from the plane. It carries on forward, in the same direction they were travelling, as Charlie throws all his energy into turning. Mole and the Kid hold their breath. He can picture the faces of the men who are firing at him, intent, lips set in lines. They are shouting and pointing, and the Kid starts his firing, and the plane judders as she starts to turn, turn. They are alongside the ship, dwarfed by her. Charlie feels as though he could reach out and touch her. Waves are smashing against her side, frothing up into their faces. But the plane is turning, and the ship is falling away from them, and they are reaching safety, and he can see the other Swordfish also banking and their torpedoes have gone, and soon they will know if any of them has made any difference.
‘It’s a runner!’ yells Mole. And he whoops with delight. And now the adrenaline kicks in and Charlie is ready to go again. But of course they have only one torpedo. They climb up towards the safety of the dark clouds. The German ship is firing at their friends. Charlie feels the anger rise. They turn and slope back down towards the ship, circling it like vultures. Another wave of planes has come in from the starboard side. The rest of the squadron. They swoop through the tracers and the flak, gliding low over the water, and somehow they too avoid the guns and drop their torpedoes and turn back out of harm’s way. Charlie laughs out loud, cheering into the air.
The German ship is wounded. Not sure which way to fire, she is firing randomly at anything and everything. She tries to turn to avoid the torpedoes, but they are coming from all sides. They must have hit – must have.
After the noise and flames and smoke it is strange to be flying back over the grey, blank ocean, in the wind and the rain. Charlie has a moment to think. He glances across at the other planes. One, two, three, four … all eight of his squadron are there, skimming the waves. Relief floods through him. He relaxes his shoulders, eases his grip on the control column. He cricks his head from side to side, trying to loosen his neck, but it is too stiff, and he feels an intense pain in his right shoulder and a stinging pain in his neck and cheek. He presses his hand to the spot, and there is blood on the palm of his glove when he takes it away.
‘You all right, boyo?’ Mole shouts in his ear.
Charlie tries to nod, but the pain is growing and his head feels too heavy to move.
‘My shoulder,’ he says through gritted teeth.
‘Can you make it?’
‘Think so.’ He tries to nod again, but he can’t: it feels as if something is stabbing into his muscle.
‘Any requests?’ Charlie knows that Mole is trying to keep him engaged, but the pain is too much and he can’t answer. It takes all his strength to hold the plane steady.
Mole starts to sing quietly. It’s a tune Charlie instantly recognises. ‘The Skye Boat Song’. Suddenly Olivia is floating next to him in the darkness. He clutches at the memory. He barely notices the gale, barely feels the plane tugging at his weakening arm. He bites down on his lip as the song fills his head. The deck of the carrier is smooth and glassy like the loch, and the lights guiding him in are stars on a summer evening, the green of the starboard light is like the gleam of the Northern Lights, and he just must land this plane on that deck or else he’ll never see her again. He sees the batsman dancing. He feels the wheels touch the deck, the tug of the arrester wire. He feels the breeze across the loch. Then nothing.
‘We got it, boyo. We bloody got it.’
The voice swims in his head, and for a moment he’s not sure whether he’s still in the cockpit of the plane or not. It is pitch black and the world is moving, but as he comes around, he realises it’s dark because he’s in the sickbay and it’s night-time, and the world is moving because they are back on their ship.
Mole is sitting next to him, smoking a cigarette. As he takes a drag, his face lights up. ‘We left her going around in circles like a dog chasing its tail.’ He giggles, and then puts his other finger to his lips. ‘Keep it quiet. Not meant to be in here. Just had to make sure you were all right. And you are.’ He giggles again. He leans forward, trying to whisper. There is an empty glass in his hand. ‘The fleet finished her off. Took them a long time, mind. She fought bravely. In the end, they scuttled her. Not many survivors, I’m afraid. Typical Jerries. Heroic to the last.’
Charlie closes his eyes again. He saw those men only hours ago, fighting for their lives. Them or me. He remembers the conversation with Olivia on the track down to the bothy. ‘How long have I been out?’ he asks.
‘Just over twenty-four hours. I’ll go and tell the Kid. He’s been hanging around since we dragged you in here … I’d only just sent him off to get some food.’ Charlie hears Mole exhale as he rises out of his chair. He wants to ask the observer not to go. Not to leave him in the dark on his own. But it sounds stupid.
His chest is agony. He cannot move. ‘My arm …’ he says.
‘Shush now,’ says Mole from somewhere further away. ‘You need rest. Thank the Lord you’re still alive. I’ll drink to that …’ He hears a stumble and a curse, a snort of laughter, as the footsteps cross the room. There is a chink of light as the door opens a crack. The voice is even further away now: ‘Welcome back, boyo.’ The words are left hovering in the air as the door closes, and Charlie is left alone in the blackness.
He can’t get comfortable. His skin is covered in a film of sweat. The cloying smell of fever lingers in his nostrils. He longs for the cool breeze of an open cockpit. When he moves, the sheets rasp like sandpaper against his body. The light hurts his eyes – either it is too bright or his lids are too heavy. He can’t see anything. But he can hear: metal against metal, shrieking in his ears – someone stirring a hot drink. A voice drones from behind a mask. ‘Not sure whether to operate. Might lose his arm if we do.’
No! He wants to cry out. Don’t operate! But his mouth is too dry and he feels dizzy, so dizzy. It is like night flying, except he is not in control. He cannot lose his arm. How can he make sense of the world if he can’t fly? He is a pilot. What else can he do? More sounds stab his nightmares. The tinny sound of the Tannoy, issuing instructions. Laughter – it sounds mocking. Footsteps walking, running. Whirring. Clicking. Banging. The hangar going up and down. Hands are touching him, moving him. Leave me alone, he wants to say. Get off me. Pain ripping into his body. The prick of a needle. A screech, like the plane’s tyres, the wind in his ears, the world unfolding before him, the infinite sky above.
CHAPTER 11
Charlie is transferred ashore to a hospital in Kent – to a building that was once some grand hotel or home, but is now a stagnant pond of damaged men. Before long, the blood has stopped seeping from his shoulder and the smell of rot has gone. He’s sure it doesn’t need a dressing any more – fresh air would clean it up in no time. But the nurses insist. They have to have something to do. One of them is fussing over him, pulling the blanket up over his legs and trying to get him to sit back in bed. ‘But I’m ready to be discharged,’ he says. ‘I’m absolutely right as rain.’
The nurse smiles. ‘You’ll be here for a while yet,’ she says. ‘That’s a nasty wound. It did a lot of muscle damage. Lucky you didn’t lose the arm.’
‘Believe me, I’ve never been more grateful for anything, but being stuck in here is almost as bad.’ The nurse shakes her head at him, but it’s true – he feels as wretched as when he heard that his parents had died, rudderless, impotent. He wants to get back to his squadron as soon as possible; he has been separated from them once before, and those were the darkest, longest days of his life. He sighs and leans his head back against the wall, pushing the memory of that time back where it belongs, flinching as the pain rips into his shoulder again. It’s all so damn monotonous: the meals and the nurses’ rounds, the poking and prodding, and the doctor nodding his head. The nights are the worst. The snores and the whimperings remind him of his school dormitory, as if the exams and the flight training never happened. He longs for the call of action stations, the thrill of flight, the sea air …
‘Cheer up, Lieutenant FitzHerbert. You’ll be out of here soon enough. Then you’ll be wishing you were back with us.’
‘I don’t think so,’ he says.
She smiles at him. She is middle-aged, matronly. Her uniform is starched and spotless. ‘Why don’t you try to think about something nice?’ she says. ‘Do your family know you’re here?’
‘I haven’t got any family.’
‘What about that sweetheart of yours? Have you written to tell her what’s happened? Maybe she’ll come and visit.’ She offers him some paper and a pen from the table by his bed.
