The Restless Sea, page 22
He follows Commander Denham into his office. From here they have a good view of the loch.
‘I saw the convoy got off early,’ says Charlie. ‘Murmansk?’ After the success of the first convoy last summer, there is one heading to Russia every few weeks.
The commander nods. ‘Should be a successful run. They’ve got a decent escort and it’s winter out there. Dark most of the time. Jerries won’t be able to find them,’ he says. ‘Damned cold,’ he adds. ‘Although’ – and here he rubs his hands together and blows on them – ‘not exactly warm here either, is it?’
Charlie shakes his head. ‘Any news of my squadron?’ he asks.
‘I understand they’re back in Kent,’ says the commander. ‘Moved there a few days ago.’
‘Do you know why?’ says Charlie.
‘Word is they’re expecting the German ships at Brest to make a dash for home through the Channel.’
‘The Nazis are mad enough.’
‘They certainly are,’ says the commander.
Charlie heads for his own desk. The hustle and bustle of the base calms him. From his window, he can see the water moving in the loch beneath the ships and the sky. It is almost like being on board a ship, except the ground is still and solid as a rock.
He leans back in his chair and stretches his legs out in front of him. His shoulder throbs. He’s not sure how much longer he can take this.
Gladys appears. She also misses Olivia, but has become a good friend to Charlie. ‘Tea?’ she says.
‘Lovely,’ he says. She sits down opposite him.
‘So how are you getting on?’
‘I’m bored.’
‘How can you be?’ she says in mock horror. ‘We’ve got car crashes and alcohol injuries, accidents on exercise and fly-away balloons …’
‘It’s not quite the same as flying …’
‘I know,’ she says. ‘It must be frustrating.’ She has a kind smile, concerned, but not patronising. She is attractive, with creamy skin and long eyelashes. Her dark hair is pinned back neatly. She is almost the opposite to the wild, unruly Olivia. ‘Why don’t you see if you can get to Kent?’ she continues. ‘While your squadron’s land-based, I’m sure they’d be glad of your help. I know we have been.’
‘Are you trying to get rid of me?’
‘Not at all. I just think you’d be happier with them – and that can only help your recovery.’ They chat for a while longer. Charlie enjoys her attention, the way her eyebrows knot in concern, the feel of her hand on his shoulder, the slight gap between her front teeth. For a moment, he is warmed, but then he glances across the water and sees the cold grey water and the craggy rocks and the spiky shapes of bare trees, naked and sharp in the winter sun.
Charlie arrives in Manston in early February. The airfield has suffered heavily from raids by the Luftwaffe, but tonight all is quiet. Conditions are not good for flying, and he can see the familiar shapes of their Swordfish lined up across the airfield. They are covered in a delicate layer of snow, like icing. He smiles to himself. It is like seeing old friends.
Charlie walks into the Fleet Air Arm’s hut and the men cheer. His spirits are immediately lifted further as he soaks up the warm and fuggy atmosphere that is so much a part of his life. There is much banter about Charlie avoiding active service and holidaying in Scotland, and how he’ll have forgotten how to fly, all taken in the good humour that’s intended. The men fill him in on recent operations, comparing tallies and telling him he has a lot of catching up to do. Charlie feels more relaxed than he has done in months. He is back with his family.
Inevitably the conversation soon turns to wives and girlfriends.
‘How’s that young Olivia?’ says Mole. ‘I take it you’re not engaged yet, else you’d have asked me to prepare my speech?’
‘I’ve moved on,’ says Charlie, not wanting to go into details. ‘There’s a nice girl called Gladys …’
But Mole knows Charlie better than that. ‘What’s happened, boyo?’ he asks. ‘It was all going so well …’
Charlie explains about Jack and the fight and its aftermath.
Mole whistles through his teeth. ‘You’ve made a bit of a pig’s ear out of that one, old chap,’ he says. ‘But I’m sure she’ll come to her senses. She’s young and confused. She’ll soon see you for who you are. Part of your charm is that dogged belief in right and wrong.’
‘I think that’s exactly what she doesn’t like about me.’
‘You can’t help it. Must’ve been drummed into you at that school you went to.’
‘So you agree? You think I’m small-minded?’
‘Not small-minded. A little unforgiving perhaps.’
‘In what way?’
‘Take this Jack. Maybe he’s not as bad as you’d like to believe.’
‘She’s all but admitted that he used to be a petty criminal.’
‘Used to be.’
‘He’s still different. He’s not like us.’
Mole barks with laughter. ‘Perhaps the world is changing. I bet you couldn’t imagine being close to someone like me before all this business.’
‘It’s not the same.’
‘It’s a little the same.’
‘You’ve had a good education.’
‘I went to a grammar school.’
‘Exactly.’
‘But without this’ – he points to his uniform – ‘we would be moving in different circles.’
He is right, and Charlie knows it.
‘No need to look so miserable, boyo. I’m not trying to make you feel bad. You’re a good man. Just try and be a bit more forgiving. Put yourself in other people’s shoes. Think of the Kid here. He’s pulled himself up by the boot straps. You’ve just never spoken to him about it.’
It’s true. Charlie knows nothing about the gunner. There is little opportunity to mix, and if he’s honest with himself, he’s had no inclination to. Mole thumps Charlie on the back. ‘Enough of all this anyway. How about a drink, boyo?’
Paddy, who is now commanding officer, holds out a beer.
‘Thanks,’ says Charlie. ‘None of you joining me?’
‘Can’t. We’re on standby,’ says Paddy. ‘They reckon the Bosch will try and slip through under cover of darkness.’
‘It’ll be like the battleship all over again. Attacks from all sides,’ says Mole.
‘You’d better pray you don’t end up like me,’ says Charlie, tapping his shoulder.
‘Not planning on it.’
Paddy deals some cards at the table. ‘You know it’s the same battlecruisers that did for our boys in the summer,’ he says.
‘All the more reason to make sure you take them down, then.’
‘We will. Don’t you worry.’
‘We could be off any minute,’ says Mole.
‘Some party,’ says Frank, gazing at Charlie’s beer.
Charlie relaxes in the glow of the oil lamp, bantering with his squadron while they wait for their orders. It is good to be home.
But the Admiralty are wrong: the Germans don’t make a break for it that night, and the crew are momentarily stood down. When the message finally comes through that the Germans are in the Channel, dawn has broken and snow swirls across the runway.
‘Men, get ready. The balloon’s gone up,’ says Paddy.
‘But it’s daylight,’ says Charlie.
Frank also looks concerned.
‘Sorry, men. We’re the only ones available,’ says Paddy. ‘More RAF fighter planes on the way. They’ll meet us here.’ But there is no sign of them in the brightening sky.
Charlie wants to go up, but Paddy is having none of it.
‘But you need extra pilots.’
‘I know, Charlie. But you’re officially on leave.’
Mole stands and stretches, then starts to collect his flying kit. ‘Don’t worry, boyo. We can handle some cruisers.’
‘It’s not just some cruisers. It’s a whole fleet! Not to mention the air cover they’ll have.’
‘Listen. You can’t claim all the glory,’ says Paddy. ‘There’s still work to be done.’
‘Stop acting like an old woman,’ says Mole. ‘Have another drink. We’ll be back before you finish it.’
The Welshman is flying with Paddy. The Kid is flying with Frank. Charlie watches his friends clamber into their boots and their warm coats, their hats and gloves. He follows them out into the bitter air. He sees the ground crew swarm across the frozen airfield to attend to the planes, easily identifies the shapes of Tugger and Danny. They have already been busy digging the aircraft out of the snow and running the engines on and off to keep them warm. The white ground is speckled with footsteps. The fighter planes are due to rendezvous here any moment. The excitement is so thick in the air that Charlie can feel it fizz in his veins. He would give anything to go up with them.
Billy, Frank and Paddy all slap Charlie on the back as they pass. Mole stops in front of his friend, clapping Charlie on both arms with his padded hands. Then he holds a clenched fist over his heart as he starts to sing ‘Calon Lân’. Charlie can’t help smiling. ‘Go on,’ he says. ‘Get on with you.’
‘I don’t ask for a luxurious life,’ says Mole. ‘Just a happy heart, boyo.’ Then he turns too, to pad away through the snow.
Charlie watches the eighteen men clamber up into their planes as the flakes bite and spiral around them. The wing commander is watching too. ‘Damn fighters should be here now,’ he says.
‘If they’re not, it’ll be bloody suicide.’
They watch the six planes trundle along the runway, one after the other, following the path that has been cleared by the men on the ground. Paddy leads the way. Mole must be chuffed that he is flying with the CO. Charlie does the checks in his head: fuel, brakes, wind speed … The planes head down the runway, faster and faster. One by one they take wing. Charlie feels the lift of the plane, the familiar blow of the wind. He can almost hear Mole humming. The Swordfish circle above the airfield. ‘Where the hell are these Spitfires?’ he says.
The wing commander shakes his head. ‘I don’t flipping know.’
At last they see the shapes of the fighter planes appear out of the cloud, compact and deadly.
‘Thank God. But I make it only ten.’
‘Me too.’
‘Where are the rest?’
‘On their way?’
‘Will they wait for them?’
‘Any news?’ the commander shouts inside.
A voice calls back. ‘Nothing.’ The commander shakes his head.
Charlie bites his lip. Maybe they will wait a few more minutes. But the planes are turning for the Channel, and Charlie sees Paddy’s arm go up, and he knows they are on their way. The CO must have decided there wasn’t time to linger.
‘Maybe the other fighters will meet them en route. Otherwise …’ There is no need to finish the sentence. The clouds have swallowed the planes. The two men on the ground salute a sky that is empty but for snowflakes that whirl earthwards. The runway is fast becoming covered in snow, and the footprints of Charlie’s friends slowly fade, until they are no longer visible at all.
Charlie waits with the wing commander in the warmth of the mess room. It is the longest wait of Charlie’s life. But he would rather wait for ever than receive the news that finally comes in. He tastes the salty bile of nausea rising as the wing commander pieces together the information. He hears how Paddy led the squadron with his usual fearlessness into a sky black with Messerschmidts. How the other RAF planes never arrived. He can picture the Luftwaffe gathering in swarms to dive-bomb the Swordfish, slow and graceful beneath, and the courageous Spitfires attacking back, an air battle like never seen before. He hears how the aircraft fought and clashed and tore at each other. How the Swordfish flew on towards the German ships. How the might of the German fleet turned their guns on his squadron as it flew in low over the sea. He can see the Kid and Joey and the rest of the gunners firing at the German planes from the tails of the Swordfish. He knows how the air was thickened with the screams of engines, the smoke of the flak, the tracer, the bullets. And still the Swordfish flew on. He hears how the three battleships – along with six destroyers, forty flak ships and two hundred fighter aircraft – opened fire, and how his friends were wounded and bleeding, their wings shot away as black smoke bled into the sky and pieces of their beloved Swordfish were smashed apart. But still they flew on. They flew on until their planes were blasted into fragments, fracturing, spinning and spluttering into the sea. It took twenty minutes for the entire squadron to be blown apart. Not one plane survived.
In the pale, chill light of day, Charlie sits with the wing commander, their eyes hollow, their hearts heavy, their voices flat. ‘Have they recovered anyone from the sea?’ says Charlie.
‘Sounds like they’ve got Wilson and Joey.’
‘What about Paddy?’
‘Not a chance. His plane was obliterated.’
‘Frank?’
‘Didn’t make it.’
‘Billy?’
‘No.’
‘Mole?’
‘I’m sorry, Charlie. He hasn’t been found yet.’
Five men in all are pulled from the sea.
There is still no sign of Mole.
A few days later, the observer’s body is discovered on the marshes. He was twenty-eight years old.
Mole’s wife Jeannie and young daughter Alis are in the front pew of the chapel at the naval cemetery. The child is dressed in a coat of deep red with matching beret – a slab of colour among the black of mourning. She grips her mother’s hand, and her little face is solemn as she watches her father’s coffin, solid and dark beneath the flowers. Charlie hears footsteps as Mole’s father walks slowly to the pulpit. ‘No father expects to give an address at his son’s funeral,’ he says. ‘But I am honoured to celebrate the life of my youngest boy. Martyn was born in a force ten gale with a smile on his face, and that’s how he approached the world … Whatever it threw at him … He lived life to the full and always with a song in his heart …’ Charlie remembers his last conversation with Mole. Perhaps they might not have chosen each other as friends without the uniform, but here he is united with Mole’s family in grief. What is it that makes us so different? he wonders. We all feel pain. Mole’s father’s pain is etched across his face so intensely that Charlie cannot bear to look. Instead he focuses on the stained glass behind the altar, the colours dull against a cold February sky.
Outside, making small talk with the other mourners, Charlie feels a small hand tugging at his. It is Alis. ‘Do you know my daddy well?’ she says, looking up at him.
He crouches down. ‘I do … I did. Very well.’
‘How do you know him?’ The slope of her nose and her quick smile are her father’s. It is a comfort to know a part of him is still here.
‘We flew together.’
‘Can I come with you next time you fly?’
‘Why do you want to do that?’
‘Because my daddy’s an angel and we can find him up there.’
‘I’d love to take you, but I don’t think I’d be allowed …’
She nods, practical. ‘Then will you say hello to him next time you go up?’ she says. ‘And will you sing to him? I don’t want him to be lonely.’ He nods because he cannot trust himself to speak. He feels her small hand, warm on his cheek. ‘You mustn’t be sad,’ she says. ‘My daddy wouldn’t want you to be sad. And my mummy says that if I’m sad, he will know, and he’ll be sad too.’ Charlie wipes his hand across his eyes. There is a soft drizzle beginning to leave a sheen on his jacket and settling like mist in Alis’s hair. ‘See?’ she says.
Later, as they lower the coffin into the ground, Mole’s older brother sings ‘Suo-Gân’, his voice ringing out across the graves as the new widow picks up Alis and buries her face in her daughter’s hair. The little girl remains serious, but when she glances at Charlie, she smiles. And even though the wind is crying in the trees that surround the cemetery, her smile gives Charlie hope. The breeze carries the smell of the sea up the River Medway, and, way up high, a lonely seagull wheels, a pale shape appearing and disappearing among the clouds like a ghost.
The pain of losing his squadron sits heavily in Charlie’s soul, but every time it threatens to overwhelm him, he remembers Alis – so full of assurance that all will be well with the world; not bitter or sad. At last he is allowed to fly again. He is posted to RNAS Machrihanish to reacquaint himself with deck landings and the recent alterations to the Swordfish. He also needs to get fit, for being desk-based has taken its toll. Cross country and athletics soon turn the extra weight into muscle. It is indescribable joy to be flying again after so long. Soaring on a cloudless day or juddering between the clouds and the rain, with the feel of the wind on his face and the sound of the old engine in his ears, it is easy to believe as Alis does that his friends are up here, in the great wide sky, keeping watch.
Before long Charlie is sent orders to regroup with his squadron – the survivors and some new men – on an escort carrier at Lee-on-the-Solent. He travels via London. With a couple of days’ leave he is able to meet up with Gladys and her boyfriend William, a Navy lieutenant, at Eddie’s Bar. It is good to be out with friends, enjoying a drink and soaking up the atmosphere, particularly knowing that his next posting is about to start.
Gladys kisses him on both cheeks, her face fraught with concern. ‘I was so sorry to hear the terrible news about your squadron,’ she says. ‘What brave men. You must be so proud of their awards.’
‘We’re all proud of them,’ says William, firmly pumping Charlie’s hand.
Charlie nods, and smiles sadly as they sit down. Every survivor has a gallantry award, and those who died had a mention in despatches. Paddy received the highest military award: the Victoria Cross. ‘It’s a bit galling that I wasn’t part of it,’ he says.
‘We all feel like that,’ says William. ‘Our time may yet come.’ He disappears to find some drinks.
Gladys leans towards Charlie, so he can hear her above the din. ‘Did you hear about Olivia?’ she asks.
Charlie shakes his head, the familiar feeling of shame at how he behaved pricking at his chest.
