The Restless Sea, page 35
‘Great to see you again,’ says Jarvis, pumping Charlie’s hand.
‘Doesn’t look like you’ll get home for Christmas after all,’ says Charlie, removing his hat and gloves, feeling weightless without his coat.
‘Looking increasingly unlikely.’
‘Sorry to hear that.’
‘Never mind. At least things are picking up a bit here. We’ve had our fair share of lively recently. Found a deserter stealing from the Russians.’
Charlie shakes his head. ‘Some men will do anything to stay out of the war.’
‘He’s lucky the Russians didn’t get to keep him. Who knows what they’d have done with him.’
‘Who was he?’
‘No idea. No papers or ID, but he was wearing Navy uniform.’
‘Maybe he stole it?’
‘Unlikely. He seemed to understand English. All he had on him was a knife. Proper fancy one, though. Look at this.’
Charlie looks at the knife in the man’s hand. The ridges of the bone have been worn smooth like ivory. The gold brass glints in the cold light of the wardroom. Charlie’s eyes widen in astonishment. ‘Can I see?’ he says.
The man hands the knife to him, its handle warm from his grip. Charlie turns it over and sees the initials: OJB.
‘What’s happened to the man?’ he asks.
‘We’ve put him on the escort with the returning convoy. Should be in the UK by the end of the week. They’ll deal with him there.’
‘Can I go on board?’
‘Too late, sir. It’s already sailed.’
Charlie knows he must tell Captain Underhill what he suspects as soon as possible.
The captain is as astonished as he is. ‘Why the hell didn’t he say who he was?’
‘I imagine he’s severely traumatised.’
Captain Underhill folds his arms, shakes his head. ‘And no wonder,’ he says. ‘Must’ve somehow evaded being rounded up and been living out in the woods …’ He grimaces.
‘What can I do, sir?’
The captain stares out into the gloom. ‘We can’t let them know,’ he says. ‘They’re too far away to signal and we’re under radio silence.’ His gaze meets Charlie’s. ‘Look. They’re on their way home. I’m sure he’ll be fine until they reach the UK. Then this mess can be cleared up.’
It would be insubordinate to argue, but Charlie knows the reality is that no one is safe out here. Not even a Navy destroyer. He returns to his cabin. He lies on his bunk, thinks about the knife, Olivia. He knows he should write to tell her that Jack is alive, and gets out some paper. But then, what if it isn’t Jack? What if it’s some vagabond, some deserter who stole the knife? That would only upset her. It’s not that he doesn’t want her to know; he just doesn’t want to get her hopes up. But who is he kidding? Deep down, he knows it’s Jack. It has to be. He stares at the blank page. He feels a wall build up around his heart like the ice that is forming on the ship, clogging up the winches, clinging to the halliards, the handrails, an inches-thick frost like the icing on a cake. Everything he turns his hand to is a failure: capturing Olivia’s heart; finding Jack. As their futures burn brighter, Charlie’s crumbles away to dust.
The ship rises and slams back down, the mountain of spray turning to ice that clatters across the flight deck. In Charlie’s cabin, the page remains empty and white as the ice that the men chisel away at, their faces stinging, their hands aching. When it is calm, it is easy to see how quickly a ship can get stuck as the ice thickens into a pack. As the storms return, great chunks of ice fields break apart and then crash together forming new wintry landscapes. The carrier struggles to stay on course. The men struggle to stand, slipping on the icy decks. Lashing straps snap, and men are knocked out by flying debris. More planes slip and slide into each other. Charlie cries out with frustration; his voice is lost on the wind.
They fly in parallel lines back and forth, scanning for the U-boats, watching for the echo on the radar. The sea is always changing. Charlie is always numb. A mist blurs the horizon. The sea is so heavy and the wind is so strong. He cannot rely on his instruments because of the sub-zero temperature and their proximity to the North Pole. One pilot and observer have to be cut out of their cockpit because they are frozen solid where they sit. They had lost the carrier and been circling a rain cloud instead. Who can a pilot trust if he can’t trust his plane?
An ominous feeling creeps into Charlie’s bones. He tries again to write the letter, struggles to form the words.
And then the news comes that he has been dreading: the returning convoy is in trouble. They too have been hampered by ice and storms, and now they have run into a wolf pack. The carrier sets course to assist. Progress is slow. Although the ice is melting, now great tempests pound the seas. Charlie prays they will get to Jack before the U-boats finish him off. The carrier rolls thirty-five degrees. Mountainous waves up to thirty feet high roll on and on towards the horizon. Gale force winds and squalls of snow and ice scream around them. The carrier rolls forty degrees. The men below deck run from side to side to try to balance a bit, but after a while they are exhausted and they give up, sitting or lying where they are as the vomit rises in their throats. Every roll feels like the last; they will surely go over at any minute. Down in the hangar, the planes smash and bash against each other. Beneath the flight deck, the ready room is kept red so that the pilots’ eyes can get used to the dark.
Postie pops his head around the door. ‘I’m collecting letters,’ he says.
‘I’m not finished yet,’ says Charlie. He starts to write her name, each letter scratching another graze across his heart.
The call goes up for action stations. Charlie puts down his pen and pulls on his boots. The letter lies on the table, the ink glistening like oil as it dries.
Captain Underhill addresses them in the ready room. ‘We’re within reach. Two merchants gone already, I’m afraid. And our destroyer has been hit. There’s a rescue ship and cruiser assisting. They’ve picked up some of the men in the water already, but we’ve no idea how many U-boats there are.’
‘How bad’s the destroyer?’
‘Large hole in her bow.’
‘And her crew?’
‘Some have made it on to the cruiser. Some in lifeboats.’
‘Do you think the U-boats will back off?’
‘Not a chance. Hitler’s focused all his efforts into U-boats. He’s pretty much laid off his surface fleet after we trounced them in the Barents Sea. My guess is those boats are going to do whatever damage they can.’
‘Who’s going up to spot?’
‘At the moment, conditions are too bad.’
‘We can’t just leave them.’ Charlie is thinking of the men struggling in the icy water, of the men in the lifeboats, of the men who have gone before. He is thinking of Jack, somewhere in the holds of the stricken destroyer, once again at the mercy of the Kriegsmarine.
‘It’s too dangerous.’
‘I can do it.’
Captain Underhill shakes his head. ‘No.’
‘I have to,’ says Charlie. He is thinking of Olivia’s face, creased with worry, the tears on her cheeks; he is thinking of leave from boarding school when his friends had parents to go home to and he did not; he is thinking that he is still a decent man, even though he has made some mistakes; he is thinking of his father’s medals hanging heavy on his chest; he is thinking that he was born for this, now is his chance to shine.
‘I won’t let you go. You’re one of my best pilots.’
‘Some of those men have been abandoned by us before.’
‘You can’t get sentimental in war.’
‘If there’s no sentiment in war, then what the hell are we fighting for?’
There is silence. Everyone is watching them. Charlie has never been disobedient before.
Captain Underhill sighs. ‘If you can find someone to fly with you …’
Charlie looks around the room. One by one, the men stand up. Captain Underhill shakes his head and smiles. ‘What would the admirals say if they knew what a soppy bunch you are …’
‘Thank you, sir,’ says Charlie.
Ned grabs a rifle as the flight deck crew bring the plane up from the hangar, unfolding her wings, battling against the snow. But these are everyday challenges that all the men are used to now, and the Swordfish are airborne within minutes, lifting skyward one after the other, as the carrier disappears behind them into the thick of a white-out.
They stay low, scanning the waves for the U-boats, Ned watching the radar’s screen. Charlie is ready to release a depth charge at any moment. It is the worst weather he has ever flown in. He can barely see the rest of the squadron through the snow, which is turning into heavy, stinging ribbons of sleet, and he can sense the plane is struggling too. It takes all his skill to hold her steady against the driving wind. Then they spot the destroyer listing drunkenly in the waves. Beyond her, the surviving merchant ships flounder, watching helplessly as their protector haemorrhages smoke into the air.
Charlie dips as low as he dares over her so that Ned can get a good look. Around them, the rest of the squadron appear and disappear through the sleet and snow. They circle the destroyer, protecting her from every side, ready to strike when the enemy shows its face.
‘Are they all off yet?’ Charlie asks.
‘No,’ says Ned. ‘There are still men waiting to get into lifeboats.’
They swing around again, eyes scouring the choppy water for the U-boats that they both know are out there. The sea churns. The wind snatches and screams at them. The plane shudders. Charlie thinks of Mole and the Kid, when he thought he was invincible. When he couldn’t imagine losing these people. Then he thinks of Norway. The Blitz. The Channel Dash … And now this – the men of the convoys who never make it home. The children without fathers, the wives without husbands. No. He must make this work. This is one thing he will not fail at.
Charlie flies low over the sea again. ‘There,’ says Ned, and they release a depth charge into the frothing water. The rest of the squadron follow. Charlie can make out the stick figures of the frightened Navy crew who are still trying to cross from the stricken destroyer to safety. They have rigged up a bosun’s chair, and it swings perilously across the waves, transferring the injured and the ill through the air. The figures dangle in the blank wetness of spray and sleet, hanging by threads between the two ships, at the mercy of the elements. He wonders if one of them is Jack.
Suddenly Ned yells, ‘Two-forty degrees,’ as a plane swoops down out of the swirling cloud. The Germans must be desperate to take them out if the Luftwaffe is flying in these conditions. Charlie senses Ned swing the rifle into his shoulder, and hears the shots – a pathetic sound that is ripped away by the wind. The German fires back at them, but Charlie avoids him, dropping the plane lower. He knows they are out-gunned and overrun. The only thing he can do is try to outmanoeuvre his attacker. He swings the plane around and turns on the German. Charlie stays low; he knows the German pilot will struggle to do the same. The German turns his attention to the other merchant ships instead, as another Luftwaffe plane dips down out of the cloud, coming in at a run.
‘Bastards,’ says Charlie.
But at last the Navy fleet is appearing, elbowing its way through the water, and the gunners start to blast at the German planes, creating a smoke screen to hide the vulnerable merchant ships. Now that they have arrived, Charlie is confident that the squadron can return. He signals goodbye, lagging behind to make sure they leave no stragglers. The pilots raise their fists in farewell and head for the safety of the carrier.
The signalman flashes his message from the cruiser.
‘What does he say?’
‘Only the captain and his steward to go,’ says Ned.
Another Luftwaffe plane is thundering through the air towards them again, firing as he comes. ‘Hold on,’ says Charlie, and he circles out of the way, turning once again on the German. The German is faltering; only a Swordfish could be stable in such weather. This time, Charlie plunges on him from a height, and at last the German turns and heads back to the coast with Charlie in pursuit. The blizzard is getting worse again. The German has disappeared. Charlie is ready finally to turn for the carrier, but they are in thick impenetrable snow, almost as if they are flying through sludge. The Swordfish is sputtering, struggling against the onslaught.
‘We’re very near the coast,’ says Ned.
‘How near?’
‘Almost above it.’ Charlie hadn’t realised they were that close to land. He can feel the wind direction alter. Ned is shouting to him from behind, but he can’t make out the words. And all of a sudden there is a bright flash of light beneath them, and the Swordfish makes a choking noise and starts to lose altitude. She won’t respond, which has never happened before, and Charlie pulls and thrusts at her, but it makes no difference: she is deaf to his commands. The adrenaline surges through his limbs, every sense on fire.
‘Get ready to bail,’ he says as loudly as he can over his shoulder. They are being pushed this way and that, and the snow is blinding, and below him is only darkness. He prays it is Russia rather than Norway, and then the plane dies and there is silence apart from the whistling wind and they are falling and he reaches for Ned and he can sense the boy is up too, and they jump, into the stinging snow and the screeching wind and the yawning darkness. He pulls the ripcord. And he is drifting for a moment. Drifting through time and space. More flashes. Guns firing. He glimpses snow-covered ground and hits it with a thump, his legs buckling under him and his face skimming snow. He shouts out: ‘Ned? Ned?’ but only the wind answers.
He has no idea where he is. Before he can get his bearings, rough hands pull Charlie to his feet and men’s voices are shouting in the blackness. He thinks about using his revolver, but there are eight men, and he is still dizzy from the fall. He puts up his hands and one man wrenches the gun from its holster, turning it on Charlie. Within moments Charlie hears more voices and another snow patrol joins them, this time with Ned being pushed along in front. Charlie’s ears are ringing, his thoughts scrambling over each other.
‘You all right?’
Ned nods, his face pale with shock and his eyes wide with fear. ‘Bit of a knock to my leg, but otherwise as well as can be expected, sir.’
‘No talking,’ says the soldier in charge, in heavy, accented English. The men’s faces are hidden beneath tightly-wound scarves. Their hats are covered in snow. For a moment, Charlie wishes they would just shoot him then and there. He is so confused. He doesn’t know where he is. Russia, Finland, Norway. He isn’t even sure whether these are Germans or Russians, but he soon recognises the language.
‘Come,’ says the man, indicating with his rifle that they are to walk. ‘Come.’
Charlie and Ned stumble in the snow. It is hard to move in their thick flying gear. They march until they come upon an outpost dug into the snow. Charlie’s old injury begins to throb. He must have hit it when he landed. The German pushes them down into the shelter and it is a relief to be out of the cold and biting wind, but his thoughts are clouded, running away from him.
‘Where is your plane?’ says the German, dipping his head and unwinding the scarf from around his face and neck as he follows them inside.
‘I don’t know,’ says Charlie.
‘You have destroyed it?’ The man has a strikingly angular face: high cheekbones and fair lashes that are almost invisible.
‘No.’
‘Then where is it?’
‘I don’t know.’
The German says something to his men, and half of them disappear back out into the snow, presumably to look for the downed plane.
‘You won’t find anything useful in it,’ says Charlie, cursing to himself – there is a charge in the plane to be detonated if this happens, but he had no opportunity to use it.
‘Maybe,’ says the German.
‘What will you do with us?’
‘Tea first,’ says the German, fiddling with a steaming pot on a rickety table in the corner.
Charlie shakes his head. He won’t accept anything from this man.
‘I thought all you English like tea?’ The German shrugs and sips at the hot liquid. ‘I myself cannot see what all the fuss is about. But I will drink anything that might warm me up in this infernal place.’
‘Where are you taking us?’ Charlie asks.
‘Where we take all of you airmen. Dulag Luft. Frankfurt.’
Ned looks at Charlie. The German interprets for him: ‘A transit camp. For interrogation.’
‘We won’t say anything.’
‘We’ll see.’
CHAPTER 24
Olivia
Olivia is with Maggie in London when she receives the telegram stating that Lieutenant Charlie FitzHerbert is missing in action. Both of the Wrens deal with tragedies like this every week, but not always involving their close friends. Maggie is visibly shocked, her pale skin turning almost translucent, her red hair falling dramatically around her drawn face. Olivia may not be so obviously upset, but internally she is devastated. Neither of them can find out any more than that Charlie is missing in the seas off Norway. The prospects are bleak. The girls sit miserably in the gloom of the flat and try to keep each other’s spirits up.
Olivia has another worry though. Her pregnancy does not seem to be progressing – her body shows no outward sign that the baby is growing: she has not had to let out the waist of her skirt as she had thought she might by now, nor has she felt the movement of new life. In one way, it is a relief – not to have to explain to anyone – but recently there has been a dull ache there too, sitting heavily in the pit of her stomach. She had put it down to her grief at losing Jack, but now that Charlie is missing, the pain has become more pronounced.
Gladys brings news of Charlie’s escapade, so heroically leading the defence of the destroyer from the Luftwaffe. ‘That sounds just like Charlie,’ says Olivia. They toast his bravery with tea, chinking the cups together with smiles more like frowns, not fooling each other with their false bravado. It is deep winter, and outside the ruined city lies as broken as their hearts in the harsh light.
