The Restless Sea, page 6
The sea settles back to a ripple, and then the submarine slowly breaks the surface. Its conning tower has been damaged. White horses break against its monstrous sides. But it is broken. Charlie sees men jumping into the water.
Charlie needs to land: he is very low on fuel. The carrier signals with its lamp. The Kid signals back. The great ship turns head to wind. Her wake is a foamy ribbon fluttering out behind her. Charlie approaches alongside. He glimpses the pink faces of his fellow sailors looking up as they pass. He swings the plane one hundred and eighty degrees, lines himself up, considers wind speed, direction. The flat of the landing deck stretches before him. He can see the white stripes. The metal wires strung across it. The batsman with his ping-pong bats. He slows the engine right back. The ship slices through the water ahead of him, the V of the waves spreads out, ever increasing.
He pulls a lever on his right to lower the hook beneath the plane. The batsman holds the bats out level. He is on line. About fifty yards to go. He drops the tail. Nose up. It is just the deck and the plane, the batsman, and Charlie. And then he is over the deck, the batsman gives ‘Cut’, and, as the plane’s wheels make contact, the crew lurch against their harnesses and bounce and scrape as the arrester hook tugs at the wires that slow the plane down, and they finally come to a standstill. Charlie unclips himself. His legs are stiff as planks of wood.
Mole squeezes his shoulder. ‘Top landing, boyo,’ he says.
The plane’s propellers slow and stop. They clamber out, back on to their version of solid ground, the steady, humming mass of their aircraft carrier. He has grown accustomed to the rumble of the engine and the rush of the air. But now there is the sound of the sea and the Tannoy and the shouts of men. The ship is manic with activity as the other Swordfish come in to land. The flight deck crew clear the way as they manoeuvre the planes back towards the lift.
Charlie heads for the island. He removes his helmet and goggles as he goes. His legs are coming back to life. He is desperate to pee, but he has to report to the captain first.
Captain Turnbull is a man of determination. He acknowledges Charlie as he approaches, but keeps his head cocked to the side as he listens intently to the pilot of the Skua that returned earlier and to Paddy, who has made it here already. The captain’s eyes are bright above the black bags. He has a shock of white hair, although he must be in his mid-forties – about the same age as Charlie’s father would have been. And Charlie is the same age as his father was at the beginning of his own generation’s Great War. Life gone full circle.
‘Nice work, pilot,’ says Captain Turnbull as Charlie reaches them, and the other pilots nod a welcome.
‘Thank you, sir,’ says Charlie. He ruffles his hair up with his fingers, where it has been plastered to his head beneath the leather helmet.
‘Your first operation and our first prisoners-of-war,’ says the captain, indicating to the destroyer that is picking up the men from the submarine. ‘And not a casualty among them. Not from the U-boat, or among our fleet, thanks to you.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘Keep it up and you’ll go far.’
‘I hope so, sir.’
‘Shame about that merchant ship.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘We lost four men. Two dead. Two prisoners.’
‘That’s right, sir,’ says Paddy.
‘Attacks are getting worse.’
Paddy nods. ‘They are, sir.’
‘You think they were part of a coordinated effort? Or just a bit of luck?’
‘Hard to tell, sir. The sea is chock-full of them at the moment.’
They all gaze towards the destroyer. Charlie imagines the Germans being hoisted on board, their heads hung low. There is no honour in being captured.
‘It seems that your beloved Fairey Swordfish may not have had its day, FitzHerbert,’ the captain says, still looking out of the window.
‘Certainly hasn’t, sir.’
‘Could indeed be our secret weapon against these U-boats.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Pass my thanks on to the rest of your crew.’
‘I will, sir.’
The captain turns back to the other men and his charts. Charlie is dismissed.
Back on the blustery deck, Mole and the Kid are also staring out at the destroyer as the last of the Germans is transferred on to the ship. Charlie knows it will be the U-boat commander, the eagle of the Third Reich glinting on his peaked cap.
‘Dry clothes and a stiff drink, that’s the order of the day, boyo,’ says Mole.
‘Just my tot’ll do me,’ says the Kid.
Charlie starts to undo his coat as he follows Mole to the wardroom. He slaps the Kid on the shoulder on his way past. ‘Good job today, Billy,’ he says. The Kid nods and grins. ‘Now go and tell everyone how you were responsible for taking Britain’s first prisoners-of-war.’
‘I will. Thanks, Charlie.’ The Kid disappears off to his own mess deck.
‘First POWs, eh?’ says Mole. ‘Now that calls for a party.’
There are great celebrations throughout the ship that night. Below deck, the men cram into their messes. Once the rum lies warm in their bellies, they don’t notice how cramped everything is. The air grows warmer, and the atmosphere lighter. The cooks slap extra food on the airmen’s plates.
In the wardroom, Charlie and Mole drink gin with the rest of the officers. Lieutenant Commander Widdecombe, the squadron commander of 686, will write to the captured and dead men’s families in the morning. For now, they will focus on the positive. Flying is what they were born for, and this war will show the world what they are capable of. Charlie’s thoughts drift to the girl on the train. The men mistake the flush in his cheeks for booze, but really it is because he is remembering how Olivia had walked down the carriage, tucking her hair nervously behind her ears as she followed the waiter who was trying to find a spare table for her to sit at. But of course there were his cadets, lounging oafishly across the seats, ogling the poor girl and making inappropriate remarks until he had brought them into line. He could hardly blame them: she was extremely attractive. Charlie had been momentarily lost for words before inviting her to share his table, and breakfast had somehow been an intimate affair, even among the clinking of plates and cutlery, and the stares of his giggling charges in their crumpled uniforms. And then there had been the fantastic luck that she was going to stay with Nancy, of all people. Her aunt, his godmother. If that isn’t fate, he doesn’t know what is. He hadn’t been able to resist writing to both her and Nancy, to tell the latter what a delightful girl she had coming to stay, and to tell Olivia how much he enjoyed meeting her. He smiles to himself as he dares to contemplate her writing back.
He feels Mole’s arm around his shoulder. ‘Now you’re definitely thinking of a pretty lady,’ the Welshman says, his flushed face inches from Charlie’s. Charlie nods, grinning back, and Mole clears his throat and starts one of his songs. Charlie can feel the music vibrate and rumble in his chest as he places his own arm around the observer’s shoulder. Side by side, they are an odd couple: the tall, angular Englishman and the short, dark Welshman. They have been flying together for almost six months, more time than Charlie has ever flown with anyone before. He is called Mole because of his habit of staring at the charts so closely that his nose almost touches them. But of course, his vision is perfect really.
Their shipmates believe the Swordfish are their guardian angels. And Charlie has to admit, they do look like angels up there, floating and weaving through the sky. And Olivia, with her golden hair and her pale blue eyes, is an angel too. The drink warms his belly and the music fills his head as he leans back and gently glides away into the clouds.
CHAPTER 4
It is only a few days later, his hangover barely cleared, that Charlie hears the shocking news that a British aircraft carrier has been torpedoed and sunk off Ireland, with few survivors and more than five hundred dead. The men’s grief is deep and unfathomable, like the ocean they feel cast adrift on. Everyone knows someone who died. The Kid is distraught. He has lost a close friend from his home town. They joined up together. There are boys and men, sailors and pilots, telegraphists and signalmen, photographers and marines, stokers and plumbers, cooks and gunners, mechanics and joiners and sailmakers – all gone, along with two entire squadrons of Fairey Swordfish. It could so easily have been Charlie’s ship.
The Admiralty is nervous. They cannot afford to lose another aircraft carrier: bad for morale, bad for publicity, bad for the coffers. Charlie’s ship has orders to withdraw from submarine patrol. The men are dismayed. They would like nothing better than to avenge their brothers. They hear that the submarine that attacked her has escaped and that the German Kriegsmarine are elated, boasting of their success. The sailors fume and mutter below deck. But orders are orders. When you’re in the Royal Navy, you do what you’re told.
Tonight Charlie’s carrier is returning to the naval base at Scapa Flow. As they approach, Charlie’s eyes take in the gentle peaks of the Orkneys. Waves rush out in front of the ship as the land appears and disappears with the rise and fall of the ship. One minute it’s there, the next all he can see is the sky. They negotiate the trench of Hoxa Sound, the only part deep enough for the aircraft carrier’s draught. The channel leads them to the shelter of Scapa Flow, the natural harbour nestled beneath mainland Orkney and protected by a chain of islands.
Hills rise out of the mist on either side. Ahead, a line of wooden buoys floats along the top of the water: the boom defence. The nets lie like hidden curtains beneath: interlaced circles of metal designed to prevent submarines getting in, and to snag enemy ships. Tugboats pull the booms out of the way, and the aircraft carrier slides in. Everyone breathes a little easier: they are safe.
Another battleship heaves into view, standing out proudly in contrast to the wilderness. A thrill runs through Charlie when he sees her. She is an important part of the Royal Navy’s history, launched in 1914 at the start of the Great War, and, although she is too slow to keep up with the more modern ships in the fleet, she is ideal for training – this is where the boys he escorted up here on the sleeper were headed. The ship holds a special place in Charlie’s heart: his father served on board as first lieutenant towards the end of that Great War.
They drop anchor about seven hundred yards from the older ship. The heavy chain rushes out of the hawsepipe with a rattle and a splash, and plummets to the bottom of the harbour. The men get ready to relax. Some prepare for a night of cards or building models or listening to the radio. Others will go ashore to stretch their legs. Charlie is surprised to find a letter delivered into his hand. Hope leaps in his chest like a fish. He opens the envelope slowly, savouring the rarity. His eyes scan down the page, across the spindly words that fall over each other until they get to the end: Olivia. The girl from the train. He props his back against the wall, stretching out his legs across his bunk as he settles down to read.
The letter makes him smile. He loves the description of her journey from the station to Taigh Mor. He knows that road well. It is one of his favourite journeys, winding its way through the Highlands, passing only the occasional cottage, the tops of the hills almost touching the sky, the burns glimmering in the distance, the sudden smattering of hardy, ragged sheep or a lone red deer. It is a journey back in time.
He is delighted to discover that Nancy has lodged Olivia in the little bothy down by the loch. He wonders whether she knows that her uncle did that bothy up as a wedding present for his then young wife before the last war, and how special it was to the pair of them. He has no doubt that the place will work its magic on her. There is something so charmingly naïve about her letter. She has been cosseted and kept from the real world. He can’t help feeling excited at the prospect of her learning to love Scotland as he does.
What he would give to be there now. To lie in the silence broken only by the murmur of water on shingle and the rustle of the trees, instead of the hollow clanking of his ship and the thoughts and voices of so many men. Ironically it is only a few miles around the coast, but it might as well be a thousand miles away.
Charlie resists the urge to hold the letter to his nose, to breathe her in. Can it really be only ten days since they met? And now she has replied. Things couldn’t be better. He rests his head back against the cabin wall. Life is good. His first goal was to fly, and now that he’s doing it, the rest of his dreams will follow. Suddenly his future is something that is tangible, ready to be plucked in all its shining glory as soon as the war is over.
Night is drawing in and the light is fading. The aircraft carrier’s signal lamp winks its message to ask whether they can join the men on the battleship for a few drinks. Charlie is bursting with energy. He feels as though he could do anything. He joins Paddy and Frank, Mole and some of the other officers who want a closer look at the veteran ship. They motor across the black water of the harbour. The movement of a small boat is completely different to that of the aircraft carrier; the smell of salt water and the sloshing of the waves more powerful. The sea glints where the small light on their launch catches the ripples.
Although the old battleship – like all ships – is in blackout, Charlie can just make her out in the twilight: the pom-pom guns next to the funnel, and the huge fourteen-inch guns at the front trumpeting up to the sky, the lifeboats dangling on their davits like hanging baskets. The sound of the water changes as it slaps ineffectually at her sides.
‘Boat ahoy!’ Someone shines a light down on them. They blink up at it, unable to see anyone behind the brightness. An officer is there to greet them. He grabs Charlie’s hand firmly, gripping his forearm with the other hand. ‘Welcome aboard,’ he says.
It does them good to see new faces. The officers relax into a catch-up, trading stories of German reconnaissance and squeezing each other for news of home and where they might be sent next. Charlie wonders whether his father ever sat in this same wardroom, among the chink of glasses and the hum of men.
‘Any on-shore entertainment here?’ asks Frank.
‘Not unless you like sheep,’ says one of the officers, a man with a long, narrow nose.
All the men laugh, but Charlie says, ‘I love it up here. Think I might buy a place one day.’
Mole grunts. ‘Not on a sub-lieutenant’s pay, you won’t,’ he says.
‘I won’t be a sub-lieutenant for ever,’ says Charlie.
‘No,’ says Mole. ‘Knowing you, you won’t.’
‘Don’t tell me,’ says one of the older officers, with a wry smile, ‘you’ve got it all mapped out: captain, commodore, admiral?’
Charlie looks down at his drink. The liquid sloshes against the glass. ‘Doesn’t everyone want to progress?’ he says quietly.
‘Life never turns out how you expect,’ says the man with the narrow nose.
‘I do know that,’ says Charlie, thinking of his dead parents, feeling a lump in his throat and desperately trying not to let it escape into his mouth.
The older man is leaning forwards: ‘I had it all mapped out too. Pipe. Slippers … And look at me now. Back on a bloody ship, faced with another war.’
‘Isn’t it your duty—’ Charlie starts to say.
‘Duty? Duty! Don’t talk to me about bloody duty. I did my duty last time around …’
‘Leave him alone, Bruce. He’s only a youngster.’
Charlie is sweating. It is partly the whisky, partly embarrassment, partly anger. He grips the tumbler in frustration. He’s not that young. He’s twenty, the same age as his father was at the start of the last war, and he’s already doing things that boys can only dream of.
Bruce downs his drink, sighing as he tops up the glass again. ‘No offence, old boy,’ he says, rubbing his hand across his eyes and settling back in his chair. ‘I’m just a weather-beaten old fool, and you’re right. I’m glad we’ve got a bunch of optimists to see us through …’
To Charlie’s relief, the conversation is brought to an end there, as a rating knocks at the door to ask if the officers need anything further. Charlie recognises the freckle-faced boy immediately as one of the batch he escorted up here on the train. He gets to his feet and crosses the wardroom. ‘Summers, isn’t it?’ he says.
The boy nods, his cheeks colouring. ‘Yes, sir.’
‘How’s it all going?’
‘Very good, sir.’
‘They treating you well?’
‘Of course.’ Summers shifts nervously from foot to foot.
‘Is it all you thought it would be?’
‘And more, sir.’
‘I gather your training class is coming over to our ship tomorrow, to get a taste of life on an aircraft carrier?’
‘I believe so, sir.’
‘Well, I’ll look out for you, then. Send my regards to the other cadets who travelled with us, won’t you?’
‘I will, sir. Thank you, sir.’ Summers nods, still red-cheeked as he disappears away down the corridor.
Charlie feels as though he has reasserted some authority. He turns back to the men in the room, dusting down his jacket. ‘Probably time for us to get back,’ he says. ‘It’s been a long few weeks.’
Back on board his own ship, Charlie stands on the flight deck for a moment before heading down to his cabin. The harbour is so quiet that he can hear the capital ship’s boatswain’s mate piping down. The piercing notes echo across the water like a strange bird’s cry. Above him, the sky starts to shimmer. There is a line of sparkling luminescence in the sky, a ribbon of undulating neon pulsing over the ships. At the edge it is aquamarine and blue, and the stars still twinkle in the darker velvet sky around it. The Northern Lights. Instead of coal-black, the sea is beginning to glimmer luminous green. It is a moment of wonder, like receiving a letter. Charlie wonders if Olivia is watching them too: they are connected by this inky water that bleeds into the nooks and crannies of the northern shores of Britain.
Mole puts an arm around Charlie’s shoulder. ‘Don’t take it to heart, boyo. It’s been a hell of a week.’
