Landfall Page 2

  He ran his eyes over it lovingly; he liked the delicate, finicking work with his fingers. It was fun to work at, in his long leisure hours. He had thought of calling it the “Santa Maria”; that was what the book told you to paint under the stern gallery. “Mona Lisa” would go as well, he thought, and it would leave a little more room for the lettering. Mona.

  He switched on all the switches that controlled the wireless set, and tuned it in to Schenectady. He heard a dance band faintly, overlaid with background noise and echoes of Morse, and got his customary thrill out of it. The room was cold; he slung his gas-mask over the back of a chair and started to undress.

  In bed, he twitched the string that ran ingeniously round the picture-rail to the switch at the door, and pulled the cold sheets round him. She was a decent kid, that Mona. He had danced at the Pavilion several times before, but had never wanted to meet his partners again; usually he had been only too glad to get rid of them. This one was different. She was dumb as a hen, of course, but all girls seemed to be like that. It would be fun to spend another evening dancing with her, provided no one from the mess happened to see them. He didn’t want to get his leg pulled.

  Perhaps it was better, after all, to stick to beer.

  He thought of her again, remembered the feel of her shoulders, and drifted into sleep, smiling a little.

  Five hours later he woke up with a start as his batman snapped the light on at the door. The man put a cup of tea beside his bed. “Half-past six, sir,” he said. “Been raining in the night, I see, but it’s stopped now.”

  The pilot sat up in his bed and took the cup. “What’s the wind like?”

  “Blowing a bit from the north-east.” The man took his boots and went out of the room, leaving the light on.

  Chambers got up, shaved and dressed and went down to the dining-room. At one end of one of the long tables there were three or four young men at breakfast, served by a sleepy waitress of the W.A.A.F. It was still dark outside and the curtains were still drawn; in the cold light of a few electric bulbs the meal was cheerless and uncomforting. He pulled a chair out and sat down to porridge.

  Somebody said: “’Morning, Jerry. What time did you get home?”

  “Half-past one.”

  The other said: “I saw you—you were doing nicely. I got fed up and left.”

  The conversation flagged: the pilots ate hurriedly and in silence. They had been on the morning patrol now for a month, and they were sick of it. With the late, dark mornings and the cold weather the patrol over the sea was unattractive, boring in the extreme, and a little dangerous. There had been losses in the squadron, unromantic, rather squalid deaths of pilots who had miscalculated their fuel and had been forced down in the winter sea to perish of exposure or by drowning. To set against the black side of the picture there were only long strings of meaningless statistics gleaned each day, the names and nationalities of ships within their area, the course and the position of each. It was uninspiring, clerical work, meaningless until it reached the commanders R.N. in the operations room, who daily made up the great mosaic of the war at sea.

  This was the last morning patrol that the flight were to do. Tomorrow they would have a change of timetable and would take on the afternoon patrol over the same areas of sea.

  “Like the bloody threshing horse that takes a holiday by going round the other way,” said Chambers. In the three months since the beginning of the war, nobody in the squadron had seen an enemy ship, or fired a gun, or dropped a bomb in anger.

  The pilots finished their breakfast, pulled on their heavy coats and went down to the hangar. The machines were already out upon the tarmac with their engines running; grey light was stealing across the sodden aerodrome. In the pilots’ room the young men changed into their combination flying-suits, pulled on their fur-lined boots, buckled the helmets on their heads. The machines that they were flying were enclosed monoplanes with twin engines; in summer they would dispense with helmets. Now they wore them for warmth.

  Each machine carried a crew of four, an officer, a sergeant as second pilot, a wireless telegraphist and an air-gunner. They carried two one-hundred-pound bombs and a number of twenty-pound, and had fuel for about six hours’ flight.

  The officers gathered round the flight-lieutenant, armed with their charts, and heard the latest orders. Then they separated and went to their aircraft. The crews were standing by and the engines were running. One by one they got into the machines and settled into their places; the doors were shut behind them. There were four machines in the patrol. Engines roared out as each pilot ran them up, chocks were waved aside, and the machines taxied out to the far hedge and took off one by one in the cold dawn.

  Chambers sat tense at the controls during the long take-off. He knew the machine well, but with full load it was all that she could do to clear the hedge at the far end. It was easier than usual today; they had the long run of the aerodrome and there was a fair wind. He pulled her off the ground at eighty miles an hour three hundred yards from the hedge and held her near the grass as she gained speed. Then he nudged Sergeant Hutchinson beside him, who began to wind the undercarriage up with the old-fashioned, cumbersome hand gear.

  From time to time, as they gained height, the sergeant paused in his task to wipe his nose. He had a streaming cold in the head, and he was feeling rather ill. By rights he should not have been flying, but the squadron were temporarily short of pilots, having despatched a number to the Bombing Command.

  Behind the sergeant the young white-faced wireless operator unreeled his aerial and made the short test transmission that he was allowed before relapsing into wireless silence, only to be broken by orders from his officer in an emergency. He sat with head-phones on his head, searching the wave-lengths with the knob of his condenser, sleepy and bored and cold. Behind him the corporal gunner sat in the turret playing with the gun. As they passed out over the beach, the corporal fired a long burst into the water to test the gun; the clatter mingled strangely with the droning of the engines. Then he sat idly on the little seat in the cramped turret scanning the misty, grey, and corrugated sea.

  Chambers passed over the control to Hutchinson and moved from his seat to the little chart-table. He gave a course to the sergeant, who set it on the compass. They flew on out over the Channel, flying at about seven hundred feet below a misty layer of cloud. Very soon they lost sight of the other machines, each having taken its own course.

  The young man sat at the chart-table staring out of the large windows of the cabin. He had an open notebook before him: on the vacant page he had written the date, the time of taking off, and the time of departure from the coast. In the grey morning light the visibility was very poor: unless they were to pass right over a ship it was unlikely that they would see it. They were all on the look-out; there was nothing else to do.

  They flew on for an hour, gradually growing cold. The wireless operator was the first to feel it as a bitter privation. He was a pale-faced lad of nineteen with a home in Bermondsey; he had little stamina and hated the monotony of the patrol. He had nothing to do, ever. The rules against transmitting on the wireless were rigorous, and could only be broken in emergency; in the three months of the war they had not suffered an emergency. In three months he had done no useful work at all, and he was sick of it. For this reason he hated the patrol, and felt the cold more than any of them.

  Chambers moved back into the first pilot’s seat. “See the Casquets pretty soon,” he said. The sergeant nodded his agreement.

  Five minutes later Hutchinson plucked his arm and pointed downwards. The young officer craned over and saw through the grey mist a small black rock awash in the sea, with white surf breaking on it. Then there was a long black reef, then nothing but the sea again.

  Chambers said: “For the love of Mike, don’t lose it. Shove her round.” He moved back to the chart-table and bent above the chart. It might be Les Jumeaux, or a bit of Alderney. He set a new course as they circled round the reef; the sergeant stead
ied on it. Very soon an island rose out of the mist, rocky and barren, with a lighthouse on it.

  The machine turned away and took a course back for the coast of England, flying upon a course ten miles to the west of their flight out. It was their job to cover the whole area in strips, so that at the end of their five-hours’ patrol they would have an accurate report of everything that floated in their zone. In theory, that was, for on mornings like the present one they could see barely half a mile on each side of their path.

  They saw a ship before they reached the English coast, a collier with the letters NORGE painted upon her side. They circled her and swept low by her stern to read the name, the Helga. Then they resumed their flight. The young officer produced a bottle of peppermint bull’s-eyes; they all had one, with a drink of hot coffee from the Thermos-flasks. The drink and the hot sweet refreshed them and brought back a part of their efficiency; they were all suffering a lassitude from the raw cold.

  They made their landfall and turned back to the French coast. Backwards and forwards they went as the grey morning passed, tired and bored and numb. From time to time they saw a ship and noted the particulars: the name, the nationality, the course, and the speed. In the gun-turret the corporal was sunk into a coma of fatigue. On and on they went, hour after hour. Presently Chambers began to watch the clock above the chart-table; soon he would be able to turn for home.

  At half-past eleven they left the area, at noon they crossed the English coast again. As they passed the long, deserted beaches the four machines of the outgoing patrol passed by them on their starboard hand; Chambers waggled his wings in salute. Then they were above the aerodrome. The sergeant lowered the wheels for landing and the pilot put the machine into a gliding turn above the hangars. They made a wide sweep and approached the hedge: the flaps went down and the ground came up to meet them very quickly. The pilot waited his moment and then pulled heavily upon the wheel; the monoplane touched ground smoothly but decisively and ran on at a great speed. Chambers jerked up the lever that controlled the flaps and checked her gently on the brakes. She ran for several hundred yards: then she was slow enough for him to turn into the hangars.

  He switched off the engines and an aircraftsman came up and opened the cabin door. In the machine no one was in a hurry to get out. They were too tired and too stiff to make a move at once. The corporal unloaded the gun and put the magazines away: the wireless operator sat listless at his little desk. The sergeant was entering the flying time and details of the flight in the logbooks. The pilot made a few pencilled notes in his book and collected his charts.

  Back in the pilots’ room he slowly stripped off his flying clothing before the stove. The other three were there already, writing their reports. Matheson said: “See anything?”

  “Not a bloody thing.” The pilot shivered a little as he wriggled out of the combination suit. “A lot of sea and one or two mouldy ships.”

  He turned to the stove. Behind his back the door opened and the flight-lieutenant came into the little room, a fresh-faced young man of twenty-five called Hooper.

  Matheson said: “Jerry didn’t see anything. What’s it all about, anyway?”

  “Blowed if I know.”

  Chambers turned towards him. “Has something happened?”

  The newcomer shrugged his shoulders. “There’s a cag on about something—I can’t find out what it is. You didn’t see anything?”

  “I saw one or two ships.” He reached for his notebook; the flight-lieutenant looked over his shoulder. They ran down the list of names, times, and locations.

  “There’s nothing in those,” said Hooper. “Nothing unusual?”

  “Not a thing.”

  “Well, something’s happened. The Navy are creating about something.”

  The pilot turned back to the stove and huddled his chilled body over it. “Blast the Navy,” he said petulantly. “They’ve always got a moan.”

  The flight-lieutenant took the notebook and went over to the squadron-leader’s office. “Jerry’s just come in, sir. Here’s his book. He saw nothing out of the ordinary.”

  Peterson took the book and ran his eye down the list of ships. “Damn,” he said very quietly. “Didn’t anybody see the Lochentie?”

  “The Lochentie?”

  “Yes.” The squadron-leader hesitated. “There’s a blazing row going on about a ship called the Lochentie. She’s been torpedoed somewhere off St. Catherine’s.”

  “This morning?”

  The other nodded.

  The young flight-lieutenant made a grimace. It was right in the middle of the area covered by the patrol. “Is that what the Navy are raising hell about?”

  “That’s it. You’d better come along with me.”

  They left the office in silence and walked down the road towards the wing-commander’s office. Wing-Commander Dickens was a small, dark-haired, rather irritable man. He was an efficient officer, but one who was inclined to stand upon his rank in the manner of an earlier day. He believed in discipline, in rigid and unquestioning obedience to the exact letter of an order. He had little or no use for initiative among junior officers: their duty was to do the job that they were told to do, and nothing more.

  They went into his office as the telephone bell rang. He lifted the receiver, nodding to them. A voice said: “Captain Burnaby upon the line, sir.”

  “Oh … put him on.” The wing-commander covered the mouthpiece and said: “Wait outside a minute.” The squadron-leader and the flight-lieutenant withdrew, shut the door behind them and stood in the corridor.

  The wing-commander waited uneasily for a few moments. He had not a great deal of imagination, but he carried in his mind a very clear picture of Captain Burnaby, R.N. A man of fifty, still in the prime of vigour, over six feet in height and massively built. A man with a square, tanned face and bushy black eyebrows, a man outspoken and direct. A man who was inevitably, always right. A man of influence, due to Flag rank: a man who was deep in the confidence of the commander-in-chief. A man who had very little use for the Royal Air Force.

  Captain Burnaby was speaking from his office in the annexe to Admiralty House. He said: “Wing-Commander Dickens? About the Lochentie. I have a signal from the trawler that is bringing the survivors in. The ship was definitely torpedoed ten miles from St. Catherine’s, bearing one nine two.”

  The Air Force officer said: “They’re quite sure it was a torpedo, are they?”

  “Certainly—the track was seen. It happened at ten o five. The vessel disappeared at ten-seventeen, leaving some wreckage and a boat which my trawler got at eleven-eighteen. Will you please tell me what reports you have from the aircraft?”

  The wing-commander shifted awkwardly in his chair. “So far, the reports to hand are negative.”

  “So far? Have all your machines got back?”

  “The last one has just come in.”

  “Is his report negative, too?”

  “Yes. The visibility was very bad.”

  “This action took place in the area covered by your morning patrol. Do you mean that none of your aircraft saw anything of it at all?”

  “Apparently not. The visibility was such that a machine could pass within a couple of miles and see nothing, you know.”

  “I don’t know anything of the sort. My trawlers found the place all right.”

  The wing-commander said weakly: “It’s often clearer right down on the water.”

  For three months both men had undergone the strain of a responsible command in war-time. In that three months neither of them had had so much as one day of rest.

  The naval officer said viciously: “I quite agree with you. That is exactly what I always say whenever the usefulness of air patrol comes up in a discussion.”

  There was an awkward pause.

  The captain said: “What organisation have you got to ensure that your pilots actually patrol the areas they are supposed to?”

  The little wing-commander flared suddenly into a temper. “That’s a
reflection upon my command. We’ll get on better if we keep this civil, Captain Burnaby.”

  The other said directly: “I’ll be as civil as the facts permit. I have to make a report upon this matter to the Commander-in-Chief, and I want the facts. So far, I know that a valuable ship has been torpedoed, right under my nose. I know that there are thirteen survivors living and that nearly a hundred people have been killed, including several women. I know that my trawler found the ship and saved the thirteen lives. I know that my application for more trawlers have always been turned down, because it was said that air patrol could do the work more efficiently. You tell me now that your patrol saw nothing of this wreck because of the bad visibility. Now, have you got any more facts upon this matter that you can give me?”

  “No, I’ve not.”

  “All right, wing-commander. I shall put in my report upon those lines.”

  He rang off: the wing-commander put down the telephone, white with rage. It was not the first time he had had a brush with Captain Burnaby. With his reason he knew that the visibility had been too bad that morning to expect results; with his quick temper he felt bitterly that he had been let down. The duty of the pilots was to get results. They hadn’t got them.

  He crossed to the door and opened it. “Come in,” he said, and went back to his desk. “Now, what about this ship? Has anyone reported her?”

  Squadron-Leader Peterson said: “Nobody saw anything of her, sir. Are you sure that she was in our area?”

  “The Navy say that she was fifteen miles from St. Catherine’s, bearing one nine two.”

  The flight-lieutenant said: “What time did it happen?”

  “At five minutes past ten.” The little wing-commander stared arrogantly at the young officer. “Whose zone was that?”

  Hooper thought for a minute. “That’ld be Matheson, I think.”

  “And he saw nothing of the ship?”

  “Not a thing, sir.”

  “Nor of the boat that was picked up?”

  “He didn’t see anything at all. The weather was very thick.”

  The wing-commander said: “Well, I think that’s a pretty bad show. This squadron has been given the job of doing the patrol. It’s not been done. Say it’s the weather, if you like, although it’s not too bad for flying. Whatever the reason is, the squadron hasn’t done the job that it was told to do.”