Battlecruiser (1997) (10 page)

He thought of the large, ungainly Walrus amphibian perched out there on its catapult. Few people understood how a brilliant designer like Reginald Mitchell, who had created the Spitfire, probably the most beautiful aircraft in the war, could have conceived the awkward, lumbering Shagbat.

Fired by his brother’s example and the reports about the Battle of Britain, Rayner had seen himself as a fighter pilot from the very beginning. He had put up with the endless drills and inspections, learning naval terms and even struggling with the mysteries of bends and hitches, with his eventual goal acting like a beacon. Even when he had finally transferred to the Fleet Air Arm for training as a pilot, with the solitary wavy stripe on his sleeve, he had still believed it was what he wanted.

Until he had let it slip that he was already a qualified pilot, and had flown two kinds of float plane on Canada’s west coast. The senior instructor would have been astonished if he had told him he had been flying one of those little float planes while he was still under age.

‘So you
are
used to landing on water?’

That had settled it. They had sent him to Halifax and then across to England, and the Fleet Air Arm station at
Yeovilton. To Scotland and to Scapa Flow, flying the real thing, where the training was hard and relentless.
Join the navy and see the world. Join the Fleet Air Arm and see the next.
Then he had been ordered to a big, old-fashioned County class cruiser, with three spindly funnels. It had been like going in at the deep end. If the navy had taught him to be a pilot, then the old cruiser had taught him how to fly.

Everywhere she had gone, the fighting had been bad; at best, they were always on the defensive. She had acted as heavy escort for convoys to and from Canada and the United States, to Gibraltar, and the deceptively kind blue waters of the Indian Ocean, but mostly it had been the bitter Atlantic. Ships sunk, left to die alone because no one was allowed to stop for them. He could not now believe how many times he had been flown off in his battered Walrus, scouting for surfaced U-Boats, one of which, on one occasion, they might have even sunk with their depth charges. But the cruiser’s wild-eyed captain had snapped, ‘No evidence! No claim!’

The British sense of fair play, he supposed. He would get used to it. Maybe. It had almost lost them the war. It still could.

And yet, in his heart, he did not believe that. On leave in London, and in Plymouth near the naval air station, where the bombing had been heavy and merciless, he had sensed the shabby determination about which his brother had written before he had bought it.

That was something else he had learned. The callous dismissal, the cover-up, when one of their number went missing. You didn’t brood over it, or you were likely to be the next.

Sometimes they had landed on the water to rescue dazed and barely conscious survivors. When the dead and the
living wore naval uniform, it was like seeing a reflection of yourself, gasping and sobbing, past gratitude, and beyond hope.

He recalled his uncertainty when the cruiser had been ordered into dock after several near misses in Western Approaches, and he had been sent on a brief and unwanted leave, before joining the battlecruiser
Reliant.
It had been an unexpected wrench to leave the old, long-funnelled cruiser. He had just managed to get to know everybody in her company; even the captain had wished him well, and had told him that his promotion to lieutenant had been confirmed.

He had said, ‘
Reliant
’s a fine ship. But she’s big, so take it a step at a time.’ It was the closest Rayner had ever been emotionally to his captain.

And now he was learning all over again. Names and faces; where they all fitted in the ship’s geography.

And he still had the awkward Shagbat, for which he felt a grudging affection. He had been deeply touched when he had seen that one of his fitters had painted a bright red maple leaf on the outside of the cockpit. Nobody had mentioned it; it had not been done openly to impress, or to gain favour. He had learned that at least, in the old cruiser.

He felt a grin on his face at the old dream of himself as a fighter pilot. Now, he couldn’t imagine flying anything else!

He saw Eddy Buck jump as the solitary telephone buzzed noisily.

He said, ‘You take it, Eddy. I’m going out to the plane.’

The slightly-built subbie from Wellington spoke briefly, and then covered the handset.

‘It’s for you.’ He grinned. ‘I could hardly say you were out!’

He took it. ‘Rayner.’

‘Captain. Come to the bridge, please.’ The line went dead.

Rayner said quietly, ‘It was the Skipper. Not one of his minions. Can you beat that?’

Buck sealed an envelope and popped it into the little box.

‘He must like you. Probably thinks we colonials are a bit quaint.’

Rayner picked up his cap, recalling Sherbrooke’s old-young face when they had first met. Waiting for the same ship. Externally, his experiences had left no mark. Except, perhaps, in the eyes. But how much could any man suffer and seal away, and remain unchanged?

Eddy said, ‘When we finish charging about the bloody ocean for a while, we’ll do a run ashore together. I’ll get you fixed up. A nice girl, you know?’

‘Yeah, I can just about remember.’

The subbie grinned. ‘Okay, Dad!’

It was a long climb to the bridge, and on his way Rayner saw all the preparations for action, the gun crews in duffle coats, with their helmets and anti-flash gear close at hand. Six fifteen-inch guns in three great turrets, and twenty four-inch guns, some in triple mountings, to form a massive cone of fire against aircraft and fast enemies on the surface.

He had reached the flag deck, where oil-skinned signalmen were staring across at the nearest destroyer. The fog had almost gone, but there was still low mist clinging to the deep swell now visible alongside, where the bow wave creamed away like half an arrowhead.

Into the bridge itself, with its murmuring voicepipes, and a sense of intense watchfulness as figures trained their glasses on the leading destroyer’s stern light, a misty blue eye reflecting in the leader’s own frothing wake.

Lieutenant Frost, with his absurd beard, glanced toward
him. ‘Never fear, Biggles is here!’ Nobody laughed.

Sherbrooke turned in his chair. ‘Long climb, isn’t it?’

He looked and sounded quite relaxed, although from what Rayner had heard, he had been on the bridge for hours with hardly a break.

Rayner stood beside the chair, and stared at the great forecastle rising slowly and then dipping again, tossing up spray like pellets.

The captain said, ‘No more news of
Minden.
Might have lost her in the fog. But no news of the convoy, either.’

He could have been discussing the weather, Rayner thought. He studied his profile, youthful and clean-cut, the cheekbones high, and well formed. A face you would see in a crowd, and remember.

‘The fact is, there was a signal.’ He twisted round in the chair, his eyes questioning. ‘A U.S. Airforce plane has ditched. Iceland Base reported it when they got the Mayday. Probably the mail run from there to Scotland.’

Rayner nodded, seeing it. ‘Probably a Dakota, sir. Most of them are. Pretty good kites, reliable . . . but then . . .’

‘Crew?’

‘Four, sir. Might be passengers, too.’

‘There was no mention of any.’

The screens began to squeak again and Rayner watched as Sherbrooke thrust one hand into his pocket. A reaction? A habit? Perhaps a memory.

He said, ‘They wouldn’t last long in this, sir.’

‘I know.’

Rayner almost flinched as the blue eyes searched his face.

‘I’m sorry, sir. I only meant—’

Sherbrooke grasped his arm, the four new, bright gold stripes seeming strangely out of place.

‘I understand what you meant. I was wondering.’ He
looked at the screens again. ‘In this visibility.’

Rayner heard himself reply, no hesitation, no doubts. ‘Yeah, I could do it, sir.’ He thought of his father again.
Why did they volunteer?
‘The sea’s not too bad, is it?’

Sherbrooke released his arm. ‘Good lad. Go and get ready.’ He looked at him in that direct way again. ‘No heroics. But if they
are
here . . .’

He watched Rayner leave, some of the watchkeepers turning to share it.

He heard Rhodes rasp at his lieutenant, ‘If your face was where your arse is, I’d kick it right through that bulkhead!’ He saw Sherbrooke looking at him, and said, ‘I’ll send down all the info I’ve got, sir. Possible bearing and search area. It’s not much, but it might help.’

Sherbrooke nodded his thanks. Stagg wouldn’t care. He had already written off their chances of catching
Minden
, if indeed she was anywhere in the vicinity, or ever had been.

‘Take it down yourself, Pilot. He’d appreciate that. So would I.’

Ten minutes later, after a preliminary misfire, the Walrus was hurled from her catapult.

Sherbrooke stood on the bridge wing, oblivious to the cold as he watched the top-heavy flying boat with the solitary engine, the pusher, as it was nicknamed, lurching above her own murky reflection as if about to drop hard alongside. Then she was climbing, her engine like an express train in a cutting as she slowly gained height and ploughed sedately above the nearest destroyer.

Someone gave a cheer. The risks to Walrus and crew were not hard to imagine.

But at least they were doing
something.
All of them.

He slung his binoculars around his neck and returned to the bridge.

And somebody, maybe only one survivor, would hear the Shagbat coming, and know he had not been forgotten.

He tightened his grip on the unused pipe in his pocket.

A lifeline.

There was no other feeling in the world quite like it. Flying on and on, seemingly into nowhere, with occasional glimpses of the sea, at first like black, molten glass, and then, as the Walrus lost height for a few moments, another change, to a hard, shark-blue which reached out on either beam. Forever.

Rayner sat comfortably, and quite relaxed, at home in his own private world. They were still heading due north, but for one quick alteration of course to investigate what he had thought was drifting wreckage. It had risen, no doubt screaming a noisy protest: a flock of gulls resting until full daylight, outraged by the flying-boat’s unexpected appearance.

Rayner glanced at his watch and saw Buck turn his head to look at him. He smiled. It was a very expensive watch, a birthday gift from his parents before he had left for England. The youthful New Zealander probably imagined, like some of the other young members of
Reliant
’s wardroom, that he was just another spoiled son of some rich tycoon. If only they knew what it had been like. Even he did not really understand how his father had come through, when so many of his friends and their businesses had gone under during the depression.

His father had once tossed out a hint that not all of his
ventures had been completely within the law, and Rayner knew that at one time he had used his small fleet of trucks to run booze down to the parched Yanks during Prohibition. Risky, but it had paid off.

He said, ‘Time to alter course in a few minutes, Eddy. We’ve been out here an hour.’ He tried to make light of it. ‘Don’t want to lose the ship now, do we?’

Buck leaned forward in his harness to peer at the water. ‘Ah, daylight, at long last!’

Rayner listened to the dull roar of the big Pegasus Radial engine, above and behind his seat. The pusher was a real deterrent against baling out without taking full precautions. You could be chopped into mincemeat by those formidable blades.

He sensed the other two crew members moving restlessly behind him. Rob Morgan, a pug-faced ex-milkman from Cardiff, was a telegraphist air gunner, and the other, a trainee gunner, was James Hardie from London. The Smoke, as he called it. Rayner had never asked about the previous pilot, and nobody had ever spoken of him. It was the navy’s way.

He imagined the great battlecruiser steaming along as they had left her. With the radar out of action, the Walrus was an extension to the captain’s range of vision. Another eye, even if only in the forlorn hope of finding some ditched airmen.

He spoke into his mouthpiece again. ‘O.K., Eddy, open the thermos. Then we’ll alter course.’

He thought again of the ship, the very size of her, the chain of command. He had met the rear-admiral on only one occasion, after they had left the Firth of Forth. Stagg had appeared to be conducting an unannounced, personal inspection, accompanied by his flag lieutenant and Frazier, the Bloke. He smiled again. They really did have some weird slang.

Stagg had walked around the catapult and asked Rayner a few questions about himself, his previous experience and personal background. He had had the feeling that Stagg had known most of it already, just as he had sensed that the visit to the flying area had been no spur of the moment decision.

Stagg had displayed an immense knowledge about the aircraft and the Fleet Air Arm in general, the strategy of attack and defence, and the growing deployment of small task-forces, in the American style.

During a brief pause, Commander Frazier had commented mildly, ‘I’m surprised you never became a flier yourself, sir.’

Rayner had seen the rear-admiral’s eyes fasten on him in an unwavering stare.

‘Too busy. Never had the time!’

Buck said, ‘What d’you think, Dick?’

He moved the stick slightly, his eyes on the compass. ‘Doesn’t look too good. We’ve been up here an hour. We’ll try another leg and then go back to the ship. The Skipper won’t want to hang around while he’s hoisting us inboard.’

He leaned over to watch the cloud streaming beneath the wings, the first glint of sunlight on the water, some four thousand feet below. A cold, hard light, and across the gently heaving surface there were still traces of departing fog. He was glad about the increased visibility. The Shagbat had a range of six hundred miles; it sounded a lot, but it was little enough when you were searching for your parent ship. His crew seemed relaxed and at ease, the mugs being carefully prepared for the thermos and some hot, sweet tea.