Landfall (3 page)

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.”

There was a tense silence in the office.

Dickens went on: “It’s no use coming along now to tell me that the weather was too bad to do your job efficiently. The time to tell me that is before the patrol starts, not after they’ve made a muck of it. Tell me before you start and I can do something—double bank the patrol, perhaps.”

There was another silence of strained nerves. He went on: “Well, that’s all for the moment. You’ll be interested to know that I’ve just had Captain Burnaby on the telephone telling me that the coastal patrol’s no bloody good to him. Judging from this morning’s performance, I rather agree. That’s all. You can go.”

The squadron-leader set his lips and said nothing. The young flight-lieutenant stepped forward impulsively. “There’s just one thing, sir,” he said hotly. “I’d like to hear from Captain Burnaby why his ship wasn’t in convoy, as it should have been.”

“That hasn’t got a thing to do with you, Hooper,” said the wing-commander. “Your job is the patrol, and I’m not satisfied with that patrol at all. You can go now. Send Matheson to see me.”

They left him: the wing-commander remained seated at his desk, tapping a pencil irritably on his blotting-pad. He would have to see the Air Officer Commanding and tell him all about it—no good letting Burnaby get his tale in first.

He brooded darkly for a time. That flight-lieutenant had a nerve … although why hadn’t the
Lochentie
been in convoy, anyway? He would put up the A.O.C. to find out that. He’d been too open with these lads like Hooper; the result was that they all thought that they could run the war. They’d have to learn that they’d got just one job to do, and one only, without reasoning too
much, or digging into everybody else’s job. He’d see in future that his orders were framed for their job alone.

In the pilots’ office the four pilots wrote their short reports. Presently Matheson was summoned to see Wing-Commander Dickens: the others went over to the mess. Chambers went up to his room and had a wash, yawned for a few moments before the glass, and went down to the ante-room for a beer before lunch.

He found Hooper brooding sullenly alone over a tankard. “Dickens tore me off a strip just now,” said the flight-lieutenant. “I’m fed up with this job. Think I’ll put in for a transfer.”

Chambers said: “Where was the ship, anyway?”

“Bung in the middle of Matheson’s zone. Thank your stars it wasn’t yours. There’s the hell of a row going on.”

“Am I out of it?”

“So far.”

“That’s a bloody miracle,” said Jerry, and went in to lunch.

He went into the Junior Mess-room after lunch, got himself a cup of coffee and a copy of
For Men Only
and stretched himself in an arm-chair before the fire. He turned over the pages of the little publication and looked at the pictures, smiling a little. Presently the eyelids drooped over his eyes and he slept, his long legs reaching out towards the comfortable glow, his slim body at rest.

He woke an hour later, rested and refreshed. He had grown accustomed to this sleep after his lunch since he had been on the morning patrol. He stirred in the chair and planned the remainder of the day. Tomorrow was the change-over of patrol; he would not be flying till the afternoon. Therefore, another late night wouldn’t hurt him. He had arranged to meet the girl friend in the evening; he looked forward to that with some pleasure. He might pick up Matheson or Hooper and
take in a movie, and go on to the “Royal Clarence” for ham and eggs in the snack-bar. In the meantime, he would have an hour or so for working on the galleon.

He spent the afternoon in his room threading minute cords through little blocks upon the yards and securing them with tiny dabs of seccotine. He was pleased with his work. His imagination showed the ship to him as she would have been; she became real to him, magnified. Studying the bluff lines of her hull, he felt that he could hear the bubbling of the bow wave at her stem, see the long trail of eddies in her wake. He could feel her deck heaving gently beneath his feet. He could hear the yards creaking and complaining as she rolled. To him she was a real little ship. He was immensely pleased with her.

Presently he went down to tea, then got his car and drove into Portsmouth. He had one or two small items of shopping to do. For one thing he wanted an electric torch: he was tired of falling over bicycles each time he parked his car. But torches were scarce. He tried three shops without success; the black-out had created a demand that had swept torches off the market.

Finally he went into a large chemist’s and stood looking around him for a moment, uncertainly. It did not look a likely place to buy a torch. It was largely devoted to soap and perfumes, and all manner of feminine cosmetics. He stood irresolute, a tall figure in an Air Force blue greatcoat, pink-cheeked and rather embarrassed.