Landfall (6 page)

All afternoon they swept backwards and forwards above the cold grey sea, coming down near the surface to inspect each ship they saw, noting her name and nationality, her course and speed. Once in each half-hour they approached the coast: the French coast to the south of them, and the English coast to the north. They did not cross the land; they came near enough to establish their position accurately upon the chart, then turned to a reverse and parallel course. After three or four of these flights Chambers had gauged the wind correctly, and each succeeding flight took place exactly down the plotted line upon the chart.

The machine swept backwards and forwards over the grey sea all afternoon. The crew grew gradually colder; they sucked peppermint bull’s-eyes, suffered the cold, and watched the clock. At this time of year, in December, darkness would release them before their allotted time; that was a compensation for the cold. Sunset that day was at 3.53. They would land at about 4.15.

As evening drew on the brief patches of sunlight disappeared and the sky became wholly overcast. The light began to fade. They reached the English coast at about 3.25 and turned seaward once more; they would not have time to do a full trip over to the French side, but it was too early to go home. They droned out over the darkening sea, flying at about sixteen hundred feet, very
close below the cloud ceiling. From time to time they swept through a thin wisp of cloud.

Ten minutes later Chambers saw a submarine.

He blinked quickly and looked again. It was a submarine all right. It seemed to be about two miles ahead of him, going slowly in a north-westerly direction, a short line upon the sea with a lump in the middle. Something turned over in the pilot’s chest as he looked at it, and the thought flashed through his mind that he was within thirty miles of where the
Lochentie
had been destroyed. God had been kind to him. He was to be the instrument of retribution.

He pulled heavily upon the wheel and shot the monoplane up into the cloud base immediately above him. He throttled his engines in the dark fog of the cloud and slowed the machine as much as he dared: they must not hear him if it could be helped, or they would dive beyond his power to harm them.

The sudden changes startled the crew from their semi-coma. Corporal Lambert slid down from the gun turret into the cabin and started forward; the radio-operator woke up with a jerk. The pilot turned in his seat, his young face crimson with excitement.

“Submarine!” he yelled. “Up on the surface, about two miles dead ahead of us!”

The corporal nodded, and slid back into his turret; he had the gun to tend. The pilot turned feverishly to the chart. In spite of the excitement, he must mind his orders. Area SM, up to 1530…. He shot a glance at the clock upon the panel in front of him; it was 1539. They had turned at 1527—twelve minutes on the new course since they turned. Say twenty-six sea miles. He slapped a ruler down upon the pencilled line that he had drawn upon the chart. They were in Area SM still. Area TM was a good two miles over to the west.

It was all right to attack.

In spite of having throttled back the engines the machine had climbed to nearly two thousand feet, thickly enveloped in the cloud. The speed was down to less than a hundred knots. The pilot pressed the stick a little, and swung round for a quick glance up and down the cabin. In the gun turret the corporal stooped down to look forward at him, and held one thumb up cheerfully. Chambers turned forward, settled into his seat, and pressed the machine into a dive.

She gained speed quickly. She broke from the clouds, diving forty degrees from the horizontal. The pilot looked round frenziedly to find the submarine.

He saw her still upon the surface, well over to his left, a thin pencil on the dark grey, corrugated sea.

The rush of air along the windscreen rose to a shrill whine. He could not drop his bombs upon a turn and hope to hit; it was essential to come down on her in a straight dive. He muttered: “Damn and blast!” and swung the monoplane in its dive over to the right. He leaned forward and tripped two switches on the bombrelease control, selecting a stick of four of his small bombs and making the firing-switch alive.

He shot a glance at the air-speed indicator. Beneath the notice which said, SPEED MUST NOT EXCEED 200 KNOTS IN DIVE, the needle flicked between 230 and 240 upon the dial. He glanced again at the submarine and judged his moment, then swung the monoplane towards her in a turn to port, easing the wheel towards him very slowly as she did so.

The submarine loomed up ahead of him. She was nearly bow on to him, a good position for attack, but one which hid the sides of the conning-tower from his view. He concentrated desperately upon identification marks. He dared not bomb unless he could see something to distinguish enemy from friend. He could see no one in the conning-tower; already she was lower in
the water, and she was moving ahead. She was going down.

British submarines carried identification marks upon the hydrovanes. He could see the hydrovanes ploughing in a smother of foam as she moved ahead in the rough sea; they were turned to press her down. In the split seconds of the final stages of his dive he watched in an agony for the colour of the metal in the foam. Then the trough of a wave came, deeper than the rest. For an instant the port forward hydrovane was bare of foam, streaming with water that showed grey paint underneath.

He cleared his mind of that, and for less than a second concentrated all his being upon levelling the machine off. Then, as the bow of the submarine passed out of view beneath the bottom of his windscreen, the gloved hand on the throttles moved to the firing-switch and jabbed it firmly. The first stick of four bombs fell away as the monoplane swept forty feet above the low grey hull.

The machine rocketed up to three or four hundred feet, and the pilot threw her round in a steep turn. Behind him he heard the rattling clatter of the gun as Corporal Lambert blazed away at the steel hull. Then the submarine swung round into the pilot’s view again as the monoplane banked steeply round her.

One of the bombs had landed near the foot of the conning-tower, or on it; the superstructure was all wreathed in smoke. A stick-like object, mast or periscope, had fallen and was poking sideways from the conning-tower; the pilot got an impression that the submarine had stopped her engines. The deck was awash by this time; she was quickly going down.

There was no time to be lost. He had not hurt her seriously, and she could still submerge beyond his reach. He swung his body brutally on the controls and
forced the monoplane towards her in a dive again. He leaned forward quickly to the switchbox and selected four more of his little bombs and one of his two big ones.

Again she loomed up very quickly in the windscreen. He pulled out of his dive just short of her and jabbed the bomb switch viciously. There was an instant’s pause, followed by the clatter of the gun again, and the detonation of the bursting bombs behind him. Then came a more thunderous explosion as the big bomb with delay action burst under water.

Again the pilot forced his machine round in a violent turn. As soon as the submarine came in view he saw a change. She was higher in the water than when he had last seen her over the greater portion of her length, but the stern was down. Beside the stern there was a great subsiding column of water from the explosion of his big bomb: a great mass of foam and bubbles was showing all round her.

He thrust the monoplane into a dive at her again. She was now end on to him, badly damaged; he was attacking from the stern. He selected the last of his big bombs and four more little ones, and came at her once again. As the stern passed below his windscreen he pushed hard against the button on the throttle-box.

He rocketed up from her, and turned. His heart leaped as she came in view. There was a great column of water close beside her, rather forward of the conning-tower; the bow was rising from the water. As he watched, fascinated, the bow rose clean out of the water, grey and dripping, like the nose of a monstrous, evil reptile. It was wholly repulsive, a foul, living thing.

He stared at it for a moment, circling round. Suddenly a jet of brown liquid gushed out from the nose, falling into the sea and completing the illusion of a reptile. Chambers stared down with disgust and loathing.

It had ceased to signify a ship to him, ceased to have any human meaning. It was something horrible, to be destroyed.

His upper lip wrinkled as he forced his machine round. From the look of the thing he guessed that it was holed: he leaned forward and pressed down all the remaining switches on the selector-box. As he swept over it again he pressed his bomb switch for the last time, and the whole of his remaining bombs left the machine.

He swung the monoplane round more gently this time; he could do no more. When the target came in sight again the bow was practically vertical: the conning-tower was well submerged. The sea was boiling all around her, in part from the explosion of his bombs and in part from the air that now was blowing from the hull. Slowly the bow slid down into the sea. The light was fading; it was too dark to make out much detail. Now there were only six feet left above the water.

Now there were three feet only. Now just the tip.

Now it was gone.

There was nothing left except a great circle of white, oily water on the grey, rough sea.

He relaxed for a moment. The wireless-operator was by his side, looking over his shoulder through the windscreen. Chambers said: “That’s finished him.”

Above the roaring of the engines the boy yelled: “Good show, sir. First in the squadron!”

The pilot nodded. “It’s probably the one that got the
Lochentie!”
he shouted.

He turned and looked behind him. The corporal was leaning down from the gun ring, crimson with pleasure, beaming all over his face, and holding up both thumbs. The pilot grinned and held a thumb up in response, then turned back to his work again.

At some time in the incident he felt that there had
been a ship. He circled round for a minute, peering into the gathering night. At last he saw her. She was a trawler, painted grey, in naval service. She was about three miles to the south of him, headed towards the scene at her full speed.

He swept low over her and circled round; from the little bridge above the chart-house an officer was waving at him. He waved back in reply and flew ahead of her, to dive on to the scene to show her where it was. There was nothing there to see now except a circle of oily water with a great mass of white bubbles coming up. The trawler would buoy the place and pick up any wreckage that there was.

He flew back to the trawler and stayed with her for ten minutes, till she reached the spot. Then, in the dusk, he set a course for home.

The corporal left the gun turret and made his way along the cabin to the pilot. He was bursting with pride. “Poor old sergeant, he won’t half be mad when he hears about this,” he shouted. “Fair kicking himself, he’ll be.”

Jerry broke into a smile. “Too bad he wasn’t with us,” he shouted in reply. “After all this time.”

“Serve him right. Shouldn’t go catching colds.”

He squatted down behind the pilot, staring ahead through the windscreen. Presently they crossed the land: ten minutes later they approached the aerodrome. The corporal wound the under-carriage down as the machine swept low over the hangars: as they crossed the tarmac they saw men stop and stare at them.

The corporal laughed. “They’ve seen our bomb racks empty,” he said gleefully. “That’s what they’re all looking up at.”

The pilot brought the machine round to land; the flaps went down. The hedge slid below them and the ground came up; Chambers pulled heavily upon the
wheel and the machine touched and ran along. It slowed and came to rest; Chambers looked round behind and turned into the hangar.

It was practically dark when he drew up upon the tarmac. One or two aircraftsmen came running with unwonted energy; the corporal hurried down the cabin and jumped out of the machine.

One of the men said: “What happened to the bombs, Corp?”

Corporal Lambert swelled with pride. “Fell on a bloody submarine, my lad,” he said. “Proper place for ’em, too.”

The news ran from mouth to mouth. “Did you sink it, Corp?”

“Where did it happen?”

“Were there any ships about?”

“Did any other aircraft have a hand?”

“Did you get fired at?”

The crowd swelled quickly round the corporal. “Officer sunk it, lads,” he said. “Mr. Chambers. I didn’t do nothin’ but fire the bloody gun, and that’s no flaming use against a sub.”

“Was it the one what sunk that ship what was torpedoed yesterday, Corp?”

“I can’t tell you that, lad. Officer thinks it was.”

Chambers got down from the machine, clutching his maps. There was a thin, spontaneous cheer from the crowding men. He was embarrassed, and stood there in his flying clothes, blushing a little, taller than most of them.

“Thanks awfully,” he said awkwardly. “We had a bit of luck this afternoon. Pity Sergeant Hutchinson couldn’t have been with us.”

They cheered him again, more loudly this time. He pushed his way through them and went towards the pilots’ room; a dozen of them followed after him. It was
practically dark. Hooper came running out to meet him. “Jerry—is this true?”

“True enough, old boy,” he said. “We plastered it good and proper.”

“Did you sink it?”

“Sunk it all right. It went right up on end; the bow was vertical.”

“Bloody good show! Did anybody else see it?”

“There was a trawler about three miles away. I showed her where it happened.”

They went together to the pilots’ room. There was a surge of pilots round Chambers as he got out of his clothes, with a volley of questions. He changed in a babel of voices and discussion; in the middle his squadron-leader, Peterson, came in.

There was a momentary hush. The squadron-leader said: “Is this true, that you got a submarine?”

The young pilot straightened up. “Yes, sir. I don’t think there was any doubt about it.”

He told his tale again. The squadron-leader said: “Well, that’s all right. I’ll just ring Dickens, and see if he wants to see you now, or after you’ve made out your report.”