The aircraft was rocked again, thrown to the left and down, and Gierek saw Jagello signal frantically with his hand: Stay on course. It meant nothing if they flew all that distance to drop indicators in the wrong place. It meant that the bombers would dumbly follow behind and drop their bombs where the indicators glowed brightly because they had been trained to do so. The bombers would be out of position and the bombs would be off target and hundreds of aircraft and thousands of men would be put in jeopardy because a Pathfinder had made a mistake. There was no going back to the target if they couldn’t drop their ITs. They would travel on through the flak and emerge on the other side, and hope that the other Pathfinders did the job that they had failed at. Or they would fly deep into the angry red clouds and disappear in a flash of fire and smoke.
Gierek regained control of the aircraft and saw Jagello raise the bomb release cord, his thumb poised over the teat, and he felt his heart pound through his flying togs.
Then he saw Jagello’s thumb depress the teat, and he heard the clatter of ITs falling away into the darkness, and before he realized it the bomb bay doors were closed and Jagello looked at him with all of the aplomb of a man who has just successfully tied his shoe.
And then the cockpit of the Mosquito exploded.
“Double the lookouts,” Hardy said to Land. And as an afterthought he added: “And send someone to fetch my hat.”
“Of course, sir,” Land said, and nodded to Yeoman Bertram. He turned to Petty Officer Stillwell, who shared Firedancer’s bridge with them, and said in a measured tone: “Double the lookouts if you please, Petty Officer.”
“Right, sir,” Stillwell said. His tone was unhurried, without a trace of excitement or concern. One would almost think that there was no danger ahead and the men were slightly bored with it all. Neither was true. Survival was part luck and part precaution and since luck was never under one’s control, one had to be content with precaution. And the men were justifiably concerned. They had been at this business for a number of years and knew that as melodramatic as it seems, death always lurked close by. One could appear blasé, perhaps indifferent, and in extreme cases they might even temper their fear with gallows humor. But they all knew dead men — those whose number was up, as most of the crew believed. Fatalism was an accepted commodity aboard Firedancer.
Land had been Hardy’s Number One long enough to appreciate his captain’s peculiarities, even if he didn’t understand them. He trusted Hardy, and he knew Hardy’s skills aboard Firedancer were beyond reproach, but he was embarrassed for the man when he slipped on that worn bowler. Charge into battle with something other than a haberdasher’s nightmare, for God’s sake.
A whistle came through the voice tubes. “Bridge? W/T here.”
Land leaned over the tubes as the hatbox was presented to Hardy. “Bridge.”
“Target’s hanging steady, sir. No change in course of speed.”
Hardy was at Land’s side. “What’s this, Number One?”
“No change in the target’s course or speed, sir. They’re still well away from us.”
Hardy growled in thought and looked into the sky. Visibility had remained unchanged; scattered to moderate clouds, a flash of the moon when the winds permitted and a sprinkling of brilliant stars in the cold heaven. Still, radar was all that they could truly count on until the mysterious vessels got close enough for the lookouts to pick up.
“E-boats,” Hardy said. He nodded to himself in confirmation. “On patrol or something; loitering about waiting for a target perhaps, but E-boats nevertheless.” He leaned over the voice tube. “W/T? Send to Castle.” Castle was the code name for Task Force U’s Escort Command. “Ready? Possible E-boat contact.…” He looked up. “Where are they now, Number One?”
“A bit farther, sir. Nearly sixty miles. Course two-one-four. Speed is still twelve knots, sir.”
“Possible E-boat contact,” Hardy said, and then repeated the information that Land had given him. He waited while W/T read it back to him for confirmation and then said: “Yes. That’s it. Send it off.” He adjusted the hat on his head. “They’ll want to send some aircraft out there, Number One. A big fat Short Sunderland, I’m sure. Well, fair enough. It’s their show, we’re just Costly Farces. I’ll tell you this much, Number One. When we’re through with this business, I’m going to ask out of this duck pond and get us back to sea. I’d even take convoys over the English Channel.”
“Bridge? W/T.”
“Still waiting, W/T,” Hardy said. “What about it?”
“No, sir,” W/T said. “Castle has not yet replied. It’s the target, sir. They’re coming about. Course two-four-two. Range fifty miles. Speed, twenty knots.”
Hardy tossed Land a glance and said crisply: “Right. Well, loitering is out. Either Mr. E-boat smelled a rat and has come to investigate, or he’s just fumbling about in the darkness.”
“Either way,” Land said, but let the comment hang; a question begging an answer.
“Yes,” Hardy agreed. “W/T? Advise Castle immediately of the change in circumstances. I request permission to move against the enemy.” He tapped his fingertips on the windscreen in thought. “Number One. Have Yeoman of Signals make to our Mr. Cole that we have gatecrashers. Give him the latest information and tell him to stand by.”
“Right, sir.”
The tapping stopped as Hardy examined the situation. Convoys to port, big, slow ships, eminently protected by anything that could mount a gun but still vulnerable to an E-boat attack. To starboard, Mr. Cole’s little wooden boats of name; game vessels all right, but in Hardy’s mind little more than pleasure yachts.
Continue to starboard: six boats; certainly E-boats, powerful, fast, devilish creations that could sidestep Firedancer with ease and get deep into the convoys.
“Bridge? W/T.”
“From Castle?” Hardy said, his voice sharp with irritation. He hated to wait on others to make a decision whose answer was perfectly obvious to Hardy.
“No, sir. Sorry, sir,” W/T/ said.
“My aunt’s pajamas, W/T, do I have to carry the mail myself?” Hardy exploded. “Did you impress upon them the urgency of the thing? Are they asleep out there?”
“It’s the E-boats, sir,” W/T replied calmly. “They’ve come completely around and their course is oh-five-three degrees.” There was a pause. “Speed,” W/T continued. “Forty knots.”
Hardy, his anger quickly forgotten, rapidly calculated the course and speed. They’re going to intercept us, he thought.
Reubold watched as the three Funkers scrambled to receive radio transmission, note them, and decode them. Even without the knowledge of W/T that these men possessed he could tell that something important was going on by the barrage of signals that flooded the tiny radio room.
“Report, Lerch,” Reubold said. He kept his voice low and calm, knowing that it would do nothing but add to the tension in the room if he appeared concerned.
Lerch looked up at Reubold and after a moment to gather himself said: “Sir, something terrible is happening out there.”
“Explain,” Reubold said, his excitement building. “And be more specific than ‘out there.’”
“Yes, sir,” Lerch said. “I can’t get all of it but the stations along the coast are all reporting some sort of activity. Air raids, parachutists, ships right in front of them. Dieppe, Le Havre, Cherbourg. The airwaves are flooded. Pas de Calais, as well.”
It would be Pas de Calais, high command decided. The Allies would take the shortest route across the Channel and land at Pas de Calais. The men of Flotilla 11 had been wagering on it for some time, and the general opinion was, that for once, high command was right; the Allies would invade France at Pas de Calais. Reubold had gone to Boulogne to meet an old friend and they had traveled up to Dunkirk together to see the beaches, littered with the wreckage of what had once been the British army. On the way they had stopped at a small tavern and bought beer from a sullen proprietor before going out on a bluff overlooking the Channel. From the bluff, talking, drinking, and sharing a set of worn binoculars, they had studied the Cliffs of Dover: England.