“We’ve seen it, King,” Bunny said dryly. “But don’t let that stop you.”
“Okay,” Cole said, “I get the picture. You don’t like me coming up here to tell you what to do. But haven’t you been a little curious about why the Krauts don’t want you anywhere near Leka Island?”
“There’s a war on, old boy,” Peter said. “That should suffice.”
But Bunny’s curiosity was aroused. “What are you getting at?”
Cole pushed the other photographs to one side to expose the image that the Norwegian had seen. He told the RAF crew what he had been told. The men moved in closer.
Johnny, his tunic unbuttoned, with a drink in his hand, spoke first. “Now, isn’t that bloody interesting? Does that Norwegian chap know what he’s talking about?”
“I think so,” Cole said. “That’s why I came up here and why I want to go to Leka Island.”
Prentice looked at Bunny. “What do you think, Skipper?”
Bunny took Johnny’s glass out of his hand and downed a healthy portion. He handed it back to the dismayed gunner before speaking. “You know, King, we just don’t go out on these little jaunts when it suits us. We generally wait until someone issues orders.”
“Okay,” Cole said. He was willing to listen until he could figure out Walker and his crew. What he hoped was that they were the sort of men who would take a chance on him.
Bunny reached for Johnny’s glass again, but the gunner jerked it out of his reach. “With all due respect, get your own bloody drink, Bunny.”
Cole knew that Walker was studying him, trying to determine what kind of man he was, and if he really knew what he was talking about. Neither man spoke for a moment.
“Prentice, be a good lad and fetch me a whiskey and soda,” Bunny said.
“Righto, Skipper.”
“Show me that island again,” he said to Cole.
“Here,” Cole said, tapping the photograph. “I estimate it to be about a thousand feet long, maybe two hundred wide. It’s difficult to say.”
Prentice handed Bunny his drink. “You know, King, my erks are patching up poor old N-for-Nancy from the last go-round. We were treated a bit roughly.…”
“‘A bit roughly,’ he says,” Peter said. “We threw out everything but Prentice to keep her aloft.”
“Pay no mind to Peter,” Bunny said. “He’s half Welsh and inclined to gloominess. I should not be all that keen to go back up there because some bloke has some funny ideas about what he thinks he sees.”
“I’m tired of taking your photographs,” Johnny said, signaling a steward for a refill.
“Good,” Cole said. “Because there won’t be any photographs this time. They don’t tell us anything. I need to go down on the deck.”
“Are you daft?” Peter said. “We’re in a Hudson IV, not a Mossie. Go get some RAF chaps who haven’t been exiled to Coastal Command. We value our lives a bit more than you seem to.”
“Peter,” Bunny said.
“The man’s mad, Bunny. Out we go again and this time with a crazy Yank and an open invitation for the Germans to shoot us down. I’ll do my duty, but no one said, ‘Peter, you’re to go out and commit suicide.’” The bomb aimer/navigator set his glass heavily on the table, covering the mysterious island on the grainy photograph. “I’m going to sack out. Don’t bother me until this bloody war is over.”
“Well?” Bunny said to Cole after Peter left.
“It’s the only way to find out,” Cole said with certainty. “We’ve got to get in low. Make two passes and out again.”
“Johnny?”
The gunner moved Peter’s glass. “They won’t be expecting us like that. We can hug the waves.” He wiped the condensation off the photograph. “Can we go in at night and use flares? Better that way. Less likely to be spotted on our approach.”
“King?” Bunny said.
“That might work. One pass for flares and one for a look-see.”
“Prentice?”
“A bit dicey all the way round, isn’t it, Skipper? I mean considering the last time. Still, if we have to go in, I’d like less of a chance for those bastards to see us. Night is fine with me.”
Bunny nodded in thought. “Johnny? Run over and find out when the erks will have N-for-Nancy ready, will you?”
“Right, Bunny.”
“What about Peter?” Cole asked. “I don’t think he’s sold yet.”
“Peter’s just being Peter,” Bunny said. He looked Cole up and down. “How much do you weigh? Fourteen stone, I should say.”
“Weigh? One hundred and eighty pounds, I think. Why?”
“You’ll need a flight suit. It gets very cold over the Kattegat.”
Chapter 10
Hardy had had his dream last night. His dream — the one that he knew would follow him forever, as the images of the Second Night were seared in his mind. Everyone aboard Firedancer knew about the Second Night. Convoy HBX 328 out of Halifax. The first night had been quiet, a cold black frigid following sea with a canopy of brilliant stars scattered thickly in an equally black sky. The first night had been a lark although they carried close to three hundred tons of ice, disfiguring Firedancer’s deck and superstructure. The extra burden meant being topside was nearly impossible and being on the bridge was barely endurable, and Firedancer handled like a drunken whore, staggering from port to starboard. Still, it was quiet, if uncomfortable.
The Second Night was when the U-boats had struck. In his dream he was on the bridge, alone, but somehow that never seemed odd. In reality it was crowded with signalmen and lookouts and Number One, and they all saw what he saw. They all heard what he heard. Ships exploding in the night, the harsh plaintive screams of steam whistles, the faint rumble of cargo breaking loose within the bowels of ships sliding into the depths.
He was alone on the bridge and he heard the frantic radio calls coming in, cries for help, captains begging him to come to their rescue. In the dream he thought how odd it was that he was the only escort. Shouldn’t there have been others? Surely there were others? But he was alone on the bridge and Firedancer alone with the convoy. She raced about the dying ships, trying desperately to find and sink the U-boats, but they were phantoms. Meanwhile, ship after ship disappeared.
Now, in his dream, Land was there and the others and Hardy gave the order: “Port thirty.” He gave the order because the asdic operator had made a U-boat contact off the port beam.
Port thirty.
The helmsman repeated the order as he was told and turned the wheel and Firedancer’s bow swung in response.
“Rudder amidships,” Hardy had said.
“Rudder amidships, aye-aye, sir,” the helmsman replied and then confirmed that he had done as ordered by saying, “Rudder amidships.” Even in the heat of battle it was all very professional and calm without a single indication that this was anything but a superbly executed maneuver.
Out there, directly in line with Firedancer’s bow, was a pool of bright stars reflected in the gentle black swells. Red stars. Tiny red stars. Around them the sea turned to white froth. Red stars. Hardy, in his dream, looked at them curiously, and thought to himself, how strange that the stars are red.
Firedancer bore down on the pool of red stars and above all the other sounds of the night; Hardy heard the screams of the men that his ship was about to crush. Red lights on kapok vests; red, the color of blood. Arms thrashing at the water; men trying to get away from the speeding destroyer. From her hull. From her screws.
The Second Night. Fourteen ships out of a thirty-two-ship convoy, sunk.