That wasn’t what troubled him and for an instant caused him to doubt his ears, and his experience. So on his pad he wrote down fifteen names; good, strong English names like William, John, Paul, and Robert. And then for the next ten hours, as Mr. Doenitz’s U-boats cluttered the airwaves with W.T. transmissions, he placed a checkmark beside the name of each enemy W.T. he identified. Not beside each call sign, but beside the English name of every U-boat W.T. operator, the flesh-and-blood human being that tapped out the message. After Watkins had heard enough, after he was satisfied that he had solved a mystery, and a very curious one at that, he lit a cigarette and, looking over his shoulder, called to the young duty officer: “Sir? If you don’t mind, sir, I’ve run across something that I think you should have a listen to.”
Chapter 22
Captain Harland had tried for the better part of an hour to ring through to Sir Joshua, but for one reason or another, he was unsuccessful. Radio was out of the question; there was a violent storm raging just outside the squat brick administrative building of the Home Fleet and every signal transmitted or received was garbled beyond comprehension. Drops of cold rain peppered the windows accompanied by the low, mournful howl of the wind as Harland agonized over his inability to speak with his superiors. The message that he had for Sir Joshua was criticaclass="underline" the Home Fleet was going out.
Admiral Townes and his staff had gone over the reports from Harrogate when she got to the last reported position of Nottingham. There was nothing, Harrogate had reported, some bodies, Carley rafts, and the few pitiful things that had once made up the life of one of His Majesty’s ships.
“Send Birmingham to join Harrogate,” Townes had said. “In case the bastard turns round and comes back out the Strait.” Then he turned to Harland and said: “You may inform Sir Joshua that the Home Fleet is lighting off boilers in preparation to sail. Rodney, King George V, the cruisers Hermione, Kenya, and Neptune will accompany them.”
“Neptune has had to stand down, Admiral,” one of the officers had reminded him.
“Norfolk can go in her stead,” Townes said.
“When can you sail, sir?” Harland had asked.
Townes glanced at an aide for the answer.
“Four to six hours, sir,” the aide said crisply.
“I can see from the look of disappointment on your face, Captain Harland, that you are not satisfied with the answer. Nor am I, but we simply can’t turn the key on these ships and drive them into the North Atlantic. There is preparation after all. You can help and make no mistake about that. Find the German ship for us. If I know where it is I will go and destroy it. Put everything that flies into the air and find that bastard for me. I shall feel much better once I avenge Nottingham.”
Harland had been trying to reach Sir Joshua to inform him of Admiral Townes’s intentions. He slammed the telephone down in disgust. Millions of pounds invested in the finest naval base in the realm and he could not even make a trunk call to London.
He lit a cigarette to calm himself and walked to the window overlooking the bay. Even in the gloom he could see them, huge black machines, their mute forms punctuated by signal lights, turrets, funnels, superstructures, and guns. The might of the Royal Navy, the great ships that had destroyed Bismarck and would now venture out to destroy another German vessel. He felt pride at what he saw — he was staff and not line and there was an unspoken agreement that one seldom acknowledged the contribution of the other. Still, there was the real Royal Navy and in just a few hours they would go in harm’s way.
Harland dropped the cigarette on the rough-board floor, ground it out, and reached for the telephone. How he hated Scotland.
Cole stood uncertainly in the tight confines of N-for-Nancy, trying to force the stiffness out of his legs. The constant vibration of the twin engines and the cramped quarters had combined to numb his legs so that they felt as if they were blocks of wood. When he rose, hunched over because he was too tall to stand upright in the Hudson, he walked on two rubbery limbs with the ponderous weight of the flying suit bearing down on him. The others in the aircraft, Bunny, Peter, Johnny, and Prentice, might have felt as numb as he did but they didn’t show it. He made his way awkwardly to Prentice and held on to the W.T.’s shoulders for support.
“Where the hell are we?” Cole asked and then realized that the question was as ridiculous as the answer was useless to him. They were in the middle of the ocean and the only location of any importance would be where they found the Germans’ ship. He noticed Prentice glancing at him quizzically. He was holding Cole’s intercom plug.
Cole nodded his understanding, too tired to curse himself for being stupid, and slipped the plug into the intercom system. “Sorry,” he said, his own voice coming to him with a distant metallic ring. “My butt’s numb and that goes right to my brain. Where are we anyway?”
Prentice pulled out a small chart. “Just here, sir, about five hundred miles out. Of course Peter is our navigator, so by rights his is the chart we follow. I just keep mine as a bit of a hobby, you understand. If I’m right we fly on for a bit more and then turn south-southwest on a course of two-two-oh. I think I’m close enough to Peter’s reckoning.”
“Okay,” Cole said, mildly disgusted that he still had no idea where they were. “Let me get back to my window.”
“Bit of a strain on the eyes, isn’t it, sir?” They had all been staring through the marred Plexiglas windows for any sign of the enemy. The only thing in sight was the unending ocean.
“A bit.”
Prentice handed Cole a canteen. “Dash some of this on your face. It’ll bring you around.”
Cole nodded, unscrewed the lid on the canteen, poured a handful of water into his palm, and rubbed it into his face. It was ice cold and it almost took his breath away. He handed the canteen back to Prentice with a smile and struggled aft to his position. He lowered himself carefully into place, grimacing as the muscles of his thighs and lower legs burned when he tried to fold them into position. He heard the Boulton-Paul dorsal turret swing rhythmically back and forth as Johnny swept the sky, looking for enemy aircraft. There wouldn’t be any German fighters out this far, but there was always the possibility of a graceful German Condor or squat flying boats making an appearance. Either one would be an unwelcome, and most dangerous, intruder.
Something hit him on the leg; it was a coin. He looked up to see Prentice pointing to his intercom plug.
“Shit,” Cole said to himself. He slipped it into the receptacle and heard Bunny’s voice crackle in his ears.
“… just received word that Prince of Wales has released some of her escorts. We’re to be on the lookout for them. We ought to pass close by, although I have no exact location. We’re to turn south in approximately ten minutes. King, old chum. If you don’t remember to keep your intercom plugged in, I shall be forced to shove it up your bum. Now come up here like a good chap so we can talk.”
Cole rose again, struggled forward, and sat down in the entrance to the tunnel that led to the bomb-aimer/navigator’s compartment in the nose. He showed Bunny the plug-in and slid it into the receptacle.