Dead too were Dusty Miller and Tiger, the former ignominiously smashed as he sat on the latrine, the latter decapitated by a direct hit.
Sat in the second seat Arsey started to recover his senses, having temporarily blacked out.
He became aware of a low animal sound near his left side.
As his eyes cleared the bile rose in his throat and he brought up the recent bacon sandwich, his stomach rebelling at the sight of the pilot.
Cox was still alive, and by an extraordinary effort, he had managed to flick the autopilot on, which steadied the damaged bird and took her away from danger.
The pilot had lost his left arm and left leg as the torrent of metal had flayed the palace. Further pieces of metal had emptied his left eye socket.
Erasmus arrived like a drunk, his unsteady gait giving testament to the horrors he had endured in the area he occupied with the navigator and wireless operator.
“Gimme a hand, Aidan… we gotta get the skipper out!”
Grabbing hold of something so ravaged and destroyed was not easy, but they managed, Cox’s awful moaning lending both strength and compassion to both men.
Arsey slipped into the sticky pilot’s chair and hooked up.
“Crew check. Call in.”
Responses came solely from Malan, Pienaar, and Van der Blumme.
‘Oh hell.’
“Magic, get up to the palace now and give Aidan a hand. The Skipper is hit bad. Chris, Rolf, stay put and keep your eyes peeled. I need to check out the bus.”
As Peter Malan arrived to help Erasmus carry the hideously wounded Cox below, Crozier examined the flight deck.
The cold was intense, but not unbearable, ocean air being driven in thru countless holes.
Many gauges were useless, either broken or not registering because of damage elsewhere.
The autopilot, developed for the Mark V’s long over ocean flights, was clearly working.
He grasped the control column and flipped off the autopilot, ready to instantly react to any problem in handling that arose.
The aircraft was perfectly trimmed and responded easily to his gentle commands. Using his foot controls, he tested more responses and was satisfied that he could control the Sunderland fully. He ignored the severed piece of Cox’s left leg that lay next to the pedals.
“Pilot. Crew. Aircraft is fine. Action stations.”
To their credit, none of the survivors of NS-X questioned either the order to attack or the fact that it was given by a Flight Sergeant gunner who wasn’t qualified to pilot the aircraft.
Magic’s voice broke in his ear.
“Skipper’s gone.”
Advancing the throttles, Crozier turned the leviathan back towards the enemy submarine.
“OK Magic, take over Dagga’s guns. Make them keep their heads down on the run in.”
“Roger, Skipper”, the words tumbling out of Malan’s mouth in spite of himself.
Leaving Aidan Erasmus to cover up the dead pilot, Malan made his way forward, into the charnel house that was the nose section.
At three miles out the Sunderland steadied itself, making a beam approach to what was now clearly a rapidly diving soviet submarine.
Nose and mid-upper machine guns sang out, sending a stream of deadly projectiles at B-31, many of which rang noisily off the casing and plates, unsettling those in the hull. The 20mm shells had damaged the firing system, so the vengeful Crozier could not fire the forward fixed .50’s and add to the submariner’s miseries.
At half a mile out only the top of the conning tower was visible, and Pienaar could no longer bear. He switched his guns to the rear in case further opportunity presented itself. Malan continued to flay the elektroboote for all he was worth.
Releasing the depth bombs, Crozier accepted the leap as the aircraft gained height and commenced a port turn as both Van der Blumme and Pienaar whipped up the waters.
All four charges exploded, sending a mountain of water skywards.
Damage to the aircraft’s monitoring systems meant it was some time before the crew realised the starboard outer engine was on fire and that leaking fuel, similarly alight, was creeping slowly and inexorably along the wing.
The Type XXI was innovative for a number of reasons. Hydrogen peroxide engines, high capacity electric engines for unheard of underwater speeds; A superbly efficient schnorkel system and automatic reloading system for its torpedoes.
One unusual aspect of its production was that it was assembled from pieces, with a number of cylindrical component sections brought together and assembled into a whole.
During the previous war, when Allied aircraft looked for anything to bomb, a U-Boat in production made a tasty target. With this system, the XXI could be made in pieces, in small nondescript workshops, and then assembled secretly.
Two such sections had been welded together under canvas in the Gdansk Yards in early July.
Frame six comprised the rear section of the control suite and frame seven, the forward section of the main engine room.
NS-X’s bombs were perfectly placed.
Two struck the hull either side of the conning tower and sunk on the port side of the submarine. One ploughed through the periscope stanchion, deflecting it towards the bow section.
The final bomb struck the stern and angled off, ending up on the starboard side of the B-31, perfectly in between the bursts of the other two bombs.
The effect of all three detonating virtually simultaneously on both sides of the hull was similar to placing a cardboard tube on a house brick and then pushing down on either side.
The rupture was immediate and wholly catastrophic.
B-31’s engine was instantly flooded and the broached control room uninhabitable within seconds.
The Elektroboote B-31, once known as U-3536 [unfinished] took fifty-eight soviet seamen and six German civilian advisors to the sea floor below.
It was Van der Blumme who noticed the smoke and shouted the warning.
All eyes swivelled in the direction of the starboard wing, assessing the danger.
Fire buttons were thumbed and extinguishing media helped a little with the engine, but the fuel leak and external fire were slowly affecting the wing.
“Pilot. Aidan, have a look at Jason’s charts. Get a course for the nearest land. Can’t be far.”
Flying Officer Erasmus made his way up into the navigator’s position and tried hard to fathom what he could from the map.
Pienaar and Van der Blumme quickly discussed the likelihood of having killed the Russian.
“Fucking shut up now! Aidan, talk to me.”
“Due south, Rafer, head due south. We should hit Ireland.”
Responding quickly, Arsey moved the aircraft onto a dead south course, sorting out the engine revs of the three working power plants.
Aidan Erasmus slid the body of Sparks Warner to one side and worked on the radio.
NS-X flew steadily south, carefully nurtured by a gunner-cum-failed-pilot, who looked at the spreading dark stain in his lap with more concern as each minute passed.
A growing whine preceded graunching sounds from protesting metal as the port inner surrendered to friction, the absence of coolant neither known nor suspected, as gauges failed to show the fatal rise in temperature.
The engine seized and immediately affected the characteristics of the Sunderland, even though Crozier reacted swiftly and feathered, reducing the effect of the idle propeller.
“Flight. Skipper.”
Erasmus experienced the joy of success as the sound of static over the speaker illustrated he had breathed life into the damaged radio.
“Go ahead Aidan.”
“I think I have the radio up. Going to send sitrep and position ok?”
“Good effort, and keep sending. I can’t see land yet mind you.”
Erasmus keyed the transmit button and spelled out the rough position of NS-X, as well as the condition of the crew.