Viljoen screwed his eyes up tight, trying to work through the smokescreen hiding the thought from full sight.
Again, he ran through Flight Lieutenant Edinburgh’s report. Word for word, thinking each matter through.
He paused and re-read one section, and turned his attention to the transcript of messages from the ill-fated Sunderland.
The smokescreen cleared and the seed flourished in an instant.
He leant forward and picked up the phone.
“Corporal, ask Flight Sergeant Smith to report to my office. Immediately please. Thank you.”
Viljoen held his peace for the eight minutes it took for Smith to present himself.
“I want to clarify something, Flight Sergeant. In your Flight’s report he quite clearly states that you recovered the pilot’s bodies from the cockpit. Is that correct?”
Smith relaxed, having expected a rocket over the wholesale destruction of No2 hut’s electrical system, as undertaken by his pet Montague, since disappeared.
“Yes, Sir. Pettigrew and myself recovered the two of them.”
“From the flight crew seats?”
“Yes Sir.”
Viljoen cleared his throat very deliberately.
“Think hard about this, Flight Sergeant. Are you absolutely sure that both pilots were in the flight crew seats?”
The mental image that flashed up was immediately examined and confirmed his view, and was very quickly consigned back to the recesses of his mind, where all such awful memories should dwell.
“I’m absolutely positive, Sir.”
The Squadron Leader nodded softly.
“Where was Arsey found?”
The darker dungeons of his mind surrendered up another pictorial horror.
“In the galley, Sir.”
“Thank you for that, Smith. We’ll speak about your bloody rat and the wiring another time.”
Saluting smartly, Smith removed himself from the office and heard the occupant asking for the Base Intelligence officer as he closed the door.
As Smith set about the task of locating the errant rodent Montague, Flight Lieutenant Blackmore was gestured to a chair in his commander’s office.
“Blackie, I’m afraid there’s a problem with the report on NS-X.”
“Oh? I thought the whole thing was well-written and covered everything Skipper?”
“Yes, and thank our Lord it did or we would have missed something. See here.”
Viljoen passed the copy he had been reading, having circled the important part.
“Yes I see, very precise. Smith and Pettigrew recovered the pilot’s bodies.”
Viljoen held his peace, merely passing another report, similarly highlighted.
Blackmore read the short section, frown increasingly deeper with each word. He then held the two, one in each hand, his eyes flicking rapidly left and right, comparing facts in his mind.
“A mistake, Skipper?”
“I think not Blackie. Smith’s a solid type and I’ve just pressed him on the matter. He sticks by that. Can’t speak to Pettigrew until he’s back obviously.”
Pettigrew had been granted urgent leave to return to the mainland where his mother was dying.
“Error by the wireless op?”
“I don’t see how that’s possible Blackie, do you?”
It took but a few moments for Blackmore to deal with that one.
“The operator’s message is very distinct, naming Crozier as flying the aircraft. He’d be able to see the flight deck from his position.”
More silence as two sharp brains worked the possibilities.
Blackmore spoke aloud. More to ensure he was thinking matters through correctly.
“We’ve information, via the radio op, stating that Crozier was flying the aircraft. We’ve a report from Pettigrew, supported by Smith, stating categorically that the two pilots were removed from the flight deck seats.”
His frown was as deep as could be, then his hairline jerked upwards as the muscles in his forehead took everything in the opposite direction.
“Clearly, someone’s wrong. Obviously, there has to be a mistake.”
Viljoen shook his head slowly, halting his Intelligence Officer.
“And what if they’re both right, Blacky?”
“Both right, Skipper?”
The Squadron Leader nodded.
“Well, then I suppose,” Blackmore spoke slowly, giving his brain time to unravel the simple possibility that Viljoen had dangled in front of him, “Someone in the crew was alive and put them back in their proper places out of respect?”
“Not quite what I was thinking, Blackie. Or?”
More mental unravelling took place.
“Or, someone else did so. Hang on a… pilots belong in the palace. Are you suggesting that someone else put the pilots on the flight deck, Skipper?”
“Of course not. That would be totally mad. Give me another alternative.”
Blackmore missed the little edge in Viljoen’s tone.
“I don’t have one, Skip.”
“Neither do I at the moment. So, is it possible that the aircraft put down near the submarine and they did it for some reason?”
Blackmore had started to shake his head before his CO had finished.
“The geography and timings don’t work for that. The attack and sinking took place way up north. We’re talking about right against the Irish coast here.”
“Aren’t we just, man,” the South-African character suppressing the RAF Officer just for the shortest moment.
“Ok, Skipper. I’ll see what I can rustle up with my contacts and I’ll have a chat with the Doc after church parade tomorrow. I was just over at the OK Corral and he wasn’t there. The orderly didn’t know where he was. I’ll search him out and get him to have another gander at the poor sods before we say our goodbyes. I’m off to the St Lucia this evening for a spot of lunch and the monthly intel exchange.”
Viljoen had forgotten that.
“I’ll have a chat with some chaps there and see if we can come up with something for you, Skipper.”
“I’ll be making arrangements with Sacred Heart for Wednesday, Blackie.”
“We’ll have something for you by then, I’m sure, Skipper.”
The snow had not yet visited itself upon the Emerald Isle, but the weather was bad enough that it started to affect the comings and goings at RAF St Angelo.
Twenty-two minutes later than expected, a USAAF C-47 touched down at the County Fermanagh airbase and two American officers dismounted. After salutes and handshakes were exchanged with a British Army Captain, the American Colonel and his ADC were spirited away in one of two Austin staff cars set aside for those arriving. Their driver was a thin WAAF Sergeant with a face and disposition that only a mother could love.
Some forty-five minutes previously, an RAF Airspeed Oxford had landed more heavily, disgorging four shaken men. They received a similar service from the harridan and her fellow WAAF driver.
No sooner had the pair of Austins returned than the final visitors made their appearance.
A Lockheed Hudson in the livery of 54 Squadron RAF Coastal Command gently dropped to the tarmac and disgorged two shadowy figures that disappeared into an Austin at speed.
An experienced air force observer might have questioned that the aircraft was a Hudson Mark I, a type no longer flown by 54 Squadron. However, the subterfuge was, and always had been, sufficient to maintain the secrecy required by its users.
The Hudson had changed hands in 1942. It had once been a USAAF crewed aircraft that got into difficulty and landed on unfamiliar territory. That then changed its destiny. The crew were interned and the aircraft was taken into service by the new owners, Repainted in RAF markings, the maritime patrol aircraft was well suited to the clandestine purpose to which it was put.
An aircraft of the Irish Air Corps would attract too much attention and promote too many questions, whereas a version in RAF colours was very suited to the transporting of important people in secret.