Rafer Crozier didn’t much care for being called Arsey, but it didn’t pay to point that out, for obvious reasons.
“Don’t think so, Skip. Dusty was the only one to have the goose, wasn’t he?”
The local procurer of all things, Niall Flaherty, had slipped such a beast to the camp cooks for a small consideration. In contravention of standing orders on air crews meals, Miller had wangled a portion of the well hung goose, prior to flight ops.
“Maybe you have a point, Arsey. Best we keep quiet then, eh?”
Another voice resonated through the intercom.
“Contact Skipper. Starboard 30. One thousand yards. Wreckage.”
Flight Sergeant Peter Viljoen’s crisp and concise report interrupted the great Goose discussion, as Cox wiped his hands clean on his life preserver, and took back command of the aircraft, releasing Crozier to crane his neck in the direction of the sighting.
“Contact confirmed Skipper, Starboard 35, One thousand yards. Wreckage, and lots of it too.”
Cox spoke to the crew.
“Pilot to crew. OK fellahs, close up now, and keep your eyes peeled. Turning for a low level run over the site now. Sparks, get off a report to base right now. Magic, pass Sparks the position please.”
Both radio operator and navigator keyed their mikes with an acknowledgement, as the port wing dipped to bring the lumbering seaplane around for a west-east run across the wreckage.
Whilst some of the crew used binoculars to probe the floating evidence of recent combat, others remained with eyes firmly glued elsewhere, seeking out the tell-tale plume of a periscope, or a glint of sun on the wing of an aircraft.
Nose-gunner Viljoen was first up again, professionally, and matter-of-factly, at first, then rising in pitch and excitement, as his eyes worked out the details of what he was seeing.
“Contact dead ahead, 500 yards. Dinghy in the water. Men onboard, Skipper, there’s men onboard! They’re waving!”
“Roger Dagga. How many?”
“Hard to say Skipper. Five, maybe more. Looks like a standard issue navy dinghy, and I will bet a pound to a pinch of pig shit that they are navy uniforms, Skipper.”
The reason behind Viljoen’s nickname was lost in time, but he was Dagga to everyone, including 201’s Squadron Leader, although, in fairness, that may have been because they were brothers.
Sparks came back with a message, confirming the passing on of the location report, leaving Cox free to concentrate on his fly past.
His first sweep had been at full speed but, with the absence of any adverse reports, Cox turned his aircraft, and throttled back to permit closer examination.
He saw the waving men in the dinghy himself, and believed he saw others in the water, whose only motion was caused by the shifting of the sea.
‘Poor bastards.’
“What’s the latest on Dusty, please?”
A slight delay, and the metallic voice of Rawson, one of the gunners, responded with negative news.
The pilot did not welcome being single handed for the entire flight.
“Bollocks with an egg on top.”
His favourite expletive, and one that always puzzled those who heard it.
”Arsey, I need a hand up here. Pass your guns onto someone will you.”
“Roger, Skipper.”
Crozier looked away from his waist guns, and saw Rawson moving forward.
“All yours, Tiger,” and Crozier slapped the gunner on the shoulder, as he headed towards the stairs, that rose up to the flight deck.
Rawson had been nicknamed ‘Sid’ at a young age, for reasons best known to God, and his friends in Mrs Oosterhuis’ class. That label survived until the first time that 246 Squadron’s Operations officer had placed his initials up on the crew roster.
By the time those present had stopped laughing at G.R.R.R., ‘Sid’ was history, and ‘Tiger’ was born.
“Radar Contact, bearing 010, range approximately 95 miles, heading unknown, possibly south-south-west, Skipper.”
Magic Malan’s report was delivered in his normal impersonal style. The type VIc Radar set was supposed to be capable up to 100 miles in the right circumstances, and Flight Sergeant Malan always seemed to coax the best out of the equipment.
Cox thumbed his mike.
“Busby, fit in with you at all?”
After the slightest delay the Navigator replied.
“Position could tie in with the Stord, Skipper.”
“Roger.”
Stord was a destroyer of the Royal Norwegian Navy, one of the array of vessels converging on the area.
Crozier slipped into the second seat, a place he often occupied. He had failed his pilot’s training, not on his ability behind the controls, but more on his inability with the required mathematics.
Lining up on the wreckage, Cox throttled back as much as he dared.
“Ok crew, Slow pass. Keep your eyes skinned.”
As the big flying boat did a leisurely flyover, Dagga and the rear-gunner, Van der Blumm, confirmed the presence of Naval personnel amongst the survivors, as well as many bodies floating on the surface.
“Skipper, radar target has changed course, now confirmed at 90 miles, heading 190. She changed course after Sparks lit up the airwaves.”
“Roger, Magic.”
Standing orders no longer permitted the Flying Boat to touch down and recover the Canadians, but as the Norwegian Navy was coming to the rescue, it just meant a few more hours on the water for the survivors.
“Dagga, use the Aldis. Let them know we can’t stop, but help is on its way. Witty, how long?”
Navigator Jason Witt was already prepared for the question, so his answer was immediate.
“Thanks, Witty. Four hours, Dagga. And wish them good luck. Sparks, send confirmed survivors at this location.””
The Sunderland circled slowly, as the Aldis lamp blinked out the message to the men below.
“Skipper, message sent.”
“Roger Dagga. Right, now let’s find the bastards who did this.”
For more, watch out for Book Four of the Red Gambit series, ‘Impasse’, which should be available by December 2013, on Amazon Kindle as a download, and createspace.com as a book.
