The tone of voice alerted Peter. The PO did not like Harker.
“No. Familiarisation flight, PO.”
“Ah! Learning, sir. Quite a lot to learn yet, sir.”
That was all the criticism a petty officer could give of an officer. It was enough.
“Thank you, Baxter. I’ll bear that in mind.”
And that was as much as an officer could say in response.
Peter stepped up into the cockpit, glanced about him. Thermos flask wedged into the corner of the seat. Binoculars in their leather case tied to an upright in the low wooden and canvas wall. Packet of sandwiches, official issue bully beef and piccalilli, wrapped in greaseproof paper and tucked into a leather carrying pocket. Everything he required ready to hand. He sat down and checked the yoke, watching the fins, head craned around behind him to see them move. All correct. Ready to go.
“All in order, Mr Harker?”
“Yes, sir. I should jolly think so, sir!”
He made no reply, looked out to the Chief Petty Officer in charge of the ground party.
“Ready at your convenience, Chief.”
“You are next off, sir. You may start your engine.”
He checked the switches, shouted to Baxter to make the first swing.
The propellor turned and sucked in petrol. He set the magneto switches to ‘on’ and shouted again. Baxter gave a great heave on the tall propellor and the engine caught, the propellor spinning with it. Baxter gave a wave that all was well as he ran backwards.
A few seconds and Peter adjusted the mix, adding a little air, a process he would repeat over the first ten minutes until the engine was hot.
The Chief waved his flags and the ground party stood back and SS Nine started to lift away. Peter engaged the fins as he thought right for the wind and the nacelle lifted nose up in the rapid climb of a balloon.
A few seconds and he looked up from his few instruments and yelled to Harker to wind out the aerial.
The Sub did not move, sat rigid, hands grasping the coaming to either side.
“Harker! The wireless aerial! Now!”
“What? Yes. Sorry.”
Harker turned to the coil of wire beside him, tried to wind it in the wrong direction, shouted that it was jammed.
“Turn it the other bloody way!”
Two minutes and he had the wire trailing free.
“Inform base we are at height and commencing patrol.”
Harker sat uncertainly, tapping at the key on the transmitter.
“Put the earphones on!”
He picked up the headset and turned it round and eventually placed it to his ears. After five minutes or so he seemed satisfied that he had got through and turned to Peter, shouting over the noise of the engine.
“Don’t think much of the operator at base, sir. Ought to replace him. Kept asking me to repeat.”
“I’ll speak to him when we get back. For now, keep a lookout, front and starboard. I’ll take port.”
Harker seemed unwilling to lean forward, huddled back in his seat. Peter took up his glasses and scanned the sea as thoroughly as possible. He shouted again.
“We are on a course direct for the French coast, aiming for a point off Boulogne then down to Le Touquet and back to about three miles offshore of Brighton. Repeat the process in reverse and then go home.”
Harker showed no sign that he knew any of the locations.
Peter throttled back and they chugged across the Channel at a sedate thirty miles an hour, to aid observation, and then came back again, all the time with nothing in sight other than fishermen and a small gaggle of coasters working their way towards Dover.
“What’s the escort with that coastal convoy, Mr Harker?”
“Looks like an oily wad, sir. One of the old torpedo boat destroyers.”
Peter agreed. At least Harker’s ship recognition was adequate.
“What’s that out in the Channel, sir?”
Harker pointed to a very low ship, surrounded by spray, about five miles distant to starboard. Peter responded by hauling into as violent a turn as he could manage, setting Number Nine on a direct course for the vessel.
“It’s a sub. Going under. Make the sighting report.”
He thrust the throttle to full and urged the blimp forward, passed over the disturbed water a good five minutes after the submarine had disappeared.
Assuming four knots, the submarine should have made a bit more than three hundred yards, in any direction. If she had seen the convoy inshore, she would be turning towards it… He pulled the blimp round again and aimed for a spot about three hundred yards from the estimated point of submergence. He dropped two of the sixteen pounder bombs. The odds were that the old oily wad would not have a wireless set but the explosion of the bombs should alert her.
“Have you got an acknowledgement from Shoreham?”
“Not really, sir. Keep getting ‘repeat’, sir.”
“Send ‘engaged sub six miles off Brighton’. Clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
Peter waited until Harker looked up from the Morse key.
“Make, ‘escorting convoy eastbound’.”
Harker bent to the key again. The rattle sounded slow and unconfident.
“Have you got it, Harker?”
“Not really, sir. The man at the other end still keeps sending ‘repeat’, sir. I don’t think he knows what he’s doing.”
Peter kept close to the convoy, flying up and down to seaward for the remainder of the morning and early afternoon, binoculars quartering the sea in search for a periscope. They reached Folkestone and the ships turned into the harbour. The escort flashed a message by light.
“HMS Seaspite thanks us for our assistance, Mr Harker.”
“Oh, jolly good show, sir. Feather in our caps and all that.”
“Maybe so. A leg across the Channel and then it’s back to Shoreham for us.”
They saw nothing for two hours and eventually came in sight of the base.
“Request permission to come in, Mr Harker.”
A delay and Harker raised an exasperated face.
“It’s that same damned fellow, sir. All he will send is ‘repeat’.”
“Wind in the aerial. Carefully! That’s a green flare. We shall go in.”
Peter reduced speed to a crawl and pointed the blimp down towards the boundary of the field.
“Drop the trailing rope, Mr Harker. Grapnel first!”
Harker managed to get the rope over the side, coming close to following it as he struggled with its bulk. The ground party latched on and hauled SS Nine to the ground.
“Out you get, Harker. Our job ends here. Ground party will take her inside.”
Harker heaved himself over the edge of the cockpit and clumsily down, stamping his feet on the grass when he finally made it, as if relieved to be back.
“Indoors and get changed, Harker. Join me at the offices in ten minutes and we shall make our reports.”
Captain Fitzjames was sat at his desk, looking old and shrivelled, thoroughly unwell.
“Bit of a cold, Naseby. England in the spring!”
They laughed, Peter catching Commander Finlay’s eye and seeing the doubt there.
“Right, where’s this bloody sub got to? He’s had twelve minutes now and I heard you tell him ten, Naseby.”
The Commander was displeased – he expected better on active service. Another minute and he sent a rating to find Harker.
“Young Horrocks has accepted a commission, you will be glad to hear, Naseby. Had to speak to him – he had not thought about the possibility, had expected commissions for ratings to be no more than hot air. Anyway, he has put on a sublieutenant’s uniform and is discovering how he likes the feel of the wardroom.”
“Good. I shall sit him next to me at dinner, sir. Give him a friendly face at his side.”
Fitzjames thought that to be very good.
“A welcoming drink with the President of the Mess, no doubt.”