It was impossible to tell one element from another, and I returned to search the band of hope on the radio, thinking that even to contact an enemy would be better than hearing no one. But when clipped morse spoke our signal letters, I let the magic eye wink on. Sweat melted as I got his zone of silence, the goniometer indicating him well to the southwest, where we hoped he was steaming towards the position given in our false report. I informed Bennett. The ship’s call decreased in strength as the mountains faded his signals. Bennett laughed at the success of his ruse, then ordered me to close down the radio.
The boat was held steady while Nash took a back-bearing on Hallet Island. He subtracted 49 degrees magnetic variation, and passed it to the skipper, who centred the plane for the narrows leading to the Tucker Straits. Granite slabs shelved up fifteen hundred feet along both shores, and funnelled us towards the spectacular slopes of Mount Sinai. So formidable on the journey in its fight against storm clouds, the Aldebaran now felt like reinforced cardboard, and I expected to break through the floor when the cliff struck, feet following head to suffocation under water.
We went over brown tentacles of kelp, weaving along the sleeve of the fjord and unable to see out of it. The interior of the plane seemed to darken as Bennett coaxed our hundred-foot wingspan to where it looked impossible to get through, and instead of crumbling like cardboard the old kite was urged into a forty-degree turn. I noted gulls’ nests built into the cliffs, the channel about to close forever. But Bennett flew as if he had all the space in the world, and my fear was subdued by a sudden and total confidence.
Nash came from the rear turret, and ambled up the ladder bearing the hand compass like an Olympic torch. Our way widened to an ample stretch of water, but one which seemed without exit, whose walls would cut us off from the rest of the world. We went to our stations. Veering to starboard, there were neither markers nor buoys to line up on. Rocks dotted the surface, the water calm in its protected state. We must get down without damage, or never lift off again. ‘Don’t make me cry,’ said Nash. ‘We’ve enough tools on board to rebuild the bloody thing if it prangs.’
Wilcox was going through the landing procedure with Bennett, free of his cough. Full flap and throttle back. There was no circuit, just a straight-in approach along the middle of the mile-wide water. Among the alien minefield, Bennett quipped. No rocks or snags. Going down. The channel widened. No side slip.
A wind struck beam on, rippling the water. There was one direction for landing. To try the opposite would set us among the whizz-bangs. ‘Must have been there when the sub came in with its gold,’ Nash added. ‘But the sub went out by the back door, through which the fuel ship will come to us.’
‘Can’t see any door.’
‘Nobody ever can.’ He pointed: ‘It’s in the fold of that cliff, I expect.’
Use what run you need. Not too slow. Ease back. No side slip. A touch of power on the inners. Everyone held breath, as if giving more to Wilcox whose lungs were working over the intercom, said Bull, like a bilge pump on a sinking ship. Engines and water roared. A scrape tickled my feet, but getting down so soon was too much to hope for. A glance outside, and we were taxi-ing, full flap, inner engines cut, lost in a cloud of spray tracking along the surface.
Bennett kept her moving towards a patch of sand where the anchor might grip. Getting out would be no problem, said Nash. ‘I’ve no intention of going for a Burton. Not on this bloody operation, anyway. We’d cut loose if need be.’ A slight swell developed. There were black rocks under the surface, but Bennett had an eye for sand where a stream pushed its grit into the fjord, a bay for protection from swell and storms. The engines idled. A smell of fresh snow and wet slate rushed from high ground, and jackets were fastened. I pulled in the deepest breath of my life.
The island coastline, with scores of inlets, bays and zigzagging fjords would make it impossible for anyone to find us. Bennett summed up our situation after he stopped engines. He was laughing. So were we all. I thought he would do a dance of triumph. We heard our voices again, and laughed at the fact that we were shouting. Even if they suspect we’re here it’ll take weeks to find us, by which time we’ll be away. He told Nash to let go the anchor, then passed an uncapped whisky flask to Wilcox, who doubled up from coughing and was unable to drink. So the rest of us had a stab at it.
Nash saw the heap of steel chain diminish into six fathoms. We drifted, and wondered whether the anchor had bitten. The shore receded. Anxiety was tangible as to whether the chain would snap, or the anchor drag. ‘At this stage,’ Nash said, ‘there’s no difference between mishap and catastrophe.’
With a slight tug, the boat was secure, and only then did I say to myself that we were safe.
PART THREE
1
Nash stayed on boat-watch with Wilcox and Armatage, and kept us covered from the mid-upper in case Bennett’s party of Appleyard, Bull, Rose and myself were sniped at as we rowed ashore in one of the dinghies. The shelving beach of black and yellow sand was peculiar to stand on, as if the surface was covered with grains of rubber. Solid land did not seem as firm as I had imagined it when airborne, and I felt as uneasy as if I had just stepped out of a prison. My joke about D Day found no takers.
The steep slope to our left ended at a huge black cliff, while the rock-strewn land to the right, gentle at first, gathered itself sharply into the cleft of a watercourse. After the yellowing green of sparse vegetation, the sandy beach gave way to pumice and basalt. Only occasional groups of whalers and shipwrecked sailors had ever stayed on such terrain. No settled society had made a go of it, which was strange considering the world’s turmoil, and the fact that the island provided coal and cabbage, fish and fowl in fair quantity. But I suppose that basic sustenance wasn’t enough when contact with the rest of the world was lacking.
Bennett paced senselessly along the sand, occasionally stopping to kick at the gravel. He lifted his flying-booted foot up and down, as if exercising because of the cold wind, but I suppose he wanted to confirm that he stood on the island he had dreamed about for years. I wondered how his expectations tallied with reality, but they seemed to match neatly enough, judging by his expression. He picked up gravel and threw it down, then lifted a piece of rock and looked at it so intently I couldn’t tell whether he would kiss or eat it.
We pulled the dinghy up the beach and unloaded a rifle, primus stove, food, spades, two surveyor’s poles and the theodolite with its tripod. Bull examined the re-entrant through binoculars. ‘I hope we don’t have to scramble up that.’ Low cloud brought a north-east drizzle, and we shivered around the tarpaulin sheet as if the stores it covered would give warmth. Surf bumped against the beach, and Bennett, in his grit-kicking demoniac progress, was beyond recall in the rising wind, cap on, back hunched and – the only encouraging sign – jacket collar turned up for warmth. Every minute or two he ranged in a wider circle, then shook his head and went on.
The world was empty of voices till Appleyard said: ‘It might take him days. Pity there’s nothing to get a fire going with.’
Rose up to now had seemed oblivious to all of us: ‘You want a coal fire in a lovely grate, do you?’
‘Your bloody voice grates.’
‘You’d like to turn the dinghy upside down and make a hut out of it, and get it snug inside and play castaways till some nice sailing ship comes by for the rescue? Wouldn’t we all?’
Appleyard sat on a slab of rock, but the surface was running with water, so he leapt upright as if nipped by a crab. He looked away from Rose, unable for the moment to face the terrible scar. I regretted their antagonism, yet it was a comforting reminder of human warmth still among us, stuck as we were in the raw air which seemed to peel off the emotional protection we had known in the flying boat. I wanted to be back on board and listening to my radio. Rose was irritated at having to undo his flying jacket to reach pipe and tobacco.