‘They called him other things,’ said Nash. ‘But for my part I never worried till it was necessary. By then you were walking on stilts and trying to stay alive!’
Time was also short for our pursuers, who could not decide which nook to comb. But they were persistent, and had plenty of fuel. Even before the whine of their engines, Bennett ordered Appleyard to the mid-upper, Nash to the tail and Rose to the front guns. Headphones got the buzz of swift aircraft out of my ears. Perhaps they’d return through the sunset, alight nearby and shoot their way on board while we were empty of fuel. Every minute of life was a God-given bonus, and the fact that nothing in my past seemed important more than paid for any danger I might be in.
A blackening cape blocked our view into the next stretch of water, like a prison-grille never to lift. Above, streaks of blood poured between bands of luminous green, letting in wind that scattered the mist. ‘Pray for half an hour of good visibility tomorrow.’ We told Nash we would do our best.
Fishes ruffling the water, and a few birds overflying. All I wanted to see was Armatage rowing from the shore, dinghy awash with brains, heart, tongue and liver of a leopard seal slain with his knobkerrie. We hoped our trackers weren’t adept at night-flying. In their place, Bennett would have been. Some light was bound to show while refuelling from the Difda. Nor did I like to think of any disruption to our tricky performance of getting airborne with over three thousand gallons of fuel on board.
A further letter K from me was responded to by ‘1/2’ – meaning a half hour to go before sighting. Passing the message to Bennett, I supposed that our signals, however brief, were being monitored, thus giving unmistakable confirmation of our presence in one of the island’s indentations. Effective radio silence was impossible on either side, for they too had revealed themselves.
Bennett said I would have to take an occasional turn at the knobs-and-levers now that we had lost Wilcox, and proceeded to instruct me in the duties of flight engineer. He produced papers and manuals and, after explaining a diagram of the fuel system – amended in red to include the tanks installed for extra long range – showed me the relevant gauges on the panel, the fuel pressure warning lights and oil temperature gauges, as well as items that I only half understood, and would not be able to remember. I was left with the Pilot’s and Flight Engineer’s Notes, and various other dog-eared publications, and told to gen up between now and morning. If anything puzzled me, I had only to ask. ‘Nash could do the job, but he’s likely to be more use as a gunner.’
I wondered whether such a flying boat had ever been flown by so few, and found it hard to believe that Wilcox could be effectively replaced.
13
When our supply ship moved around the headland as if lit up for VE Day Bennett ordered turrets to be manned. Darkness wasn’t down, and we could see each other without lights: whoever skippered the Difda must have thought his navigational feat in threading the fjord in such visibility deserved a campaign ribbon – and clasp. ‘Call the bloody fool up on the flashbox and ask him to show essential lights only – with my compliments. If he doesn’t pour water on ’em, we’ve had it. Sight on the bridge – if you can find it. I’ve never seen such a rotten old bucket.’
She had two masts, flagless rigging culled from a rubbish yard on the Medway, and funnel salvaged from a factory boiler after an air raid. All of us commented on such a random assembly of spare parts. Yet she had survived her journey and brought our juice. She seemed little bigger than the flying boat, but the distance was deceptive, and her size increased as she rolled on her way in calm water towards us.
I clicked Ks till the answering flash came, feeling a spillage of tension as soon as my fingers were still. Bennett was split between gratitude that the relief ship had arrived, and being ready to meet any treachery by having our machine guns sighted on her decks, as if he expected to see an Oerlikon spit shells, or boats rowed towards us by cutlass-toting jailbirds commanded by Long John Silver.
Acknowledgements from the Difda were prompt between each word. The signalman began his message with a light twice as powerful as my twelve-volt twinkle, proving by speed and rhythm that he was also a founder member of the Best Bent Wire brigade – acid test words which, if got through without a mistake, show that the ink on your ticket is not only dry but has long ago turned brown with age.
‘What does he say?’
‘He’ll comply – and sends his greetings.’
‘Tell ’em to anchor as close as need be for transfer of fuel.’
‘CLOSE IN FOR FUEL FEED,’ I sent.
Back came: ‘WE KNOW OUR JOB.’
‘What was that, Sparks?’
‘They’ll do it.’
‘What’s he saying now?’
‘The captain’s coming over to say hello as soon as they’ve anchored.’
‘Tell him he’s welcome.’
He flashed back thanks – TKS printed on my mind before reason separated each letter. I pictured a bearded old captain standing by the operator, a hook in place of his left hand, perhaps a corrugated cap whose crown had been worn through by his bald head, an obviously fierce gaze, and certainly a stubby pipe fouling the air but keeping his insides primrose-fresh. He gauged their way perfectly along the water, maintaining an exact position in mid-channel.
‘He knows how to take no chances.’ There was admiration in Bennett’s tone. The manoeuvres needed no passing of texts, so the operator flash-chatted gossip meant for us alone: ‘ONE OF YOUR BLOKES SIGNED ON.’
Bennett talked refuelling procedures with Nash at the top of the ladder, and neither saw me sweat:
‘NAME?’
‘SMITH.’
I sent back the wireless operator’s laugh, and he responded with: ‘NNNPD’ – meaning ‘no names no pack drill’. I pelted him with another laugh.
‘PICKED HIM UP FROM WATER.’
Must have rowed miles. Bennett stood by my shoulder, but the man was sending too fast for him to read. ‘What’s he saying?’
‘Only chatting, Skipper.’
‘Watch the plain language. Just tell them to get a move on.’
‘PROCEED SOONEST POSSIBLE.’ Then, as if repeating the message: ‘KEEP HIM STOP DEAD IF HE COMES HERE.’
‘DEAD ALREADY – DRUNK. DA DA DI DI DI DI DA DA.’
I laughed back, and imagined the blow-up if Bennett discovered Armatage to be nearer than was supposed – after his deft transfer of allegiance.
They took care not to foul our moorings, and Bennett considered them close enough at two hundred yards. From the ship’s bulk, exaggerated in new-born darkness, a message announced that Captain Ellis, the master, was on his way over. ‘DONT CROSS HIM OR HE WILL KNIFE YOU – LAUGH LAUGH.’
I visualized the shaking of hands as he stepped on board, one chief meeting another. The two men with him stayed in their boat, as if for a quick getaway. Going to the top of the steps I saw a small sandy-haired man of about forty wearing rimless glasses and smoking a cigarette, carrying an attaché case with initials on the side that were not his own. He looked around our domain. ‘Nice little world you’ve got. Bit like the inside of a cardboard giant. How many crew?’
Bennett told him.
His laugh was forced, and dry. ‘A one-watch ship, eh? Show me over the place. It’s my first time on a thing like this.’ He was an agile ladder-climber, and I moved out of his track so that Bennett could explain the flight deck panels. He drew his finger across the chart table, as if it were covered in dust, and glanced at my radio place as if I weren’t sitting there. ‘How is your survey work?’