‘These cabs cost a lost of money,’ someone said.
‘So does a pilot,’ Hob said and left them. He needed to get his head down. He was still resentful at the way he had been confronted by Craddock, with no suggestion that Hob should ease up for a spell. He wasn’t sick, was he? Gamble would carry on flying his next sortie as usual — and, when he was off-duty, he could prepare his written report on the loss of 827. Craddock knew as well as anyone that those six hours off duty were essential for rest. The six hours boiled down to four — an hour debriefing after landing and another kitting up and briefing before taking-off again. Aircrews were flying round the clock now screening Mother.
Hob turned in, thankful to be on his own, for his cabin mate was flying. For the first time since joining the ship, Hob put on his pyjamas. He wanted sleep if he was going to be able to keep up this pace. When the action hotted up, no doubt he would turn in in his clothes and Mae West. Tonight, until he was shaken at 0200, he would remain civilized. He turned on his side, away from the red lightning from the flat outside.
The interview with Wings, Little F and the CO had been formal and unpleasant.
Craddock had blamed 827’s loss squarely on Hob’s negligence; not a word about 827 being instrumental in sinking the SSN, perhaps in saving Oileus and Brazen; nothing about the torpedoes exploding beneath the cab. There was nothing Little F or the CO could do. Hob swore silently. He was losing his cooclass="underline" no better way of ensuring that he would be sub-standard for his next sortie in a few hours time. The worst result of Craddock’s decision was the resolute reaction from the aircrewmen.
All the older men, after they had seen Wally Gooch in sick bay, had trooped along to see the fleet chief aircrewman to represent their distaste for the. manner in which 827’s crew was being treated. Ostensibly, their complaint was that Gooch had been seriously injured in some mysterious way and that the pyrotechnics must be unstable — an argument which obviously could not stand up.
Evidently they were trying to show that their loyalty belonged to their pilots and observers. There was a deep feeling of comradeship in the squadron, but this incident was becoming serious.
The aircrewmen were hinting that they might refuse to fly, a threat eagerly fanned in the messes by types like Foulgis, of whose existence the fleet chief was well aware. It was making things awkward for Hob who, unwittingly, had become the victim for their misguided support. To prevent the protest from going further, Hob had sent for Osgood and asked him to make up the crew for the 0300 sortie. The sturdy Devonian said he was ready to fly.
Hob felt bloody-minded tonight. Was this what war was like? Must cold, impersonal professionalism be the only formula by which a modern, complex military arm could operate? The courage, the character of the man himself seemed to have less and less bearing upon the ultimate issue these days. He had often discussed this development with Allie; in the early days, they had agreed that this was why he enjoyed serving in the Fleet Air Arm, where the man counted more than in other branches, save perhaps for the submariners… What would she be doing now? It was almost 2200 out here in the Atlantic, so it would be midnight in Wendron where she would be asleep in their bedroom overlooking the patchwork of the Wendron moors. He tried to recall her face but, as always, found her ephemeral image difficult to visualize.
Events were escalating even now: the RAF and Norwegian fighter-bombers’ raid had proved abortive in spite of the gallantry with which the attacks were pressed home. Yesterday a Tomahawk attack on Polyarnyy was carried out by one of the latest of the Los Angeles class SSNS but the HE heads were useless against the reinforced pens. The Kremlin had warned that if nuclear warheads were used against their naval bases, the Soviet would retaliate in kind. To emphasize their point, HE missiles were plummeting within the hour upon Newport News and Norfolk. The missiles could have originated only from Echo ii SSNS, firing — Shaddocks from the us seaboard. This instant retaliation seemed to have halted escalation temporarily, but the many civilian casualties were provoking a howl for revenge….
During these past few hours, disturbing reports had been coming in via the satellite which was now above the horizon: apparently, convoy PH-LH 4 was steaming head-on into a phalanx of submarine attacks from both torpedoes and missiles. The ships were carrying the first reinforcements for Europe; this Le Havre convoy was critical, bringing ammunition, tank and troop reinforcements.
Hob had come away from the ops room worried and depressed. How could these determined Soviet submarine attacks fail, with so many targets at which to loose their missiles?
Hob turned on his side and faced the bulkhead. Exhaustion numbed his thoughts until sleep overcame him.
Hob remembered, afterwards, the shuffle of footsteps outside his door, felt the thudding of feet on the deckhead above him. He remembered, too, trying to distinguish the time on the luminous dial of his watch; another hour before they were to shake him at 0200. He must have dropped off again, because it was 0120 before the unaccustomed silence woke him from his sleep — like home after a spell at sea, when he couldn’t sleep for the first night because of the silence.
Now, all he could hear was the huffing of the ventilation. He rolled from his bunk, Hung on his clothes and hurried up the ladders towards the bridge; he would make for the starboard wing on the opposite side from Flyco, to discover what was going on: if the ship was at action stations he would have heard the bugle or the rattlers. He shoved against the screen door and stepped out on to the wing, in the lee from the wind. It was cold; he should have worn his sweater. He raised his hand to shield his eyes from the brightness of the searchlight projector being trained behind him by a signalman. Hob could hear the hissing of the arcs and the blue-white beam was blinding as it swept across the sea down the starboard side.
‘What’s up?’ Hob asked the starboard lookout who was sweeping the horizon through binoculars. An oblong ellipse appeared on the surface of the sea where the white horses were curling lazily.
The lookout lowered his glasses and Hob saw the surprise in the man’s eyes: ‘Man overboard, sir’, he said. ‘It’s been twenty minutes now.’
He jammed the eyepieces back into his eyes as an armed landing craft butted into the ellipse of blue light. Hob saw the calcium flares spluttering in the cold, green sea where they streamed from the empty lifebuoy. Then a second ALC forged into sight, its ramp fringed by Royal Marines searching for the missing man.
Someone was out there righting for his life, able to see the ship as he yelled to attract attention … and then Hob heard the loudspeaker blaring behind him from the screen:
‘Lieutenant Gamble, Lieutenant Gamble — 394.’
Hob’s stomach dropped. He swung open the screen door and darted into the met. office where he could dial the number.
‘Lieutenant Gamble here.’
‘Master-at-arms, sir. You should be in the wardroom for the muster.’
Hob caught the reproach in the jaunty’s voice. He clattered down the ladders to the wardroom, where he expected a jocular reception but, as he rushed along the passageway, the door burst open. The first of the officers were streaming back to their cabins.
‘What’s up?’ Hob asked the petty officer steward who was emerging from the pantry.
‘No one adrift, sir,’ he said. ‘That hoaxer again.’
‘Happened before?’
‘Yes, sir. Third time this commission. Someone’ll get killed. Excuse me, sir,’ and he hurried for’d towards his mess.
Hob waited for the crush to subside before entering the ante-room. It was 0150, so it would be pointless to turn in again before the 0230 briefing. He slumped on to the settee and stared around the empty ante-room. He would grab himself a cup of cocoa from the crew’s mess-roorn. He was about to leave when the loudspeaker snicked on above him: