‘I’m putting her down, sir,’ Hob announced sharply. In a few seconds, the helicopter pad would be obliterated by the dust clouds from the collapsing buildings.
Chapter 4
Last night, when she had finally shut the door of the spare room on him, Gwen had told Ozzie that there would be no lie-in for either of them — and she had been dead right. She devoted her Saturday mornings to giving a thorough going-over of her new home, 17 Cunningham Street. She was having to work full time after her husband, Niv Fane, died in the Icarus incident, but today, if Oz could help her by doing the shopping, she could farm off the children to her parents for the afternoon and evening.
Thomas Osgood, now Leading Aircrewman Osgood, whistled as he closed the gate behind him, that drawbridge protecting Gwen and him from the realities of existence. Since Niv’s death she had withdrawn inside herself; however gently her neighbours tried to settle her into this new neighbourhood, she still kept up the barriers.
Osgood pulled up the collar of his blue anorak and squared his cap firmly. The Seahawk cap ribbon was respected in Devonport and gave a man a head start over those still sporting the Drake emblem — but he was still selfconscious about wearing his DSM. The northerly wind cut through him as it whistled down the street from off” the moors. The shopping-bag swung from his hand as he strode down the hilclass="underline" walking to the supermarket would give Gwen more time.
It seemed three years, not three months, since his survivor’s leave. The only other Icarus man whom he bumped into was Lieutenant Gamble, the Lynx pilot who had encouraged him to transfer to the Fleet Air Arm. The pilot had been pleased to see him, and had already heard of Osgood’s winning his wings as a newly-fledged aircrewman.
The going had been tough — the training of an aircrewman in peacetime took almost six months, but the Icarus incident had jolted the Navy on to a war footing. By cutting out some of the less important ingredients in the training, an aircrewman now completed the course in three months. Under these war time conditions Culdrose was concentrating on only the tactical essentials: winch operation and general aircrewmanship. Then one had to choose SAR missile aimer, ‘Junglie’ (working with the Royal Marine Commandos) or ASW sonar operator. Osgood had not regretted opting for the latter — the impending battle in the Atlantic might be becoming hot at any moment. The Navy’s task would be to sink every Soviet submarine it could.
He had enjoyed his course, particularly the last few weeks spent in 706 Squadron where the training became relevant for the first time. After the Portland training he had become part of the team, hunting ping-running submarines in the exercise areas of the Western Approaches.
For the first time, he felt that he was personally affecting events: the success or failure of a submarine hunt depended upon his and the observer’s skill. The aircrewman was an indispensable member of the front-line team. The chopper boys competed with the submariners as the creme de la creme of the Royal Navy.
‘Hi, Oz!’
Turning into the doors of the supermarket, Osgood bumped into one of the maintainers with whom he had ganged up at Culdrose. The man was grinning as he awkwardly introduced the blonde clinging to his sleeve.
‘Heard the buzz, Oz?’
Osgood shook his head cautiously.
‘Our PO reckoned there’d be a general recall after this morning’s news.’
‘Bulgarians going into Turkey?’
‘S’right, and the PO said we’d better check up with our authorities.’
‘Have you been through yet?’ Oz asked. ‘To Seahawk?’ ‘Too busy,’ the sailor said. He winked and the girl giggled. ‘See you, Oz,’ and the maintainer merged with the stream of shoppers shuffling from the store.
Osgood loathed supermarkets, especially on Saturday mornings. But then, he’d been lucky to get this weekend: he was escaping the bull of an admiral’s inspection, but he ought to ring the base after this morning’s news. At least he could share this afternoon with Gwen. The memory of the misery he had experienced during those first days of his survivor’s leave was still like a knife-thrust in his guts. He had paid a last visit to the flat in Roborough where his wife, Merle, had left him, taking their daughter with her. But new tenants were already installed and he had slunk away, undecided whether to get drunk or to find his way back to barracks. He had tried to put Gwen Fane out of his mind, for he hadn’t heard from her since he had handed her the ring which they’d prised from Niv’s finger. He still felt embarrassed when he remembered breaking down in front of her. She had just been widowed and needed strength as much as he did — but it was she who had been rocklike, offering her friendship, if ever he needed it.
So he had decided to track her down during his survivor’s leave, and found her in her new home, a Victorian semi in Cunningham Street. It was, he supposed, their loneliness and unhappiness which had drawn Gwen and him together. During those first days, their need for comfort and reassurance had been mutual and unspoken. But as the weeks went by and their caution wore off, their friendship became more natural. Neither had asked for much, yet slowly they had become very fond of each other. He admitted to himself, now, that he had always intended to see Gwen again. Last night, for the first time, they had tentatively discussed the future, a tomorrow beset by the imminence of war; it was she who had hinted that life might be better if they could share it. Gwen was a mature woman in comparison with Merle and she had a mysterious attraction to which he could put no words. How he wanted her now, a thousand times more than he had lusted for Merle.
He tossed the loaves of sliced bread on top of the trolley and joined the supermarket pay queue. He’d be lucky to get back to Gwen before midday-bloody hell — and this might be their last afternoon together for months. Why, for Pete’s sake, shouldn’t he ask her to marry him? Stupider things had been done before. He knew now, during those long evenings in the mess, that life was bloody without her. Perhaps, if she wouldn’t marry him, she might live with him? But no, he knew without asking that only marriage would do — Suddenly he heard the loud speakers blaring an announcement above the shoppers’ heads. The 3’ manager was telling them that the Prime Minister would be on television at one o’clock. There was a moment’s silence and then some wag shouted something Osgood could not hear. There was a ripple of laughter around the store. At last it was his turn. He paid up and left the place, the shopping-bag in one hand and a bulging carton tucked beneath his other arm.
It was 1150 when the bus put him down at Armada Close. There was time for a pint across the road at the Admiral Bruce Fraser and he could call Seahawk from there. As he crossed the road, he caught sight of the red telephone-box standing on its own at the corner. Osgood set the shopping against the metal frame of the door and pushed his way inside. Three minutes later he was through to the regulating office at Culdrose.
‘Leading Aircrewman Osgood? Yes. You’re right — general recall. Report back to base immediately … got it?’
‘Yes, Chief
He put down the receiver. Bloody hell — As he turned for the door a violent shock blasted his ears; and then there was the roar of a gigantic explosion from the direction of the dockyard. It was followed by another, then another, each nearer than the last. He stood transfixed, waiting. Instinctively he shoved his back against the door of the booth when a stunning explosion erupted about him.
He heard the shattering glass, felt the pain in his ears and the searing heat.
He grabbed at the ledge of the coin box. The world was spinning and he heard a roaring like an express train in a tunnel… and then he blacked out.