On my way to the wireless I examined Rose’s chart, and saw that his sharp pencil had written: ‘Not enough petrol for Colombo. God no longer with us.’
I laughed at such effrontery, wondering how long it was since God had been with anyone, never mind us. It seemed to me you had to be with Him, not Him with you. Rose didn’t think so, and I hoped his madness wasn’t catching. Was Bennett passing his insanity onto him via me, and was Rose, in sensing this, trying to push it back down my throat? Of course we had enough fuel for Colombo, if Bennett said so.
Perhaps the night was eating into my soul because it was the last through which I would live. I did not believe it. We were a cohesive crew, whether or not we had attempted one operation too many. Those bombing trips in the war had been undertaken from different motives and in another spirit, but what happened to one ricocheted through all, to test the strength of our mutual dependence. We were a pilot, navigator, wireless operator and two gunners, a competent team to work the plane on its final leg to safety. Wherever we set out for did not matter, and I couldn’t believe that Bennett would take risks with treasure that had already cost so much blood. To cut things fine was another matter. We had all done that a time or two in our lives.
I dozed, twiddled at the receiver and smoked a cigarette, walked to the galley and back, looked through the astrodome and saw one star above the gully in which we were stranded. Otherwise, I listened on the common frequency of distress and waited for the dawn. Though at peace, there was no understanding.
The naval operators swapped the strength of their signals, but on my own low frequency no one called. Whoever the other ship was, why did it observe radio silence? Silence was more ominous than a manifestation of sound. To the ear it was a lack, but a positive one, and had qualities which sound could never know about. With sound you had a clue to what was going on. Silence, though it kept you guessing, was a tactical weapon which could be used with double the effect of sound. All the same, silence worried me more than noise.
I kept my personal belongings in a hold-all by the radio, feet sometimes resting on it while at work. The Smith and Wesson was wrapped in underwear and spare clothes, and should Bennett call me to a duty that would transcend the rules of human behaviour – as it were – the gun might be of use. The body of the flying boat was cold, and after a premonitory pre-dawn shiver I reached to take out the gun. Having been much thrown about since beginning the trip, and rummaged in for changes of clothes, the bag was not in a tidy state. Allowed only one piece of luggage, it was also large, and wondering why the pistol was not there, I heard an ear-splitting clap of noise in the distance which sounded like a salvo of anti-aircraft fire in the war.
Meteorologically, nothing surprised me. On the line of the Antarctic Convergence two antipathetic systems produced weather quick to change and impossible to predict. A summer thunderstorm, at whatever part of the day, caused no surprise. Those with more experience believed it to be no such thing and, as I wondered why the revolver I had packed so carefully was missing, several more echoing clouts erupted which could be nothing less than cannonfire.
‘Somebody’s hitting the flak,’ Nash shouted. I fumbled in my kit, unable to imagine what was happening till I heard the awesome rhythm of an SOS coming out of the earphones.
Appleyard, with the reflection that some poor sod was getting it over Hamburg, levered himself into the mid-upper in the hope that the view might explain where the gunfire was coming from. The clack and follow-up along the fjord and over the heights was like trains leaving a station and going in different directions across the sky. There was six-tenths cloud at 4000 feet, and visibility was good for take-off. A floorcloth of cloud was about to wipe the ridgeline of the mountains clean.
My hand shook as I wrote. The operator was separating the SOS letters instead of running the dots and dashes together, indicating that he had not sent one before, and probably not heard one, either. ‘SHIP FIRED AT STOP SHOTS ACROSS BOWS STOP BUT NOT STOPPING STOP POSITION 4901 SOUTH 6910 EAST WAIT WAIT WAIT’ – a sense of humour to the end.
A fast modern steamer came out of the dawn and ordered the Difda by lamp to heave-to and accept a boarding party. Captain Ellis told his flash-man to send something he wouldn’t dare say in front of his mother, and the operator added a few unprintabilities of his own, which puzzled the other ship whose signaller didn’t understand that kind of English.
I tore the sheet from the pad and took it to Bennett in his room. He shaved before a mirror, insistent to the end, in spite of the gunfire, on being the smart captain, while the Difda, having kept her part of the bargain, was being pounded to ashes in the next fjord. ‘I should at least tell him we’re getting the message, Skipper.’
‘You’ll do no such thing. He’s being attacked because it’s thought he has the gold on board. They don’t know about us. They have their suspicions, but won’t know for certain unless you do something bloody silly.’ He laughed at how the play was working to our advantage. His luck could not have been better if he had planned everything with God Almighty. There is no one more cynical than he who is always lucky – at least so he seems to those who get in his way. That he never thinks himself merely fortunate is part of his cynicism. ‘Isn’t there anything we can do for them?’
When he wiped his face a fleck of soap fell across the dead dragonfly not yet removed. ‘We have neither bombs nor depth charges. They’ve got an 88-millimetre by the sound of it, not to mention a couple of seaplanes. You should be glad we’ve got the Difda as a decoy. While it’s being dealt with we’ll up anchor and away. When they find that the Difda has no gold they’ll come for us with greed and murder in their hearts. It’s time to get weaving.’
I too wanted the scheme to work, and caught his smile of satisfaction in the mirror as he ringed his neck with collar and tie. His expression said that each move had been planned. While knowing that Fate could not work eternally in anyone’s favour, he may well have sat down months ago and plotted as far forward as possible. Optimism and hard work made each event come to pass, and so drew me as much under his spell as the rest of the crew.
But I refused to believe in him, and maintained a small area of freedom by telling my fellow operator on the Difda that he was being heard. If Bennett and all of us paid the price of my disobedience, or stupidity, or integrity, it was because my actions were as much out of my control as Bennett’s were out of his.
I continued to search my hold-all, and had to conclude that the revolver was missing, which meant that if Bennett told me to account for my actions (in the same way that Armatage might have been ordered to say his prayers before the promised execution) I would be defenceless. Perhaps Armatage had taken the pistol, in which case he would be able to look after himself, a solacing thought as I worked at my radio to receive what details I could of the Difda’s tribulation.
Bennett did not think to ask why the ship continued sending, otherwise he might have guessed that it was because I encouraged the operator to do so. In any case, did he really expect me to put a bit of cardboard between the contacts of the key? My occasional letter R was not a long enough exposure for our direction to be fixed, and the Difda was not sending for my benefit alone, but to any other ship which might hear and go to his assistance.
‘STRUCK AMIDSHIPS STOP MAKING FOR COVE 485930 SOUTH STOP BOARDING PARTY ON WAY STOP GUN FIRING FROM DECK TWO SEAPLANES ALSO ON DECK STOP WAIT WAIT WAIT.’ Then came the request: ‘DO SOMETHING STOP GET GOING.’