to him. And he cannot take it any longer – the relentless inevitability of it all.
Jack does not stop running until he reaches Carl’s door. He hammers and hammers, and eventually it opens, a narrow crack through which Mr Mills is peering. The man is not happy to see him, but Carl is there in the corridor, and he whispers quietly to his father, who eventually moves aside.
Jack does not care that his eyes are red and his grubby face is streaked with tears. He reaches out to Carl. ‘Can I come?’ he asks. ‘Can I still come with you?’
And Carl pulls him inside, where it is bright and warm and he feels the weight of his friend’s arm across his shoulder.
Charlie braces himself against the heavy swell. The Atlantic Ocean stretches mile after choppy mile in every direction – every crinkle in every wave could hide a U-boat. The first British ship was sunk out here in the North-western Approaches, just hours after Chamberlain’s radio broadcast, and not much later than the sleeper train was pulling away from London towards Inverness all those days ago. It was an unarmed passenger ship, torpedoed as the evening meal was being served.
He scans the flight deck, flat apart from the island with its shiny black pom-pom guns. What a sight an aircraft carrier is! She carries the might of fifteen hundred men and more than fifty folded planes anywhere in the world, transporting them safely in her enormous belly like a battle-ready whale.
Charlie steadies himself again: even a ship this size bounces like a cork on these waves. The planes are being brought up on the lifts from below. This is what he’s been waiting for. No more exams. This is the real thing. Squadron 843’s stumpy Blackburn Skuas appear first. He scratches his head and runs his fingers through his hair. He’s glad he’s not flying one of these new fighter planes. Give him a good old-fashioned bi-plane and an open cockpit any day.
He shakes his legs and arms out to get the circulation going. His sheepskin-lined clothes are warm but cumbersome. He smiles to himself as he remembers target training. He has always been a good shot. Calm and steady, like his plane. And she may be slow, but boy, does she respond to his touch. He can make her do whatever he wants with the lightest pressure from his hands and feet. They can swoop and climb, turn and stop, bank, dive, soar, roll, loop the loop … although that’s a court martial, of course – if you’re caught.
‘Either you’re young and brilliant or young and stupid,’ one of his instructors had said.
‘A little bit of all three, I suspect, sir,’ he’d answered, grinning. But he isn’t. The one thing you can’t call Charlie is stupid. He’s sensible, and he can assess a situation in a split second. He knows what he’s capable of and he knows what his plane’s capable of. That’s why the training was a doddle.
‘Thinking about a pretty lady again, boyo?’ says Mole, his words whipped away by the wind.
‘You could say that,’ says Charlie. And actually, he has allowed himself to think of the girl from the train, but not out here on the flight deck. Here, he needs to focus. He slips his arms into the Mae West, wriggling to make it more comfortable on his shoulders. ‘Bloody thing,’ he says. ‘Too many damn straps and buckles and safety clips.’
‘Mind your language in front of young Billy the Kid,’ says Mole. He nods at the boy standing next to them. Bill is actually a little older than Charlie, but he seems younger without Charlie’s breezy self-confidence. He is their TAG. The plane’s telegraphist–air gunner. He is quiet and respectful. But then, he is only a lower-deck rating. He is also perpetually unflustered. Important if you find yourself in a sticky situation.
Bill smiles and makes a gesture like firing a gun with his hands, before he slips on his leather gloves.
‘Come on, Billy. Let’s do this,’ says Mole. The Welshman has taken the Kid under his wing. He takes everyone under his wing. He’s an astute observer, and has a gift for making people feel at ease. Both traits useful when you’re the navigator in a cockpit flying at almost two thousand feet.
The fleet has received a distress call from an unarmed and lonely cargo ship two hundred miles away. It is being chased by a German submarine. It is too far for the fleet’s ships to get there quickly, but the pilots will.
The airmen were immediately at the ready. They are always at the ready, whether they are standing by in the ready room or writing letters in the wardroom or asleep in their cabins. The flight deck crew indicate that the Skuas are good to go. Charlie says a silent prayer for them. There is ribbing in the wardroom about Charlie’s squadron’s old Stringbags, but out here on the wind-lashed flight deck, there is nothing but respect for each other.
Charlie shivers: part anticipation, part wind chill. There is no dread: this is what it’s all about. At last he can put the training into practice.
‘Number four crew, stand by to scramble!’
Charlie nods at Frank and Paddy – the other two squadron pilots – and their crew. The Fairey Swordfish have been run into place. They rise and fall at the far end of the ship. The flight deck crew unfurl their wings as the airmen lumber towards them like bears in their thick boots and Irvin jackets – but in a moment they too will be weightless, as graceful as the most delicate of insects.
Charlie can see the bombs strapped in racks beneath their plane. Mole and Billy disappear behind her wing and haul themselves up into the cockpit. Charlie nods at Tugger, solid and windswept on the deck. He reaches for the handholds, climbing up above the wheel, over the wing and into the front of the cockpit. He hands Tugger the crank handle, sits down on the parachute, clips himself in, yanks his goggles down, pulls his harness tight, starts his cockpit checks.
Tugger, his large body squeezed between a strut and the body of the plane, fits the handle into its hole and starts to turn, slowly at first, then faster. Danny, wedged further down, helps him. Through the howl of the wind Charlie hears the whizz of the motor. Tugger and Danny wind, faster and faster. Their arms become a blur. Charlie gets ready with the throttle, mixture, switches, trim. He can tell from the sound that it’s time to flick her into life.
With a cough and a splutter, the propeller starts to rotate. The men still crank. The smoke from the plane’s engine belches out and is whisked away on the wind. The propeller is a spinning blur, just the paint on its tips visible, a yellow circle. Tugger and Danny can finally stop. They jump down on to the deck. Tugger runs around the wing to the rudder. Danny does the same on the other side. They lie on the struts beneath the tail fin, holding the plane steady as Charlie does his final checks. The legs of their overalls ripple and flap in the slipstream. The engine warms up to a throaty roar. Tugger and Danny can feel she’s ready. They glance back at Charlie. Thumbs up. As one, they run to the wheels. The chocks are away. Charlie is free.
The deck stretches out in front of him. Beyond the deck, the sky and the ocean. The ship is head to wind, ready for take-off. The sound of wind and machine is thick in his ears now, and Mole’s voice, through the rubber Gosport tube that links them together. ‘Steer two six zero.’
‘Roger, two six zero.’
Charlie opens the throttle and the Swordfish answers with a growl. He checks the revs, the pressure, the temperature. He gives the thumbs-up to the flight deck crew, and they’re away, the world slipping past faster and faster, the wheels bumping. And then all is clear and smooth and they are dropping off the end of the ship and up, up into the sky.
‘Steer two one zero,’ says Mole in his ear.
‘Roger, two one zero,’ he replies.
Charlie has perfected his deck take-off, but every flight is like the first. The sky opens up before him as the ship disappears behind until it is a dot among the shifting waves. It is beautiful. Breathtaking. Nerve-wracking. Exhilarating. It is like nothing