says Mole, and, although the Kid fires a little longer, swinging the gun as they bank around, the U-boat has gone. In its place is a mass of seething green. They may not have done the slightest damage, but at least they have warned their ships that the enemy is on the prowl.
The aircraft carrier is now close enough to make out the tiny figures on the high deck. She is still sideways on to the U-boat, the worst position to be in if you’re about to be fired at. But she is beginning to turn. The three airmen look down over the edge of the cockpit. At the same moment they spot the telltale streaks of white under the water. The submarine has fired, but the carrier is still turning, turning, and she manages to swing her great mass head-on to the submarine, and the torpedoes pass either side of her and safely into the empty water behind.
At once, the destroyers that have remained with the aircraft carrier go on the attack, like a herd of grey sea elephants rounding on the enemy. The sea is churning foam as they drop their charges, and the air is bursting with noise that dies away as the ships stop. They wait. Charlie’s blood pumps in his ears.
The sea settles back to a ripple, and then the submarine slowly breaks the surface. Its conning tower has been damaged. White horses break against its monstrous sides. But it is broken. Charlie sees men jumping into the water.
Charlie needs to land: he is very low on fuel. The carrier signals with its lamp. The Kid signals back. The great ship turns head to wind. Her wake is a foamy ribbon fluttering out behind her. Charlie approaches alongside. He glimpses the pink faces of his fellow sailors looking up as they pass. He swings the plane one hundred and eighty degrees, lines himself up, considers wind speed, direction. The flat of the landing deck stretches before him. He can see the white stripes. The metal wires strung across it. The batsman with his ping-pong bats. He slows the engine right back. The ship slices through the water ahead of him, the V of the waves spreads out, ever increasing.
He pulls a lever on his right to lower the hook beneath the plane. The batsman holds the bats out level. He is on line. About fifty yards to go. He drops the tail. Nose up. It is just the deck and the plane, the batsman, and Charlie. And then he is over the deck, the batsman gives ‘Cut’, and, as the plane’s wheels make contact, the crew lurch against their harnesses and bounce and scrape as the arrester hook tugs at the wires that slow the plane down, and they finally come to a standstill. Charlie unclips himself. His legs are stiff as planks of wood.
Mole squeezes his shoulder. ‘Top landing, boyo,’ he says.
The plane’s propellers slow and stop. They clamber out, back on to their version of solid ground, the steady, humming mass of their aircraft carrier. He has grown accustomed to the rumble of the engine and the rush of the air. But now there is the sound of the sea and the Tannoy and the shouts of men. The ship is manic with activity as the other Swordfish come in to land. The flight deck crew clear the way as they manoeuvre the planes back towards the lift.
Charlie heads for the island. He removes his helmet and goggles as he goes. His legs are coming back to life. He is desperate to pee, but he has to report to the captain first.
Captain Turnbull is a man of determination. He acknowledges Charlie as he approaches, but keeps his head cocked to the side as he listens intently to the pilot of the Skua that returned earlier and to Paddy, who has made it here already. The captain’s eyes are bright above the black bags. He has a shock of white hair, although he must be in his mid-forties – about the same age as Charlie’s father would have been. And Charlie is the same age as his father was at the beginning of his own generation’s Great War. Life gone full circle.
‘Nice work, pilot,’ says Captain Turnbull as Charlie reaches them, and the other pilots nod a welcome.
‘Thank you, sir,’ says Charlie. He ruffles his hair up with his fingers, where it has been plastered to his head beneath the leather helmet.
‘Your first operation and our first prisoners-of-war,’ says the captain, indicating to the destroyer that is picking up the men from the submarine. ‘And not a casualty among them. Not from the U-boat, or among our fleet, thanks to you.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘Keep it up and you’ll go far.’
‘I hope so, sir.’
‘Shame about that merchant ship.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘We lost four men. Two dead. Two prisoners.’
‘That’s right, sir,’ says Paddy.
‘Attacks are getting worse.’
Paddy nods. ‘They are, sir.’
‘You think they were part of a coordinated effort? Or just a bit of luck?’
‘Hard to tell, sir. The sea is chock-full of them at the moment.’
They all gaze towards the destroyer. Charlie imagines the Germans being hoisted on board, their heads hung low. There is no honour in being captured.
‘It seems that your beloved Fairey Swordfish may not have had its day, FitzHerbert,’ the captain says, still looking out of the window.
‘Certainly hasn’t, sir.’
‘Could indeed be our secret weapon against these U-boats.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Pass my thanks on to the rest of your crew.’
‘I will, sir.’
The captain turns back to the other men and his charts. Charlie is dismissed.
Back on the blustery deck, Mole and the Kid are also staring out at the destroyer as the last of the Germans is transferred on to the ship. Charlie knows it will be the U-boat commander, the eagle of the Third Reich glinting on his peaked cap.
‘Dry clothes and a stiff drink, that’s the order of the day, boyo,’ says Mole.
‘Just my tot’ll do me,’ says the Kid.
Charlie starts to undo his coat as he follows Mole to the wardroom. He slaps the Kid on the shoulder on his way past. ‘Good job today, Billy,’ he says. The Kid nods and grins. ‘Now go and tell everyone how you were responsible for taking Britain’s first prisoners-of-war.’
‘I will. Thanks, Charlie.’ The Kid disappears off to his own mess deck.
‘First POWs, eh?’ says Mole. ‘Now that calls for a party.’
There are great celebrations throughout the ship that night. Below deck, the men cram into their messes. Once the rum lies warm in their bellies, they don’t notice how cramped everything is. The air grows warmer, and the atmosphere lighter. The cooks slap extra food on the airmen’s plates.
In the wardroom, Charlie and Mole drink gin with the rest of the officers. Lieutenant Commander Widdecombe, the squadron commander of 686, will write to the captured and dead men’s families in the morning. For now, they will focus on the positive. Flying is what they were born for, and this war will show the world what they are capable of. Charlie’s thoughts drift to the girl on the train. The men mistake the flush in his cheeks for booze, but really it is because he is remembering how Olivia had walked down the carriage, tucking her hair nervously behind her ears as she followed the waiter who was trying to find a spare table for her to sit at. But of course there were his cadets, lounging oafishly across the seats, ogling the poor girl and making inappropriate remarks until he had brought them into line. He could hardly blame them: she was extremely attractive. Charlie had been momentarily lost for words before inviting her to share his table, and breakfast had somehow been an intimate affair, even among the clinking of plates and cutlery, and the stares of his giggling charges in their crumpled uniforms. And then there had been the fantastic luck that she was going to stay with Nancy, of all people. Her aunt, his godmother. If that isn’t fate, he doesn’t know what is. He hadn’t been able to resist writing to both her and Nancy, to tell the latter what a delightful girl she had coming to stay, and to tell Olivia how much he enjoyed meeting her. He smiles to himself