Landfall

  He must see the A.O.C. and get his word in first, before the Navy.

  They got back to the aerodrome at nine o’clock. The wing-commander said:

  “The A.O.C. will want to see you in the morning, Chambers. You’d better get to bed now. I expect you’re pretty tired.” He hesitated for a moment. “You won’t be going out upon patrol tomorrow.”

  The boy said quietly: “Very good, sir.”

  Dickens was suddenly compunctious. “Don’t take it too much to heart,” he said gruffly. “These things do, happen, but they’re soon forgotten. Especially in wartime.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  They separated outside the mess. Chambers went round to the back and in by the back door, and went straight to his room. In the corridor and on the stairs he passed one or two of his fellow-officers: he brushed past them quickly with averted head, and they pretended to be too busy themselves to stop to speak with him. He bolted into his bedroom and shut the door.

  At the same time Wing-Commander Dickens was telephoning to the Air Commodore from his office. “I’ve just got back from the dockyard, sir,” he was saying. “I’m afraid there’s no doubt about it—they got clothes and stuff up from her. But I think she was late on her schedule, so that the pilot was quite justified in attacking. No, sir—as a matter of fact, I’ve sent him up to bed. He really isn’t fit for further questioning. I thought perhaps you’d see him in the morning, when he’s had some sleep. Very good—I’ll come right along now.”

  In his room, Chambers threw off his coat and gas-mask and sat down upon the bed, utterly miserable. It seemed to him to be incredible that this thing should have happened to him. Accidents like this did occur from time to time, he knew. Anti-aircraft-gunners sometimes got our own machines confused with enemy raiders and shot them down. Single-seater fighters had been known to do the same. More similar still, he had heard a story of a submarine who had wirelessed to her home port:

  Estimated time of arrival 1500 if friendly aircraft will stop bombing me.

  Always before he had been scornful of these incidents, had considered that appalling carelessness had caused them. But he had not been careless. At least, he didn’t think so.

  To add to his unhappiness he was very hungry. He had eaten nothing since the Bovril and biscuits that he had had before starting out on the patrol, though he had sucked a few sweets in the machine and he had drunk a mug of beer when they were congratulating him in the mess. He did not care to go downstairs and forage round for food; he might meet somebody and have to talk. In the room there was nothing to eat except a bottle of malted milk tablets, sent to him by his mother to take out with him upon patrol. He settled down, depressed, to empty the bottle.

  It was too early yet to go to bed; he would not sleep. He turned to his wireless set, the jumble of valves and condensers on a bare baseboard that he had put together himself from an article in a magazine. He turned it on, and the American voice brought him comfort. The words, “This is station WGEA, an international broadcast station owned and operated by the General Electric Company at Schenectady, New York,” consoled him with a sense of achievement; he himself had conjured this statement from the ether. Presently a talk for schools upon the work of the W.P.A. in reducing distress in South Carolina penetrated his consciousness and took his mind from the submarine.

  After a time he sat down at the table and pulled the galleon towards him on its stand. It was very nearly finished now; the sails were bent, and there was little more than touching up left to be done. As the woman’s voice told him about the difficulties of the poor whites in the South, his hands reached out mechanically for the brushes and the little pots of paint.

  There was a red cross of St. George to be painted on the lateen sail, perhaps with a gold border. There was the name to go on the stern gallery—Mona. He plunged into another gloomy train of thought. It was very probable that he would never again see Mona, after the Caranx episode. He could not face the bar of the “Royal Clarence,” filled as it always was with naval officers. He could not show himself dancing at the Pavilion, the man who had sunk Caranx. It would be impossible for him to carry on in Portsmouth. If he were not cashiered—and that was quite a possibility—he would have to put in for a transfer. He would apply to be posted right away from the district. He would try and get to the Bomber Command, and see some real war in Heligoland Bight.

  For the name of the galleon it would be better to stick to Santa Mría. But he grew tired before he came to paint it in. Dance music from Schenectady lulled him to a doze: the fine lines that he was painting on the sail began to waver. Presently he put away his paint-pots, turned in to his bed and slept heavily for the first part of the night.

  Over his head the thunder rolled that night. In Whitehall, at about ten o’clock, there was a bitter row between an Admiral of the Fleet and an Air Marshal, which ended by each in turn seeking a private audience with the Prime Minister, which neither got. All evening a string of questions from the Air Ministry came to Air Commodore Hughes: he sat up with Dickens until after midnight. On one point the Air Commodore was adamant; he would not rouse the pilot to interrogate him again that night.

  At a quarter to twelve Operations had enquired how many hours the pilot had done on Ansons. The Air Commodore swore softly. “What on earth’s that got to do with it? Tell the bloody fools, a hundred and fifty. It’s a good round number. Do they think I’m going to get him out of bed to ask him that?”

  Dickens gave the information and replaced the receiver. “The Navy must be raising merry hell.”

  The air officer nodded. “I’m sorry now I didn’t go to Admiralty House with you and see Burnaby myself.”

  In the morning, after breakfast, he sent for Chambers. He greeted him kindly. In the last war he had himself been a sub-lieutenant in the Royal Naval Air Service; he knew a good deal about the difficulty of identifying ships from the air.

  “Good morning, Mr. Chambers,” he said. “You had a bit of bad luck yesterday, I hear.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The air commodore took in the white, strained appearance of the boy. “Sit down, Chambers. Tell me just what happened.”

  The pilot told his story once again, this time to a more sympathetic audience. At the end of it the air commodore said:

  “One of the most important points seems to be the position—whether you were really still in Area SM.”

  Chambers said: “I’m quite sure I was, sir. I’d got the wind correction taped. I’d made half a dozen good landfalls in the patrol. I’m quite sure the position was in Area SM.”

  The wing-commander said: “Well, the Navy buoyed the place. They’ll waste no time in checking the position; if it’s not in Area SM they’ll raise a scream fast enough.”

  The A.O.C. nodded. “Burnaby must know by this time. We’d have had him on the telephone before now if it was out of Area SM.”

  Chambers said: “Has anyone spoken to Corporal Lambert to find out what he saw?”

  Dickens said: “I have. He didn’t see the hydrovanes at all. For the conning-tower, he said what you said: that it was all covered with smoke after the first attack. He thought he saw it once, and he thought that there was nothing on it in the way of lettering. But he won’t say for certain that he didn’t see a film of smoke, mistaking it for the side of the structure.”

  The A.O.C. said: “His story really doesn’t take us any further.”

  He eyed the pilot sympathetically. “I’m afraid there can be no doubt that it was Caranx” he said quietly. “The clothing alone shows that. But in my view, the Navy are alone responsible for this. You’ve got nothing to reproach yourself with. The submarine was in the wrong place at the wrong time, and either through negligence or accident she did not advise anybody of her change in schedule. Further, it seems very doubtful if her identification marks were properly in order.”

  The wing-commander raised his eyebrows. “Are you going to say that, sir?”

  “Certainly I am. If the Navy
want a row, they can have it. I’m getting rather tired of being blamed for their mistakes.” He paused, and then said: “We still haven’t heard the reason why the Lochentie wasn’t in convoy.”

  There was a short pause. Then the pilot said: “There’s one thing, sir.” He hesitated. “I think it would be better if I put in for a transfer.”

  The air officer looked at him kindly. “Not so far as I’m concerned, Chambers. If the Court of Enquiry dig up any more evidence, it may be different. But from what I’ve heard so far, you have no reason to transfer.”

  Chambers said in a low tone: “That’s terribly nice of you to say that, sir. But I don’t think it would be very comfortable for anyone if I stayed on after this.”

  The wing-commander nodded. The air officer said: “That may be so. If you go, where would you like to go to?”

  “I’d like to go to the Bomber Command, sir. Somewhere away from this district—in France, or in the north of England.”

  The air officer absently made a note upon his blotting-pad. “I’ll see to that. You’d better go on leave until the posting.” He thought for a moment. “The Court of Enquiry opens at three o’clock this afternoon, in Fort Blockhouse. I shall come to that with you.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “I expect it will go on tomorrow. I’m not putting you under any form of arrest, because I don’t see any reason for it. Stay about the place in case you’re needed, but you won’t go out upon patrol. As soon as the court is closed, you can go off on leave until your posting. I shall want to see you again before you go.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  The Court of Enquiry sat that afternoon in a big lecture-room opening upon the garden quadrangle of the submarine depot. In the dark winter afternoon a light snow was falling, powdering grass and flowerbeds. The Court met under the presidency of a Rear-Admiral, with Captain Burnaby and a captain from the depot to support him. Air Commodore Hughes attended for the Royal Air Force, with Wing-Commander Dickens, but they were admitted by courtesy and not by privilege. This was a naval enquiry into the loss of a naval ship.

  All afternoon the Court considered evidence. The witnesses were not admitted to the hearing, but sat in constrained silence in an ante-room. Rutherford gave evidence of the movements of Caranx. Chambers was summoned, and told his tale once more, faltering a little under the cold scrutiny of the naval officers. He answered several questions uncertainly and with much hesitation; the enquiry produced nothing new. At last they released him and sent for Corporal Lambert, who faced them with cheery nonchalance.

  “Never crossed my mind but what she was a Jerry,” he said breezily. “What’s more, I still believe she was.” But, pressed upon that subject, he had nothing to substantiate his confidence.

  The wireless operator followed him, diffident and ignorant. He had seen little or nothing of the submarine, being occupied in winding in the aerial and hanging on to his seat. He had never seen a submarine before, except once in the distance, and he knew nothing of identification marks. He thought that Mr. Chambers was a very careful pilot.

  Lieutenant Mitcheson, R.N.V.R., followed, and told the Court how he had heard the sound of bombing and had seen the splashes three miles to the north of him in the fading light. He had turned towards the scene, winding in his sweep as he went. Far away, he had seen the bow of the submarine rear up till it was vertical and slowly disappear, but he could not distinguish details. The aeroplane had guided him to the spot. When he got there, there had been a mass of escaping air-bubbles coming to the surface, and there was a great deal of oil upon the water. On the hydrophones he had heard the rush of air escaping from something on the sea bottom, but he had heard no other sound. He had immediately dropped a spar buoy on the spot.

  He had recovered certain objects floating in the middle of the slick, the objects that he now saw on the side-table. Those objects were all that he had seen. When he recognised the objects as the clothing of a British seaman, he had sent a signal on his wireless. Yes, that was a copy of the signal that he sent.

  Questioned by the president, he did not know the position accurately at that time. It was somewhere near the boundary of Areas SM and TM.

  By leave of the president, Captain Burnaby interposed that the position of the buoy had since been accurately fixed. It was in Area SM, eleven cables from the boundary.

  Air Commodore Hughes half rose from his seat and caught the eye of the president. “May I draw the attention of the Court to the fact that that position is very close to the point estimated by Flying-Officer Chambers?” he said. “It confirms our own opinion that Mr. Chambers is a careful and reliable officer. I should like the Court to give full weight to the accuracy of his evidence on the position when they consider his evidence upon the marking of the hydrovanes.”

  The Rear-Admiral nodded. “I accept that point, Air Commodore. I was about to call for evidence upon the painting of the hydrovanes.”

  But Rutherford, recalled, said that he had been on board Caranx sixteen days previously at Harwich. He clearly recalled that the paintwork was in very good order. He recollected the appearance of the hydrovanes, and they were clearly marked. He did not think it possible that the paintwork could have suffered very greatly in the meantime. It would be possible to get Harwich on the telephone and confirm that no work had been done upon the hydrovanes or on the hull that would have obliterated the marks.

  The Court then adjourned till the next morning.

  Chambers drove back in silence to the aerodrome with the two senior officers, creeping along in the darkness in the Air Force car that had waited for them outside the court. In the blackness of the transport yard they separated, and the pilot went up to his room. It was only about six o’clock.

  There was nothing for him to do, nothing to read. He shrank from going downstairs to the mess to meet with other officers, perhaps be questioned. He sat down at his table wearily and drew the model of the galleon to him. But it was practically finished, all barring the name.

  Then he remembered it was that night he had a date with Mona, to dance with her at the Pavilion. He’d have to break it; he could be seen dancing at the Pavilion—the man who had sunk Caranx. At that same time, he longed to talk to her. He wanted to be with her, to tell her of the fearful mess he’d got himself into. She might agree to meet him somewhere else.

  At that time Mona was taking off her coat in the passage behind the snack-bar. She was looking forward to the couple of hours of dancing that would come after her four hours of work. She had made considerable preparations for her evening. She was wearing new shoes and new ribbed rayon stockings. She had bought herself a little blue bottle of scent in Fratton Road called “Bal Masqué,” and she had used it with discretion. She had spent some time upon her finger-nails, and she had bought a little bunch of violets for the front of her dress. She walked into the bar and began to arrange her glasses, humming a little tune.

  Her friend Miriam said: “My aren’t we all got up tonight? Going dancing?”

  She nodded, eyes sparkling. “Mm.”

  “Got a date?”

  “Mm.”

  Miriam, deeply curious, said: “Who is he? Is he a sailor?”

  It was on the tip of Mona’s tongue to say he was an officer, but she refrained. Instead she tossed her head, smiled brilliantly, and said: “Just somebody I know.”

  Her friend said “My!” again. And then: “Where did you get them stockings, dear? I think they’re ever so chick.”

  The first customers began to come into the bar, and they had no more time for gossip. Once opened, the snack-bar quickly filled with officers with their wives or with their girls, or else in parties of three or four, all gravitating for a drink and a cheap meal before the last house of the pictures. To the girls behind the bar, each evening had a character of its own. Saturday night was always crowded and hilarious, Friday was usually busy. The other nights took their colour from the events of the day, or of the war. Gloomy nights of bad news alternated with
riotous nights when there was good news to report: the night of the Graf Spee had equalled any Saturday there ever was.

  This was a curious, sullen evening. The officers stood about in little groups discussing something in low tones, not drinking very much. In the first hour it was evident that something had happened. Mona, out in the passage to chase the bar-boy to come and wash the glasses, met Miriam looking for a new case of Four X.

  Mona said quickly: “What’s the matter with them all tonight? They’re like a lot of stuffed dummies.”

  Miriam saw her case and darted for the bottles. “It’s a submarine been sunk or something,” she said hastily. “One of ours. Here, give me a hand with these, there’s a dear. If you take two I’ll bring the other four.”

  They went back into the bar and served the waiting crowd. The six bottles of Four X were for a little crowd of six officers from the trawlers that docked each night in the dockyard. They took their glasses and resumed their conversation in the low tones that had spread a furtive, sullen atmosphere into the grill that night.

  One of them said: “I can’t see why they didn’t send out divers if they’ve really got the place.”

  “Too deep, isn’t it?”

  “How deep can a diver go to, anyway?”

  “Three hundred feet’s about the record, isn’t it?”

  “I thought they went deeper than that.”

  “The truth of it is, they don’t know where she is at all.”

  There was a faint, general smile. “As a matter of fact, they do know that. Maynard said that there’s a drifter standing by—Kitchen’s drifter. The one with the pink funnel.”

  Another nodded. “They know the place all right. It’s in Area SM.”