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Authors: Steven Wilson

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BOOK: Between The Hunters And The Hunted
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Cole shook his head, surprised at how exhausted he was. Worse, he was beginning to chill. He was trembling and the cold seemed to pour into him, invading every part of his body.
“The adrenaline's wearing off,” Johnny said. “Felt just fine in the water, didn't you? It was the shock of all that happened. Now that that's passed, you'll feel the cold.”
“I can't talk you into building a fire, can I?” Cole said, his teeth chattering.
Johnny smiled. “Swallow much water?”
“Just enough to throw up. Now I guess we sit and wait, huh?”
“Nothing to do but that. Prentice got our emergency call out. If there was anyone close enough to hear it and come to our rescue, we'll have a warm bed and hot rum in no time.”
Cole wrapped himself in his own arms, trying to control the shivering. “It's a big ocean. May take a while. How are we fixed?”
Johnny unzipped a waterproof pouch and pulled back the flaps. “Tins of food. Small jug of water, enough of that, I hope.” He pushed the contents to one side, searching. “Flares. Line and hooks for fishing. You any good at that, King? Fishing?”
“I couldn't catch a cold in a snowstorm, let alone catch a fish.”
“Pity. I'm no good either,” he said, continuing. “Bits of material to catch rainwater. Enough odds and ends to keep us going.” He grew somber. “They counted on four chaps.”
The death of Peter, Bunny, and Prentice suddenly hit Cole hard. It was Peter that Cole focused on. He didn't like Peter much and it was apparent to Cole that the feeling was mutual. But Peter had taken over the controls of
N-for-Nancy
when Bunny had been wounded and he had fought to keep the aircraft aloft to give the others a chance to prepare for ditching. Peter was a hero. Peter was dead.
“It's no good, King.”
Cole looked at Johnny.
“Thinking about the others,” Johnny said. “It'll give you nothing but hurt and it won't change things. They're gone, the poor blighters, and we're alive. All we can do is try to stay alive until someone comes and pick us up.”
“I've never been through this before. Knowing guys that were killed.”
“It's a bloody tough thing to deal with. You never really forget,” Johnny said. “Blokes I know who bought it, I see their faces right out of the blue. I don't know why, they just pop up in my mind. I hate it. Maybe that's my penance. That's what I pay for living when they died. So don't you go dwelling on it. They'll come back to you often enough without you making a habit of thinking of the poor bastards. All we need to do is stay alive until someone comes and finds us.”
Cole nodded, scanning the endless ocean, knowing that he was unlikely to see anything. He heard a strange noise coming from Johnny's end of the raft.
“Are you humming?” Cole said.
“I am,” Johnny said. “Takes my mind off things. Never learned to whistle, so I hum. I hum everything.”
“I don't hum and I don't whistle,” Cole said.
“Deprived, are you?” Johnny said. “Fancy a sing, then?”
“What?”
“To keep our spirits up,” Johnny said. “Normally, I'd have a pint in me hand with me mates down at the pub, but this will have to do. I'll sing one and then you sing one.”
Cole laughed. It seemed somehow disrespectful to laugh so soon after men had died.
Perhaps
, Cole thought,
I'm laughing out of relief that I didn't die like the others
. Regardless of the reason, he decided, it felt good.
“King,” Johnny said with a look of contrived pity, “do you think it makes a bloody difference out here whether a chap can sing or not? There's nothing but fish and mermaids. Now, here I go—
 
“My uncle's a hell of a hunter,
He hunts up big bottles of gin.
For ten bob he'll save you a good one.
My God, how the money rolls in,
Rolls in, rolls in.
My God, how the money rolls in, rolls in,
Rolls in, rolls in.
My God, how the money rolls in.”
Johnny beamed at Cole. “Well?”
“Sounds like someone squeezing a cat,” Cole said.
“Can you do any better?”
“I can recite poetry.”
“Go on.”
“There was a tall lady from Ender,
Whose big bosom nearly upend 'er.
Hiring Willy and Ted,
With a breast on each head,
She then had a human suspender.”
“That was bloody pathetic,” Johnny deadpanned. “God help us if that's all you Yanks bring to this war.”
“I told you I couldn't sing,” Cole said, smiling.
“You've proved it, haven't you? How does that bloody limerick go?”
“What?” Cole laughed.
“Teach me yours and I'll teach you mine,” Johnny said.
Despite everything that had happened, Cole smiled again. “Okay, listen up.” He repeated the limerick several times before Johnny said that he knew it.
“You got it?” Cole said.
“It isn't Ode to a bloody Grecian Urn, is it now, King?” Johnny cleared his throat dramatically. “You lead off and I'll jump in.”
“Okay,” Cole said. “Ready?”
“There was a tall woman from Ender,
Whose big bosom . . .”
Johnny joined in, their voices drifting over the waves, accompanied by the green waves slapping against the sides of the yellow life raft.
“Nearly upend 'er.
Hiring Willy and Ted,
With a breast on each head . . .”
The little raft slid down a gentle swell, into a shallow trough, and up another wave, pausing briefly at the crest.
“She then had a human suspender.”
The raft spun slightly, a tiny craft on the vast open plain of the inhospitable sea; settling into another trough, carefully tended, for the moment, by the endless waves.
“I've got one,” Johnny said. “There was a young virgin from Glasgow. . . .”
The voices of the men grew fainter as they laughed at the ridiculous words, the wind gently pushing the raft over the waves, farther away from the unmarked grave of
N-for-Nancy
and the men that lay entombed within her.
Chapter 24
H.M.S.
Firedancer
, the North Atlantic
 
Land rubbed the stiffness out of the back of his neck and paced the narrow confines of the tiny bridge. He glanced at the stoic form of
Prometheus
, beating her way through the sea, two points off the port bow of
Firedancer
.
Hardy had tried to edge
Firedancer
well off the cruiser's starboard bow after
Firedancer
had switched stations with
Windsor
and
Eskimo
. He was going to place her far ahead of the position prescribed by Whittlesey, but
Prometheus
caught on and sent
Firedancer
's pennants up the yardarm. Resume your station,
Firedancer
had been told, and not once, but three times.
Each time Hardy had cursed the signalman's message and replied, simply: “Tell the bastard, ‘Acknowledged. '” He had reluctantly ordered Land to make the necessary course alterations, rather than to perform the distasteful duty himself.
“Number One,” Hardy said, squeezing between the chief yeoman of signals and the voice tubes, “are we properly stationed for His Majesty over there?”
“We appear to be, sir,” Land said. “At least our pennant hasn't made an appearance in the last hour.”
“We must be thankful for small miracles, mustn't we?” Hardy said. “I am blind to port because of
Prometheus
, so let us hope that the enemy has the good sense to come from starboard.”
“Signal from flagship, sir,” the chief yeoman of signals reported.
“Oh, what the bloody hell is it now?” Hardy exploded. “We're where we should be, aren't we? Number One, have you taken her one point out of station without my permission?”
“No, sir.”
“‘Flagship to
Firedancer
.'” The yeoman read the Morse lamp signal. “‘Aircraft down. Sixty miles, bearing 183 degrees. Proceed to rescue. Rejoin squadron when rescue effected. End of message.'”
Hardy said: “Number One, prepare a boat party. Yeoman, reply to
Prometheus
, ‘Message received, acknowledged. Proceeding as instructed.'” Hardy flipped open the brass cover of the engine room voice tube. “Engine Room? Bridge here. Light off number three. Let me know when she's ready. Stand by for increase in revolutions. Quartermaster?” he called. “Bridge here. Starboard thirty. We shall become an ambulance.”
“Bridge, Quartermaster. Starboard thirty,” the helmsman confirmed. “Wheel starboard thirty.”
Hardy made his way to the binnacle and watched the compass needle swing. Smartly done, he thought. At least he was free of
Prometheus
and could act on his own. He didn't like to take orders and could barely stomach suggestions, and his irritation at being nudged in one direction or another had increased significantly since the Second Night. But he remembered his heated conversation with Land, especially when Number One had said: “I was there, too.” It was a relief that Land said it aloud. For some reason, and Hardy had thought this through and could find no logical reason for it, it was as if the burden of his actions had been shared by Land's acknowledgment, and it did not lie all on his shoulders alone. Stupid, bloody emotions. No sense to any of it.
Now I can do something positive. I can go and pull some poor bastards out of the cold sea and give them a warm place to lay their head.
He suddenly remembered his comment about
Firedancer
being an ambulance and he felt a twinge of shame.
What's wrong with the old girl being an ambulance?
he told himself.
Change of pace for her—do her a bit of good.
Do yourself some good, you mean, old bastard
, he told himself.
Good God,
he thought.
Now I'm a philosopher as well!
 
 
D.K.M.
Sea Lion
 
Turm Oberbootsmannmaat Herbert Statz had been proud of Bruno's performance against the English vessel although he couldn't see anything more than the crowded confines of the turret during the battle. He had heard of course; the loudspeaker within the turret kept Statz and the others informed of the action.
Statz had taken time to visit the crews of the other two guns and speak to them about the victory. He spoke to them as if Bruno alone had destroyed the English cruiser while the crews of the other turrets did little. Those who listened understood the pride that Statz felt because they felt it as well. They could feel nothing else.
Sea Lion
was almost too big, too fast, and too powerful to conceive of. She was a complex city that functioned perfectly, that performed beyond anyone's expectations, and there was nothing like her on the seas. That is the reason that Statz took the time to speak to the other sailors: he wanted to share his pride, and exalt in theirs, of
Sea Lion
.
Statz found Bootsmannsmaat Otto Liebs calmly sitting on a shell-transfer capstan near the upper revolving shell ring, eating potted meat from a tin. He alternated between the meat and a stack of crackers poised precariously on his knee.
“How can you eat that shit, Liebs?” Statz said.
Liebs dipped a piece of cracker in the tin, scooped out some potted meat, and popped it into his mouth. “I can eat anything. I'm not so fancy as you gunners.”
Statz glanced at the racks of high-explosive shells surrounding the room. They were two decks down and encased in an armored barbette, but one lucky shot piercing this room would send the turret above them straight up into the air.
“Keep your hands off my children,” Liebs said, digging in the tin.
“Children?” Statz said.
“I'd give them all names but there are too many of them. You fellows above don't have the sensibilities that we shell handlers do. We do the real work. My children are the real heroes.”
“What about my guns?”
“They are of no consequence,” Liebs said.
“What do the fellows in the powder rooms say, then?”
Liebs shrugged. “Who listens to them? That reminds me.” He set the tin on the deck, rose, and made his way to the shell hoist shutter casing. He turned a butterfly knob and opened an access panel. Taking a flashlight from his overall back pocket, he peered into the shell hoist trunking. Apparently satisfied with its condition, he closed and locked the panel. “Have you seen Kuhn lately?”
The question shocked Statz. “What?”
Liebs turned off the light and slid the flashlight into his back pocket. “They say Kuhn is wandering the ship at night.”
“That's not funny,” Statz said. “He was my friend.”
“Mine as well,” Liebs said. “You forget that we had liberty together quite often. That doesn't change things. Eich saw him near the hydraulic accumulator. Hillen said that he saw Kuhn in one of the cordite storage bays.”
“Hillen is a fool.”
“Of course he is. But he's not the only one who says that he saw Kuhn.”
“What of it?”
Liebs shrugged again. “Nothing. Some sailors are concerned about such things. It means nothing to me.”
“All we need to be concerned with,” Statz said, “is our duty. We serve the guns and think of nothing else.”
“You needn't lecture me,” Liebs said abruptly. “Have you ever wanted for shells? I do my job and keep my machines clean. But this could be bad luck, you know.”
Statz turned away from Liebs. “It's nonsense,” he said. But he found the talk disturbing.
“For you and me, yes. For others, I'm not so sure.”
“You'd better not let the officers hear about this.”
Liebs snorted. “What would I tell them? The ghost of a sailor is wandering the ship? Better I keep my mouth shut and come face-to-face with Kuhn. But the others call it bad luck, Statz. You know that.”
“Bad luck?” Statz said. “On this ship? Nothing can harm her, Liebs. Nothing can sink her.”
“Fine,” Liebs said, ending the conversation. “For my part, I don't believe in ghosts. I believe in high-explosive and armor-piercing and big guns that sink enemy ships. I believe in cordite and steel, Statz, and the Kreigsmarine.”
“That is all you should believe in, Liebs,” Statz said. “Trust to those things and German optics and we need not fear ghosts, the devil, or the Royal Navy.”
 
 
The twin-engine Heinkle 111H settled nicely in a cloud while the observer crawled forward into the bombardier's position. He could see nothing of course through the Plexiglas panels except the wispy shroud of gray cloud that protected the German aircraft from the British far below.
The Heinkle was a medium bomber, a very fast aircraft that swooped in quickly and dropped its small but respectable load of bombs on the enemy, and then fled. This Heinkle 111H, with red propeller hub covers and a large yellow A painted aft was not over Scapa Flow to bomb or even to be seen. Its crew had been given specific instructions and as the pilot ordered his crew to get ready, the Heinkle fell like a stone out of the thick clouds and into the open skies of the Flow, twelve thousand feet below them.
Flak started almost immediately, dirty clouds that exploded all around the Heinkle 111H. The pilot, a veteran of Spain, Poland, and France, cursed softly as he maneuvered the aircraft across the sky, trying to throw off the antiaircraft gunners' aim. They were persistent though and anxious to kill him.
“Do you see anything?” the pilot asked through his intercom, the tension he felt obvious in his voice.
“Nothing,” the observer said calmly, “there's too much cloud cover. We must go lower.”
“Lower,” the pilot muttered fiercely. “Lower. Lower. We must always go lower.” He had lost his nerves long before, but he was a veteran and proud so that he would not admit to himself or anyone else that his hands trembled too much and he felt as if he were going to fill his oxygen mask with puke every time he heard the Junkers JUmo 211F-2 engines turn over.
Speed was their only salvation. They had seven 7.92mm machine guns that protruded from the fuselage like stingers, but it was the 1,350 horsepower generated by each engine that was what the pilot counted on.
He eased the Heinkle down two thousand feet, feeling slight satisfaction that the antiaircraft gunners would have to adjust their aim, trying to locate the intruder again. Their instructions had been simple. They were to radio back one of two words depending on the situation that they observed in Scapa Flow. That was it; the entire mission centered on what the enemy was doing far below and the word that was selected for transmission.
The pilot had flown missions before when he did not drop bombs or strafe the enemy. After years in Spain, Poland, and France, one becomes used to carrying out orders that do not make sense, with unquestioning loyalty. Regardless of the fear.
“Lower,” the observer said.
“I gave you lower,” the pilot snapped. “Do you want me to land?”
“I can't see,” the observer said. “The clouds aren't as heavy but I still can't be sure. I want to be sure. You want to be sure, don't you?”
“Lower,” the pilot said angrily, and pushed the wheel down, keeping his eye on the altimeter. He kicked the left rudder and banked slightly, thinking that he'd fly a figure-eight as he descended and leveled out, giving that idiot of an observer time to see everything that he wanted to see.
“I've got it,” the observer said excitedly. “I can see them now. One. Three battleships. Looks like three cruisers. Many destroyers. Many.” The man paused and the pilot waited. He had stopped breathing and it seemed that his heart had stopped and he knew that the radio operator and gunner were waiting for that one word as well.
“Dresden,” the observer said.
There it was.
“Are you sure?” the pilot asked.
“Yes. Dresden. Dresden. Send the message.”
“You heard him,” the pilot said to the radio operator. “Send it.”
As the operator tapped out the word
Dresden
in code on his Fu-10 radio, the pilot pulled heavily on the wheel, pushed the throttles forward, and as the aircraft gained speed, settled into his seat, a little more relaxed than he was before.
Below him was the Royal Navy, but it couldn't reach him anymore, and somewhere out there was the Royal Air Force, but his Heinkle 111 H was fast enough, with some skill and luck, to outrun them. There was always the danger of mechanical failure, but his ground crew was superb so the pilot never gave that possibility much thought.
Dresden. They were to transmit that word, they were told by the squadron commander, if they observed the British Home Fleet on the move. They were to be absolutely sure that the enemy fleet was moving. Beyond a doubt. But if the fleet was static; if the vessels were moored and there were no smoke plumes hanging lazily above them, then they were to transmit the word
Belgrade
.
BOOK: Between The Hunters And The Hunted
13.74Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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