The White Sea Bird

Chapter One

"The Groningen? Impossible!"

The Intelligence Officer spoke with the curt clipped certainty that comes naturally after serving a lifetime in the Royal Navy. Lieutenant-Commander Brackenbury had seen action at Jutland and now had been recalled off the beach to play his part yet again – this time at the Coastal Command Station at Kilcreggan on the north-east tip of Scotland, briefing Liberator crews before they took off to attack ships and U-boats off the Norwegian coast and de-briefing them on their return. A solitary dark-blue figure amongst all this light blue, he could be seen sipping pink gin on his own at Mess parties, focusing pale eyes on the beer-drinkers banging their tankards on the counter in time to rude Air Force ballads, with a look of tight-lipped disapproval.

That same look he now directed on Guy Strickland and the eight other members of his crew, sitting around his office in their flying clothes nursing hot mugs of cocoa after a thirteen-hour stopper patrol outside the fjords to the Arctic Circle.

Why?

The scar just below Strickland’s left eye showed up white as it always did when he was angry. The gold flecks in his grey eyes glinted under the neons. What rank he was, indeed whether Army, Navy, Air Force or fox-hunting man was not possible to identify, for he wore a soldier’s khaki battledress blouse over an immaculate white sweater, a cream silk scarf round his neck clipped with a silver hunting-pin, a hat with no badge on it, its crown black with oil, pushed to the back of his fair-haired head. One blue barathea leg sheathed in a brown leather riding boot was crossed over its twin.

"Because the Groningen was sighted at eleven o’clock this morning, Squadron-Leader Strickland. Brackenbury picked up a ruler and pointed to a green, lozenge shape in the centre of a large map of the Atlantic on the wall beside him. Here!"

From his chair in the outside ring of the circle – furthest from the Intelligence Officer’s table, nearest the door – Pilot Officer Peter Irvine dipped his nose deeper into his mug for the last sweet dregs of cocoa and let his mind bask in the warm prospect of bed. It was two in the morning, long past the time when he should be tucked up and asleep in Room Number 27. He had only just joined 507 Squadron after General Reconnaissance School and a Liberator conversion course at the Operational Training Unit, and as the youngest and greenest crew-member, it was unlikely that he would be called upon for his opinion in the argument that was developing between the Intelligence Officer and his aircraft captain.

Strickland got up from his seat, slowly walked over to the map, bent down and microscopically examined the lozenge that Brackenbury was still pointing at.

What’ve you got there? A lime jujube?

"HM submarine Seawolf."

"So that’s what it is! Strickland began winding up the heavy Omega astro-watch on his wrist. Positive identification through a periscope is always difficult."

Peter Irvine put his empty mug down on the floor and lit a cigarette. Strickland had no need of his support. He was well able to look after himself – and everybody else for that matter. Irvine had been extremely glad to discover that he was flying as second pilot to an experienced captain who had already completed two operational tours and had the DSO and the DFC. Of the thirty-one members of his elementary flying training course, already six were missing and eleven were dead, including Pensford, the oldest and best of the lot of them, killed on his first operation when his captain ran through the hedge in a Whitley after landing at his home aerodrome.

"The Groningen was positively identified."

Why didn’t they torpedo her then?

Too far away, Brackenbury snapped back. Come to that why didn’t you drop your load?

"What the hell good would depth charges be against the Groningen’s armour-plated sides?"

"But it wasn’t the Groningen."

"It was the Groningen all right… tucked in under the cliff."

Lee, Garland, Quennell – all gone, with their operational score still in single figures. Rodway had collected twenty-nine before getting the chop and that was a useful contribution. Peter Irvine was twenty-two, three-years out of Bradfield Grammar School. For some obscure reason – he had never been good at cricket, his top score in one innings was only twelve – he viewed the war like some gigantic cricket match where each operation was a run to your side. A century would be nice, but better still to remain not out till the end of play.

Couldn’t have been.

"I’m right… I know I’m right!"

Irvine had once named his History and English notebooks after warships – inking in their silhouettes on the cardboard covers – hoping that such a fleet would fight and win the Higher School Certificate for him. They hadn’t done too badly, and three years in a bank afterwards had not dimmed his grateful memory of them. But they were British – the battleship King George V, the aircraft carrier Ark Royal, the cruiser Marlborough. His knowledge of German warships was small, and as for the Groningen, how the hell could anyone tell her from any other large merchantman?

Pity you didn’t get a photograph.

Not a hope in that light. But I saw her cruiser stern quite clearly…

A snub-nosed smudge, cobwebbed in trailing cloud, tucked in under the mountains at the far end of Falstand Fjord – that was all that Irvine had seen. The Liberator was bucking in heavy turbulence, and rain was singing in through the open side windows. Above the bleat of the engines, Strickland’s voice had shouted out that one word, Groningen.

"Unless the Groningen’s speed is— Brackenbury had seized a pair of large dividers and was using them like stilts across the Atlantic map from the lozenge shape to the serrated edges of North Norway —325 knots, she couldn’t have been at latitude 46 North, longitude 38 West at eleven this morning and in Falstand Fjord at three forty-five this afternoon."

"Seawolf’s got it wrong."

"Commander Crabbet? He knows the Groningen like—"

The back of his hand, wasn’t that the expression? Irvine inhaled deeply and closed his eyes. Groningen. Groningen… the bloody name was ringing in his ears like a carillon of bells. Wasn’t it Mary Tudor who had Calais engraved on her heart? If this went on, Groningen would certainly be engraved on his heart when all he wanted was a bit of peace and quiet so he could go to sleep.

He stubbed out his cigarette and looked across at his three room-mates – the round-faced Navigator Wardle, the Radio Operator Railton, and Flight-Lieutenant Cargill, the Squadron Gunnery Leader – wondering if they, too, were itching for their beds. But they were leaning forward like greyhounds in the slips – now where had he heard those words before? – supporting the Skipper.

"…Groningen…"

Irvine would have liked to have done the same. But this was only his third operational trip – Irvine 3 not out – and he was still too shy to open his mouth. As Flight-Commander in charge of Training, Strickland was either in his office or up on check flights. He had introduced himself to Irvine at the Mess bar, bought him half a pint of bitter, advised him he was replacing a man called Gooch who was no good so we sent him back for further training, told him that he expected his second pilot to be able to do every job in the aircraft – navigate, man the wireless, work the Gee and radar, bomb-aim, operate the turrets, fire the guns. As a result, Irvine had spent most of his waking hours working up on these crafts with the help of the rest of the crew. Cargill was Australian, Wardle was Canadian, Railton came from Birmingham. Of the four Sergeants, Jenks, the Engineer, was a cockney, Mackenzie was, naturally, a Scot, Oakroyd the Rear Gunner was broad Yorkshire, and O’Connor, their king-pin Radar Operator, was Irish. But they all shared one thing in common. As they instructed him in their jobs, each had told him, You’re lucky to be flying with Strickland.

"…Groningen…"

Tick-tock, tick-tock. Groningen-Groningen.

He liked them all. They were friendly. They were gen men at their jobs. He was nervous that he was the least competent. On the first operation, he had been all thumbs. The second trip was a low-level night patrol in the Skagerrak, shadowed by a swarm of German night-fighters clearly visible on the radar screen. They were safe – so long as they kept at fifty feet on the radio altimeter and so long as they managed to avoid crashing into the sea. Added to that, Strickland would not let him use the marvellous Minneapolis-Honeywell automatic pilot but made him hand fly the aircraft. Twice the Front Gunner had yelled that sea-water was practically coming in the turret, as the heavy Liberator wallowed up and down in the darkness, while Irvine struggled to keep her steady.

On this last operation, Strickland had again made him do the flying by hand, which was one of the reasons he was so shagged. Nobody had criticized. There was no gossiping on Strickland’s crew. When you heard a microphone click on, you held your breath for something important – a contact on the radar, an Me 110 sighted by the rear turret, the Front Gunner reporting a German motor torpedo boat.

"…Groningen…"

The name was familiar. Irvine had heard it first at General Reconnaissance School, along with Scharnhorst, Gneisenau and Graf Spee. A solitary loner, what in the First World War had been called a Q ship, on the surface apparently a two-funnelled ten-thousand-ton merchantman, but instead of cargo in her holds, she had six 5.9 inch guns hidden behind collapsible bulkheads, a Heinkel seaplane aft, a dozen torpedo tubes in her deck housing, a massive anti-aircraft armament of 75 millimetres, Oerlikons, cannon and multiple pom-poms and her speed was thirty knots. Carrying almost the punch of a cruiser, she was allowed a free hand by Admiral Dönitz, and specialized in slipping amongst Atlantic slow convoys under cover of mist and rain and darkness. Manoeuvring herself into position astern, she would discreetly pick off a couple of stragglers, then just as discreetly she would disappear. She was commanded by a veteran Merchant Marine officer called Captain Leitzen.

"If it wasn’t the Groningen, Strickland asked, what was it?"

A mirage made of ectoplasm, a ghost ship, a rock, a wreck, part of a mountain – all such possibilities clearly flitted through Brackenbury’s mind, but all he said was, That’s something we should very much like to know.

Strickland flicked a speck of dust off the knife-edge crease of his trousers, got up, and said quite simply, Then you shall.

The meaning of those three words did not immediately strike home even to the crew, who had also got to their feet.

Brackenbury glanced up from finishing off his debriefing report to wish them goodnight.

Oh, we’re not off to bed.

Already halfway through the door, Irvine felt his heart lurch.

Bar’s closed, old boy, Brackenbury said. No party tonight.

We’ll be having our own party. Suddenly Strickland was issuing short crisp orders. Jenks, check Sugar’s refuelled. Passing Irvine, he led the way out of the Intelligence Office into the Operations Room and said to the Controller on watch, We’re going back to Falstand Fjord.

Why?

Spot of unfinished business.

What?

"I say I saw the Groningen in there. The Navy say I didn’t."

Couldn’t it wait?

No, it can’t.

You’re not serious?

Of course I am.

But you’ve only just come back! Who’s next on the Mayfly? The Controller peered down at 507 Battle Order. Tallack. I’ll call him out.

No.

For God’s sake—

The Navy is asking to see the holes in the hands. Get hold of the SASO for me, would you? Then Strickland called through to the duty Meteorological Officer, Tom, could you rustle up a new forecast? Arriving over Falstand at dawn. And to the WAAF clerk, "Ring the Mess, Dinah, for two big thermoses of coffee. Very black and very hot. And if they can whip up some sandwiches, we’d be obliged. Not corned beef. All at once he seemed conscious of Irvine’s dismayed face. You’re in luck, Peter! Two operational trips in one night! And as a bonus, I’ll let you do the take off."

Silence fell on the Operations Room. Methodically Wardle began drawing in his track to Falstand on the Mercator chart laid out on the table. The wireless operators and gunners stood quite still beside the wall, watching him, Irvine sat under the neon-lighted glare, trying to look busy but actually half asleep.

The red scrambler telephone suddenly shrilled. It was the SASO at Group.

"I’m sure myself it’s the Groningen, sir. But the Navy swear, blind it isn’t. Now Strickland was speaking in that relaxed drawl as though it was the most natural thing in the world to take off again on a second operational trip an hour after landing from the first. We’ve got to know straightaway one way or another. And the weather’s too bad for PRU to get anything. My crew, sir? Like me, they’re raring to finish the job…"

Were they? Irvine was watching Wardle’s face – tired, drawn, set – as carefully he pencilled in two arrowheads on the track he had drawn across the North Sea. Like Railton and Cargill and himself, he was sure, aching only for his little bed in whitepainted Room 27 in the west wing of the Officers’ Mess. Yet none of them said anything. Neither did the Sergeants, still leaning against the huge maps on the walls, staring silently at the yellow taped squares of the submarine sanctuaries, the clusters of red pins which were the anti-aircraft gun batteries along the Norwegian coast, and the round white disc marking the position of the Me 109 fighter squadrons at Malstrom aerodrome, just south of Falstand Fjord.

Into the jaws of death, Irvine thought – now where had he heard that one? Not Shakespeare this time, but the Charge of the Light Brigade. Why did the cavalry go? Why, ninety years later, was Liberator S Sugar going?

Nobody would question why – but for what reason? If this had been some other crew, surely they would have protested? Garfield’s, there would have been a near-mutiny. The only married captain, Flight-Lieutenant Mowbray, he wouldn’t have dreamed of doing it. Even in the Wing-Commander’s crew, there would have been grumbles, and they’d have hauled out the next crew on the Mayfly to go. Why then did nobody say anything to Strickland? Why didn’t he himself get up – after all, he was second in command – and say simply: Honestly, Skipper, we’re all too tired.

His mouth had gone so suddenly dry, he doubted whether he’d be able to get the words out anyway. But what if he did? Wouldn’t Strickland simply put Jenks, the Engineer, whom he had taught to do elementary flying, into the right-hand seat? And wouldn’t he, Irvine, simply follow in the footsteps of Gooch, his predecessor, to that strange limboland where second pilots receive more training?

And nobody would question it, because it was Strickland. Strickland’s decision, Strickland had said it was necessary.

Even now, with Strickland for a few minutes out of the centre of them, it was cold. There was a shiver under the crew’s feet. Ever so slightly, their world shook. Yet as soon as he came over, walking slowly, hands in his pockets, nothing apparent of the Gauleiter about him, no orders, no bullshit, his grey eyes alert the whole atmosphere warmed, the air became electric. The tiredness fell off. Only the excitement and the challenge remained.

Ready, Jack?

Wardle nodded, rolled up the chart and stowed his instruments back into his green canvas bag.

Then let’s go!

Nobody seemed to mind now, though outside it was pouring with rain. The wheels of the lorry hissed round the perimeter track. Winkled out of a gloomy wet visibility by the hooded headlights, S Sugar materialized, crouched on her thick short oleo legs like a rhinoceros, the .5 guns in her front turret turned up into a sharp horn.

Everything on there top line, Chiefie? Strickland asked the Maintenance Sergeant.

All set, sir.

Out of the fuselage through the open bomb-doors came armourers and fitters. The thick hoses were lifted off the wings as the filler caps on the petrol tanks were replaced. The bowsers moved away.

Humping their parachutes, dipping their heads to get under the bomb-doors, lifting their right feet to get onto the catwalk, in went the crew.

Irvine got in. He felt the Liberator lift up her nose as Oakroyd, pulling on his long leather gauntlets, went clumping down to the rear turret. Standing for a moment in the tiny steel cathedral of the bomb-bay, Irvine looked up at the duralumin pillars, the arched silver-ceiling. He could smell that well-known aircraft smell – metal, oil, rubber, the sweet scent of petrol, and the curious brass reek of belted ammunition. Guns everywhere: two .5s in the nose, two in the top turret, two on the beam, two in the tail. He was reassured to see the long canisters of depth charges stacked one on top of the other. If Strickland had been bent on attack, the load would have been changed to bombs. The trip was just as Strickland said: simply a reconnaissance to identify for certain that mysterious smudge in Falstand Fjord.

Got the camera, Peter?

Strickland was coming up behind him.

The RAF photo-reconnaissance camera looked like a cross between an Aldis lamp and a small searchlight: big, cumbersome, heavy and uncomfortable to hold. At GR School, he had been sent off to do reconnaissances of the Isle of Man, photographing harbours and Chicken Rock lighthouse, coming back with blurs or blanks mostly, but glad to be back at all, because the Bothas in which they flew had a terrible habit of disappearing into the Irish Sea.

It’s in the Navigator’s position, sir.

Give it a good check over. And keep it cocked by your seat.

Will do, sir.

He squeezed forward into the Navigator’s compartment behind the front turret. Already Wardle was tucked up snugly, his chart spread out on the table, his angle-poise lamp on, his black bubble-sextant sitting on top of his astro-navigation tables. Irvine collected the camera, lugging it up with his parachute onto the flight deck, past O’Connor staring through the rubber visor at the radar, past Railton sitting at the Marconi, its green eye twinkling as he tuned. He parked his parachute into the seat well, put the camera on the floor, pulled his seat forward, strapped himself up, and began the second pilot’s checks.

The familiar nature of his checks – winding on and off full rudder and elevator trim, adjusting the throttle nut, checking the magneto switches were off and the turbo-superchargers out, calling up the crew one by one in their places on the intercom – fitted snugly over him like a warm overcoat. By the time Strickland had settled in his seat and strapped himself in Irvine could say calmly, All checks complete! Ready for starting engines, sir!

Then start Number Three!

Energizing Three!

The starboard inner propeller creaked round like a hurdy-gurdy and burst into life. Number Four chimed in, followed by Number Two and finally the port outer, Number One. A real symphony of noise had started. S Sugar began rocking gently on her oleo legs, dancing against the chocks.

Cleared to taxi, sir.

"Then taxi! You’re doing the take-off!"

Yes, sir. He opened up his side window, waved his right arm to and fro. Chocks away! Then he stood on the foot-brakes, unlocking them.

Nodding her nose, brakes squealing like stuck pigs, S Sugar ambled round the perimeter track towards Runway 09. Ahead of him, Irvine saw the two .5s moving left and right and up and down as Cargill tested the hydraulic operation of the front turret. A fully loaded night Liberator take-off was quite a dicey business, and most captains allowed their Front Gunners – as being the most vulnerable if they crashed – to come up on the flight deck and stand behind the Engineer. Not Strickland. All posts manned at all times. Just after take-off, there might be a German night-fighter waiting.

The twin parallel lines of the flarepath came swivelling round to meet them, the butter-coloured lights muzzy in the wet darkness. Irvine lined her up in the centre, put on the brakes, called for the Before Take-off Check.

Revolutions?

Fully fine.

Superchargers?

In.

Mixture?

Rich.

Controls?

Free.

Flaps?

Up.

Now Irvine put his left hand on the four throttle levers. Excitement had taken over from all other feelings, concentrating his mind on this one single, difficult operation. He had never before done a fully laden night take-off, and he could feel his heart hammering.

He moved the throttles fully forward. The roar of the four Pratt and Whitney Twin Wasps deafened him. Every plate in S Sugar began shivering as though in a palsy.

He released the brakes. As the Liberator began moving, the Engineer grabbed the four throttles and held them hard against the stops.

Sixty-five thousand pounds of metal, petrol, ammunition and men lumbered forward into the night. Infinitely slowly, the runway lights slipped past them. Infinitely slowly, the needle moved round the dial of the airspeed indicator.

Seventy-five knots!

Strickland was reminding him to lift the nosewheel off the ground. He moved the stick back too far – his first mistake. He felt Strickland correct on his own set of controls.

They were running out of runway lights now. Four, three, two—

The wheels began banging heavily up and down on the oleo legs, as though trying to jump but failing. There was no life there, nothing but a kind of metallic flabbiness. S Sugar seemed stuck to the ground.

And here came the threshold lights like a horizontal red sword across the runway to cut them to ribbons! And beyond no white lights, no yellow lights, no red lights – nothing but darkness.

He pulled back with all his might.

Groaning, gasping, shaking, S Sugar inched off the ground into the night.

Gear up!

Wallowing in the wet air, the aircraft began sluggishly climbing. Surreptitiously Irvine wiped the sweat off his forehead. The Liberator take-off was notorious, but until you had done one at full load, you had no idea that you had actually to wrench her out of the womb of Mother Earth and up.

Superchargers out!

Wardle came up onto the flight deck and laid a chit on the throttle box: Course 077. He seemed quite unconcerned. Nobody said good take-off or bad take-off. Everybody seemed to take it as normal and for granted. The needle on the radio altimeter had moved full travel to 400 feet, and the Kollsmann was inching upwards.

Breathing a sigh of relief, he stretched forward to line up the indices on the Minneapolis-Honeywell automatic pilot.

No, you don’t! said Strickland. You need all the instrument flying practice you can get! Take her up to 500 feet and stay there!

Irvine also needed all his concentration. The green bar of the artificial horizon wavered. The needle between the compass lubberlines wandered. Up and down went the altimeter – above, below, but rarely steady on 500 exactly.

Matters were made worse by the gunners testing their guns. Sudden white tracer flashes in front momentarily blinded him. He heard chatter all round him. The flight deck reeked with the fumes of cordite.

Front turret… OK.

Rear turret… OK.

Top turret… OK.

Beam guns… OK.

Gradually, Irvine steadied the Liberator up. Gradually he balanced the aircraft exactly on 077, exactly on 500 feet. All his tiredness had gone. So had any fears of flak, of fighters, of mountains, of the Groningen. His whole being was bound up in the minute movements of his hands and feet on the control column and the rudders. He was chained to the altimeter and the gyro compass. The numbers 500 and 077 were his only laws, as quietly now, her engines at cruising revolutions murmuring like sewing-machines, S Sugar slipped through the night towards Falstand Fjord.

The minutes changed to hours. Still Strickland did not suggest relieving him. Total silence on the intercom till Wardle called up with a new ETA. 07.15.

We’re early?

Yes, sir. Tail-wind. Clearing, too. I saw Betelgeuse just now.

Dawn is?

07.20.

Just right!

Now Irvine could see a pale straight streak underlining the horizon ahead – first light. And almost simultaneously O’Connor reported from the radar, Norwegian coast at forty miles, sir!

It was then that Strickland relieved him, simply putting up his thumb and saying Got to get under the radar, and, pushing the stick forward, levelled off just above the sea, the radio altimeter flickering around thirty feet.

The horizon now was above their wings. Irvine could actually smell the salt scent of sea-water.

Can you see Falstand Fjord, Radar?

Yes, sir. Three degrees to port.

Suddenly the horizon ahead became a zig-zag black silhouette peaked with silver – the Norwegian mountains. Underneath, the sea turned from dirty black to a dark green flecked with white spume. High above, all the stars had gone out in a cloudless blaze of blue.

Can you see a lighthouse, Skipper? Wardle asked.

Strickland leaned forward till his forehead was practically touching the windscreen. Yes.

That’s Aalstrom. At the entrance to Falstand Fjord.

Thanks, Jack. He called out to the gunners. See any fighters?

None.

Good! O’Connor, leave the radar and man the top turret! Jenks, man the beam guns with Mackenzie. Irvine, give me full power when I ask, and hold it on. If we lose an engine, feather it.

The sea gave way to grey rocks and seaweed. Over to starboard, Irvine could see a row of white wooden houses and fields glistening with recent rain. There was a road winding round the headland and long strings of telephone wires. Cows going through a gate, a man’s face looking up from an open doorway.

Now this is what we’re going to do…

It was Strickland’s practice to give his crew a minute briefing before carrying out any operational manoeuvre, to make absolutely certain that they all knew exactly what he expected of them.

"…Groningen is at the far end of the fjord, tucked up against the cliff face, torpedo nets all round her, tail sticking out. You can be damned certain that they’ll have Oerlikons, pom-poms and 88s all round her, as well as her own ack-ack armament. I’m going to hug the south shore, getting as close to the ship as I can so as to position Irvine exactly right for his photographs. Get the camera set up."

Reluctantly Irvine picked up the bulky camera from the floor. His minute knowledge of photography told him that in this light, if the sun remained below the mountains, he would need the widest aperture he could get. This he set. As for exposure, they’d be travelling fast so he guessed 1/500th of a second. Then he opened up his side window and propped the camera on the metal sill.

All set, sir.

He did not feel as confident as his voice sounded. His heart had started hammering again. He was glad of the cold wind from the open window that fanned his hot face.

They were into the fjord now, the sea glassy calm, the air still grey but rapidly lightening. Inches below them, blades of grass, a sandy beach. Inches to starboard a sheer granite rock face.

…when they start shooting, I’ll drop the depth charges pilot-release. You never know, the splashes might give us some cover. And it’ll make us lighter. Then I’ll scarper to the left in a split-arse turn out.

The land had flattened here. S Sugar screamed just above a road. Two cars had stopped. A helmeted grey-green figure holding a sub-machine gun began firing.

They’ve seen us, Skipper! They’re shooting!

Then shoot back! Irvine, full power!

The engine noise surged upwards at the same time as the .5s began chattering. Now ahead of them all at once were great grey puffs of smoke from heavy ack-ack mixing with red and green and white tinsel necklaces lazily stringing across the water.

Talk about Guy Fawkes night…

But Irvine hardly saw it. He was staring ahead, holding tightly to the camera, all tensed up for the first sight of the ship.

Round a headland now, skidding up on one wing, all plates vibrating, wings practically flapping, trailing silver tracer from all her guns, S Sugar roared onwards. There was a thick curtain of-ack now. Guns on the mountain sides were firing down on her.

A 4.5 exploded under her port wing, tilting it to the sky. Irvine could hear cannon-shells tearing into the fabric. Inches above the muzzles of the 88s, S Sugar skimmed over a sandbagged gun emplacement.

There she is, Skipper!

There was a violent jerk as Strickland kicked her round to starboard. Ahead Irvine could only see mist and smoke and the flashes of guns. He screwed up his eyes, trying to make out the shape of