Andre Norton: Catfantastic II

The battleships H.M.S. Prince of Wales and King George V plus the cruiser Suffolk had tangled with her briefly, only to be driven off by the German ship's deadly and accurate shelling. And a flight of Swordfish from Ark Royal sister carrier, H.M.S. Victorious, had loosed nine torpedoes at Bismarck with only one hit. It hadn't fazed her in the least. She was still running at 20 knots, well ahead of the pursuing Home Fleet and likely to escape. The only way to slow her down lay in the Ark Royal and her aircraft.

The Ark Royal had already sent two Swordfish equipped with long-range tanks to shadow the Bismarck and make sure she did not slip from sight again. These relays of shadowers were continually replaced during the day. Then came the announcement that the fifteen Swordfish not engaged in shadowing operations would mount an afternoon torpedo attack on the Bismarck.

Feathers ate his lunch, then he and Crockett, his observer, went up to the briefing office with the other aircrews to plan the attack. When he went down to his cabin to collect some last-minute gear, Bomber tried to follow him out.

"Look, sport," said Feathers, pushing him firmly back inside. "You had your chance to put some holes in that bloody battleship. Now I'm getting mine," With that, he locked the cat inside the cabin, although he wondered whether Bomber might use his unusual talents to make an escape.

He didn't have time to think about Bomber once he reached the flight deck. At two-thirty, the airedales had his Swordfish prepped and ready, torpedo slung underneath. Despite the tossing seas and rolling deck, he, Crockett, and Patterson made it off and buzzed away with the rest of their squadron, all hungry for a shot at the Bismarck.

About two hours later, a chagrined crew of Swordfish were circling about Ark Royal while the carrier headed upwind for their fly-on. The whole attack had been a fiasco from start to finish. Emerging from heavy cloud cover in an attack formation, the Swordfish had dived at a lone ship, thinking it was their sought-for target. But it wasn't. Confused by the weather and over-eager for combat, they mistook the cruiser Sheffield for the Bismarck.

"God, what a bloody-balls-up," groaned Feathers as he scrambled out of his cockpit onto the rain-swept deck. Patterson followed quickly so that the airedales could hustle the plane onto the lift and below decks before the next Swordfish made its approach. "They send us out and what do we do? Nearly sink one of our own ships!"

"I don't know what those other blokes were about," said Patterson. "We've used the Sheffield for all our dummy practice runs. As soon as I saw that superstructure, I knew it was the old Sheffield I told you to hold the torpedo. Was right, wasn't I?"

"I imagine the War Office has lost all faith in the Stringbags and they won't give us a second chance," said Feathers gloomily.

"Boyo, they don't have a choice. We don't have anything else to throw at the bugger." With that cheerful observation, Patterson shoved open the tower hatchway and held it for Feathers. "You'll feel better when you've got some grub in you. I have an itch that the old man is going to give us a chance to redeem ourselves."

"If the Sheffield isn't sunk," said Feathers. He trooped along with the others into the canteen and ate as much as he could hold, though the food might have been sawdust for all he cared. He was slightly cheered when news came that Sheffield had managed to maneuver so deftly that none of the torpedoes had hit her. He perked up even more when the captain announced that a second wave of Swordfish would depart the Ark Royal at 6:30 p.m. for one more crack at the Bismarck.

After the meal, Feathers was tempted to go immediately to the briefing room and then down to the hangar below to check his plane. But he remembered Bomber, still locked in his cabin. He hadn't left the cat any water. Feeling guilty, he made his way down to his quarters and opened the door. Bomber was still there, nosing about the corners of the room. Feathers patted him roughly, then fetched him water in the empty mackerel tin. As he did so, he talked to the cat, telling him what a mess the attack had been.

"If you could just do your trick again and let me get aboard Bismarck, I'd have a better chance of wrecking her than I have flying that firecracker-carrying chicken coop."

Bomber drew back his ears and narrowed his eyes. For an instant Feathers hoped that he had understood after all. The pilot was ready to grab his sidearm and dive through the moment that Bomber created a passageway between the Ark Royal and the Bismarck. But instead, the cat sprang away from Feathers, out the cabin door, and down the hallway.

"Where the devil are you going," Feathers shouted out the door as a gray tail disappeared around a corner. "I don't have time to chase a cat about. Dammit, come back!"

But Bomber was gone.

Perhaps he had decided to tackle the Bismarck on his own. Feathers could just imagine Bomber waging his own sort of guerrilla war with the enemy. He could almost hear the harsh Prussian voices scream in bad World War One movie dialogue about "eine verdammt geschpritzen-katzen!"

Feathers Geoffrey-Faucett shrugged. Bomber had gone off on some mission, now Feathers had to attend to his own. He jammed his cap back on his head and made his way to the briefing room, where the aircrews were already assembling.

The plan was essentially the same as before, except this time, presumably, they would attack the right ship. A subflight of three Swordfish would approach in a steep dive behind the quarry. As the planes pulled out of the dive, they would fan out and approach the enemy in line abreast. At ninety feet, flying a flat course, they would drop their torpedoes into the sea and sheer away from the barrage of flak from enemy anti-aircraft guns.

The trick was getting close enough before dropping the torpedo. The optimum distance was 900 yards, but Feathers doubted that Bismarck would let anything get within that range before blowing it out of the air. He felt his hands begin to sweat. Sheffield had held her fire from the attacking planes. Bismarck would give it all she had.

They would have to fly low and hope for luck.

Bad weather had dogged the first attempt and threatened to scuttle the second. The rain squalls that gusted fitfully around the carrier became a full gale. Feathers pulled his leather flying cap down over his head, pulled his jacket collar up around his neck and braved the pelting rain. The sky, already dimmed by twilight, was darkened almost to blackness by the storm. The deck crews could only work by floodlights.

As he approached his Swordfish, a sweating crewman in a grime-streaked slicker was rolling a torpedo on a dolly toward the plane's undercarriage. Between the rain, the glaring lights and the seesawing deck, the airedale was having a struggle to get the torpedo in place. Feathers hastened his steps to help the airedale, fearing that man, dolly, and torpedo might be swept over the side by the rush of white water spilling over the carrier's bow and sluicing down the deck.

Before he could reach the dolly, he saw a little four-footed shape gallop from the shadows toward the torpedo. With a yell, the airedale shouted and flailed, driving the animal off. What the hell was Bomber doing out on the flight deck, Feathers wondered, but he had no time to go after the cat. He overtook both airedale and dolly, adding his strength to the crewman's. Together they wrestled the torpedo back toward the airplane, raised it and secured it in the rack between the Swordfish's wheels.