Andre Norton: Catfantastic II

Shepherd was among those down below, welcoming the aircrews aboard. The news had spread quickly throughout the ship that two Swordfish of the second subflight, coming in on the Bismarck's starboard quarter had got in one torpedo hit amidships and one aft. And the aft strike might have crippled her.

"That was your flight," Shepherd said excitedly to Feathers, amidst the general hubbub. "Which was your shot?"

"He kicked her right in the bum!" howled Patterson over his shoulder. "You should have seen it!"

"How the hell did you do it? And where's Bomber got to? I haven't seen him since you took off."

Feathers took Shepherd aside from the throng of rejoicing men. "Jack, he went with me. And he didn't come back. Come on. I'll tell you the whole story, if you'll believe it."

In Feathers' cabin, he and Shepherd shared what was left of the rum while the pilot told his friend the entire tale.

"You must think I've gone crackers. But I swear, that's the way it happened." Feathers ran his hand through his sandy hair. "Jack, you've read more scientific stuff than I have. Do you think it's possible to make a 'hole' between two different places the way Bomber did?"

Shepherd rubbed the stubble on his chin. "I don't know," he said thoughtfully. "The fellows at Farnborough play around with all sorts of queer ideas. But one thing I do know, Feathers. You're not given to fantasies. If it happened the way you said, I believe you."

"I feel terrible about leaving the little chap behind. But there was just nothing I could do."

"Well, look at it this way. You saved his life when you pulled him in from the sea. I think he just wanted to square the deal."

Feathers sighed, then looked at Shepherd with a wan smile. "Thanks. That helps a bit." He hung his head, his hands between his knees. "You know, I'm really beginning to miss him. I wonder if he really was just a cat. Seemed more like a guardian angel. Aah, I'm going all soppy on you, Jack."

"Well he definitely was a cat as far as one thing was concerned." Shepherd said, with a grin.

"I wish I had him back again," said Feathers.

"Even if he were to… ah… continue asserting himself?"

"Even if he did," said Feathers.

"Well, if it helps any, I'd suggest we give him an award, in memory of services rendered to king and country and all that," said Shepherd. "I'll get the tin snips from the repair shop. We can cut out a little Victoria Cross from the bottom of that mackerel tin and we'll have a proper posthumous presentation ceremony. How's that?"

Feathers agreed that such an award would be the best thing. He and Shepherd embarked on its construction, during the intervals when he wasn't being debriefed about the mission. In the confusion of the attack, no one could definitely assign which torpedo hit to which pilot. Only Patterson stoutly insisted that the aft hit was theirs, but the other aircrew also claimed it. Feathers took no part in the argument, since he had decided not to reveal Bomber's story to anyone except Shepherd.

Several hours into the evening, new reports came over the wireless. The torpedo hit had indeed done critical damage. After making two aimless circles in the North Atlantic, Bismarck was now heading northwest, in a wobbling course that indicated that she no longer had rudder control. She was backtracking helplessly, right into the guns of the oncoming Home Fleet.

Both Swordfish aircrews were decorated by the ship's captain and praised for their part in the battle. After the presentation, Feathers took his ribbon below, put it in a drawer and went back to Bomber's Victoria Cross. Ignoring the cuts on his hands from the jagged metal of the mackerel tin, he worked determinedly.

Shepherd came in just as Feathers was laying the finished piece in a little leather case that had once held someone's cufflinks. He pronounced it a beautiful piece of work given the contrariness of the mackerel can and the awkwardness of making fine cuts with tin snips.

"I think Bomber would approve," Shepherd said softly, laying a hand on the pilot's shoulder. "The news of that hit has gone right up to the Admiralty, to Sir John himself. They're all saying that it was a miracle, a hundred-thousand-to-one chance. It proves to me that your story must be true." He paused. " Bismarck is surrounded now. She hasn't got a prayer. And the Germans will fly their colors to the end, so we have to sink her. They're so sure of the end now that some bloke on the BBC has gone and written a bloody song about it."

Feathers looked down at the homemade Victoria Cross.

"I'd give him the proper words to write, I would," he growled.

"If Bomber's alive and still on board," Shepherd said, "he hasn't got much time. Maybe we'd better think about holding that ceremony."

"Just hold off another few hours, Jack. Maybe the little beggar can somehow piss his way home."

Shepherd gave the pilot a light pat on the shoulder and started to leave the cabin.

Abruptly an unholy racket broke forth from the direction of the galley. It sounded like a war was being fought with pots and pans. And then came the indignant tramp of feet along the deckway. Shephard backed inside again, clearing room for the red-faced, indignant cook, who held out a large, meaty fist clenched about the scruff of a very wet, oil-stained, and generally bedraggled cat.

"If this animal is yours, keep it out of the galley or Oi'll complain to the captain, Oi will," the cook bellowed, brandishing a ladle over his captive's head. "Oi don't know 'ow 'e got in, but 'e's made a perfect shambles."

"I think we can cope with him," said Shepherd, smoothly taking the cat from the cook and gently escorting the indignant individual out before pushing the cabin door closed behind him.

Feathers had risen from his bunk, his eyes wide. "Bomber!" He took the cat from Shepherd, held him up and looked at him in disbelief and delight. "It really is him, Jack!" Quickly he sat down with the cat on his lap and gently felt along the little body. "I think he may have a few bruised ribs from the smash against the wall, but he seems pretty fit otherwise. Wait till I dry him off a bit."

"Wonder what he was doing in the galley?" Shepherd asked.

"I imagine he was making for my cabin and missed. Must have been in a bit of a hurry. And that's why he fell in the sea instead of the ArkRoyal. He must have had to pop off the Hood pretty fast, too." Carefully Feathers cleaned and dried the cat. He grinned as he scratched Bomber's head between the ears. "He certainly got his revenge."

"The Nazis should know better than to get a British ship's cat… ah, a bit niggled at them."

Feathers broke into chuckles, then laughed until he had to hold his sides. "I wonder if they have any idea what happened?"

"I suggest we have the presentation ceremony right here and now," said Shepherd. "Uh, what title were you planning to give him?"

"Why, there can only be one. To Bomber, ship's cat of the late H.M.S. Hood, I proudly bestow this Victoria Cross and name you mascot of Swordfish Sub-flight Two and," Feathers drew breath and presented the cufflink box with its tin medallion, "Bombardier, First Class!"

Christine was allowed to choose one kitten, Ian the other. Mother was surprised when Christine insisted that the scrawny all-black kitten with the gold eyes was the one and only cat for her. "He was waiting for me," she explained. So he appeared to have been, for he ran to the door and squalled to be picked up the moment she came in. Ian, not yet three, clutched the rotund, yellow-orange kitty who slept in the nest-box. It yawned with all the animation of a damp towel and showed a mouthful of sharp baby teeth. Mother smiled, shrugged, and agreed. The five of them went home to introduce the newest members of the family to Daddy. Daddy took one look at the kittens and pronounced them Punkin and Bat.