Colin Gee - Impasse

“There you go, Skipper, get your laughing gear around that, man. I’ll take over for a moment.”

South African Crozier wasn’t qualified to pilot the aircraft, but that didn’t trouble the old hands of NS-X. He flopped into the second seat and took a grip, permitting Cox to relinquish the column to the gunner.

He let Cox start into the snack before airing his concerns.

“Skipper, I think Dusty’s an ill man. He’s wracked up on a bunk, looking very green.”

Dusty Miller was the second pilot, and he had disappeared off to sort out a stomach cramp, about an hour beforehand.

“Too much flippin Jamesons last night, that’s what that is, Arsey”, the words came out despite having to work their way around large lumps of bread and bacon.

Rafer Crozier didn’t much care for being called Arsey, but it didn’t pay to point that out, for obvious reasons.

“Don’t think so, Skip. Dusty was the only one to have the goose, wasn’t he?”

The local procurer of all things, Niall Flaherty, had slipped such a beast to the camp cooks for a small consideration. In contravention of standing orders on aircrew’s meals, Miller had wangled a portion of the well-hung goose, prior to flight ops.

“Maybe you’ve a point, Arsey. Best we keep quiet then, eh?”

Another voice resonated through the intercom.

“Contact, Skipper. Starboard 30. One thousand yards. Possible wreckage.”

Flight Sergeant Peter Viljoen’s crisp and concise report interrupted the great Goose discussion, as Cox wiped his hands clean on his life preserver and took back command of the aircraft, releasing Crozier to crane his neck in the direction of the sighting.

Viljoen’s voice came again.

“Contact confirmed Skipper, Starboard 35, One thousand yards. Wreckage, and lots of it too.”

Cox spoke to the crew.

“Pilot to crew. OK fellahs, close up now, and keep your eyes peeled. Turning for a low level run over the site now. Sparks, get off a report to base right now. Magic, pass Sparks the position please.”

Both radio operator and navigator keyed their mikes with an acknowledgement, as the port wing dipped to bring the lumbering seaplane around in a circle for a west-east run across the wreckage.

Whilst some of the crew used binoculars to probe the floating evidence of recent combat, others remained with eyes firmly glued elsewhere, seeking out the tell-tale plume of a periscope, or the reflection of sun from the wing of an aircraft.

Nose-gunner Viljoen was first up again, professionally and matter-of-factly, at least at first, then rising in pitch and excitement as his eyes worked out the details of what he was seeing.

“Contact dead ahead, 500 yards. Dinghy in the water. Men onboard, Skipper, there’s men onboard! They’re waving!”

“Roger, Dagga. How many?”

“Hard to say, Skipper. Five, maybe more. Looks like a standard issue navy dinghy, and I’ll bet a pound to a pinch of pig shit that they’re navy uniforms, Skipper.”

The reason behind Viljoen’s nickname was lost in time, but he was Dagga to everyone, including 201’s Commanding Officer, although, in fairness, that may have been because they were brothers.

Sparks came back with a message, confirming the passing on of the location report, leaving Cox free to concentrate on his fly past.

His first sweep had been at full speed but, with the absence of any adverse reports, Cox turned his aircraft round for a second pass and throttled back to permit closer examination.

He saw the waving men in the dinghy himself, and believed he saw others in the water, whose only motion was caused by the shifting of the sea.

‘Poor bastards.’

“What’s the latest on Dusty, please?”

A slight delay, and the metallic voice of Rawson, one of the gunners, responded with negative news.

The pilot did not welcome being single-handed for the entire flight.

“Bollocks with an egg on top.”

His favourite expletive and one that always puzzled those who heard it.

“Arsey, I need a hand up here. Pass your guns onto someone will you.”

“Roger, Skipper.”

Crozier looked away from his waist guns, and saw Rawson moving forward.

“All yours, Tiger,” and Crozier slapped the gunner on the shoulder as he headed towards the steps that rose up to the flight deck.

Rawson had been nicknamed ‘Sid’ at a young age, for reasons best known to God and his friends in Mrs Oosterhuis’ class. That label survived until the first time that 246 Squadron’s Operations officer had placed his initials up on the crew roster.

By the time those present had stopped laughing at G.R.R.R., ‘Sid’ was history and ‘Tiger’ was born.

“Radar Contact, bearing 010, range approximately 95 miles, heading unknown, possibly south-south-west, Skipper.”

Magic Malan’s report was delivered in his normal impersonal style. The type VIc Radar set was supposed to be capable up to 100 miles in the right circumstances, and Flight Sergeant Malan always seemed to coax the best out of the equipment.

Cox thumbed his mike.

“Witty, fit in with you at all?”

After the slightest delay, the Navigator replied.

“Position could tie in with the Stord, Skipper.”

“Roger.”

Stord was a destroyer of the Royal Norwegian Navy, one of the array of vessels converging on the area.

Crozier slipped into the second seat, a place he often occupied. He had failed his pilot’s training, not on his ability behind the controls, but more on his inability with the required mathematics.

Lining up on the wreckage, Cox throttled back as much as he dared.

“Ok crew, slow pass. Keep your eyes skinned.”

As the big flying boat did a leisurely flyover, Dagga and rear-gunner Van der Blumme confirmed the presence of naval personnel amongst the survivors, as well as many bodies floating on the surface.

“Skipper, radar target has changed course, now confirmed at 90 miles, heading 190. She changed course after Sparks lit up the airwaves.”

“Roger, Magic.”

Standing orders no longer permitted the Flying Boat to touch down and recover the Canadians, but as the Norwegian Navy was coming to the rescue, it just meant a few more hours on the water for the survivors.

“Dagga, use the Aldis. Let them know we can’t stop, but help is on its way. Witty, how long?”

Navigator Jason Witt was already prepared for the question, so his answer was immediate.

“Thanks, Witty. Four hours, Dagga. And wish them good luck. Sparks, send confirmed survivors at this location.”

The Sunderland circled slowly, as the signal lamp blinked out the message to the men below.

“Skipper, message sent.”

“Roger Dagga. Right, now let’s find the bastards who did this.”

Generally speaking, one bit of ocean looks much like another, but the piece of the Atlantic they had just flown over and now drew them back displayed something special.

Fuel oil.

On one of the southbound legs of their search pattern, Dagga’s sharp eyes had seen the long, thin, glistening streak on the surface below.

Cox gave the matter some thought.

“Pilot. Witty. Pop across to the palace will you.”

Within seconds, Flight Sergeant Witt arrived from his navigating station behind the flight deck, or palace as it was known.

“Witty, get a bearing on that slick and plot it in relative to the Canadian sinking will you. I’m going to deviate off our pattern and I want a bearing down which to fly ok?”

The Navigator understood immediately and, with a modest acknowledgement, disappeared.

NS-X was flying south-south-west on a course of 192 in search of whatever it was that was littering the ocean with fuel oil. Three more distinct glistening marks had been found, all on a heading of 192, vindicating Cox’s hunch.