Colin Gee - Stalemate

Opening Moves

Breakthrough

Stalemate

Impasse

End Game

Check Mate

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The Sunderland Mk V was a big aircraft, the four American Wasp engines giving her the power previously lacking in the Mk III.

Not for nothing was she called the Flying Porcupine, her hull bristling with defensive machine-guns, fourteen in total, manned by her eleven man crew. Such arnament was required for a lumbering leviathan like the Short Sunderland, whose maximum speed, even with the Wasps, was a little over two hundred miles an hour.

In the German War, encounters with enemy fighters had been mercifully rare and, in the main, enemy contacts were solely with the Sunderland’s standard fare; submarines.

This Mk V also carried depth charges and radar pods, making her a deadly adversary in the never-ending game of hide and seek between aircraft and submersibles.

Sunderland NS-X was out on a mission, having flown off from the Castle Archdale base of the RAF’s 201 Squadron. The men had once been in 246 Squadron but, when that squadron ws disbanded, the men of NS-X, all SAAF volunteers, had been one of two complete crews to be transferred to 201 Squadron.

During World War Two, there had been a secret protocol between the British and Eire governments, which permitted flights over Irish territory though a narrow corridor. It ran westwards from Castle Archdale, Northern Ireland, across Irish sovereign territory, extending the operating range of Coastal Command considerably, and bringing more area under the protection of their Liberators, Catalinas and Sunderlands.

The agreement was still in force.

NS-X had followed this route out into the Atlantic, turning north and rounding Malin Point, before heading into its search area around St Kilda.

A Soviet submarine had been attacked and damaged the previous day, somewhere roughly fifty miles west of Lewis, and the Admiralty were rightly jittery, given the importance of the convoy heading into the area in the next ten hours.

There was little good news.

The RCN corvette which had found and attacked the submarine was no longer answering, and was feared lost with all hands. Other flying boats and craft were assigned to the dual mission, all hoping to either rescue, or recover, depending on how fate had dealt with the Canadian sailors, as well as attack and sink the enemy vessel.

Flight Lieutenant Cox, an extremely experienced pilot, hummed loudly, as was his normal habit when concentrating.

Having just had a course check, and finding themselves a small distance off their search pattern, he eased the huge aircraft a few points to starboard, before settling back down to the extended boredom of searching for a needle in a choice of haystacks.

The Sunderland carried many comforts, including bunks, a toilet, and a galley, the latter of which yielded up fresh steaming coffee and a bacon sandwich, brought up from below by Flight Sergeant Crozier.

“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.

“Skipper, I think Dusty is 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 Jameson’s 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 air crews meals, Miller had wangled a portion of the well hung goose, prior to flight ops.

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

Another voice resonated through the intercom.

“Contact Skipper. Starboard 30. One thousand yards. 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.

“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 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 a glint of sun on the wing of an aircraft.

Nose-gunner Viljoen was first up again, professionally, and matter-of-factly, 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 will bet a pound to a pinch of pig shit that they are navy uniforms, Skipper.”

The reason behind Viljoen’s nickname was lost in time, but he was Dagga to everyone, including 201’s Squadron Leader, 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, 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.”