Читать книгу Admiral on Horseback - Geoffrey Willans - Страница 3

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‘At least,’ said the Admiral, explosively, ‘we have been spared that.’

He folded his copy of The Times and laid it on the desk of his day-cabin. It is safe to say that in his long service career he had never regretted his loneliness more. Even the time taken to summon Flags or the Secretary would take the fine, exquisite edge off his indignation. Despite this, however, and the fact that it was not yet nine o’clock he telephoned the Secretary.

‘Secretary, I want you in my cabin at once.’

‘Yes, sir.’

The Secretary, a pale, worried commander, arrived looking bright and enquiring. All the way aft he had been wondering what had gone adrift. The squadrons had flown on perfectly, there had been fresh milk for breakfast, there was no other British admiral of greater seniority in company and the acceptances had arrived for the Press reception. Once inside he had not long to wait.

‘Secretary, have you heard the expression “two-blocked”?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Neither had I,’ said the Admiral. (The Secretary, long schooled to atmosphere, realised that there was going to be nothing personal in this.) ‘Listen.’

He picked up The Times again and read aloud the report:

‘ “It is heartening evidence of co-operation that an American naval term of long standing—‘two-blocked’—an expression indicating that a flag, pendant or signal has been hoisted all the way up to the signal yard arm—has been dropped. The British ‘close-up’ takes its place.” ’

There was silence.

‘Had you ever heard the expression “two-blocked,” Secretary?’

‘No, sir.’

The Admiral began to speak. He spoke as he was wont to speak on these occasions, picking his words carefully while his eyes looked, from time to time, through the scuttle, to rest upon the other ships at anchor.

‘In the old days, Secretary, as you will remember, our phonetic alphabet had a splendidly traditional ring about it. A stood for Apples, B for Beer and L for London. All typically British allusions. After many weeks of deliberations during the war a committee, sitting apparently in Washington, decreed that in future A should stand for Able, B for Baker and L’—the Admiral gulped—‘L was to stand for, of all things, Love.’

The Admiral’s eyes rested upon the American carriers that stretched in his view between Gair Loch and the Tail of the Bank.

‘Apparently, Secretary, we have only narrowly missed—narrowly, I repeat—the situation when I might hear my Flags requesting the Signal Bos’n that “Love should be two-blocked.” ’

The Secretary, relieved, smiled at the Admiral’s flight of fancy. This he realized was the humorous monologue, not the more customary impersonation of Captain Bligh or Jack the Ripper.

‘We ought to learn a bit of American on this exercise, sir.’

The Admiral’s cold eye came back to him.

‘They are our allies, Secretary,’ he said. ‘It is our duty to co-operate with them with best possible endeavour. I should not wish any officer or rating in my flagship’ (he pronounced it ‘flagship’) ‘in my flagship to feel otherwise.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Rear-Admiral Sir Strangways Foxe-Forsyth, despite his comparative youth, was the old-fashioned type of admiral. He did not still wear a wing-collar, but there was a suspicion of length about his sidewhisker and he sported a swansdown of fluffy grey hair on his upper cheekbones. His was a steel-like personality and it was reflected in the austerity of his quarters. The day-cabin was like a monk’s cell—a desk with two Admiralty-pattern lampshades, a blotter and a telephone: a notice board on the sloping bulkhead and the usual standard furniture were all that it contained. There was no picture of a wife taken in wedding dress in 1926. The only softness he permitted himself was an oil-painting of H.M.S. Nelson at sea in bad weather.

In the nature of things Sir Strangways’ appointment was a curious one. He was Flag Officer Carrier Striking Group, flying his flag in the Impenetrable, one of the largest of British aircraft carriers. Yet he wore no wings on his sleeve, and, in the view of the squadrons embarked, he did not know a Swordfish from an Attacker. In this they were wrong, for Sir Strangways was an acute man with a first-class brain. It may well have been that his private dreams had once seen him in command when battle-fleets were brought to action, but he had now focused his entire mind upon his newer problem. If he had not flying in his bones and did not know what the flight-deck looked like when a pilot was coming in with a batsman who didn’t know his flying, nevertheless many hours of thought and discussion had put him on top of the job. He looked forward to the exercise ahead as his first real test.

‘After the conference I shall bring Admiral—er—what was his name?”

‘Admiral Burnett J. Kzecky, sir.’

‘Hmm.’

Without a single word, with a single glance from the middle scuttle starboard side, Admiral Foxe-Forsyth implied his opinion of this name.

‘I shall bring Admiral Kzecky aft. I have no doubt that, despite the dryness of American ships, he may appreciate a glass of gin.’

‘Two-blocked,’ added the Admiral, almost to himself. ‘Love two-blocked.’

The Secretary retired, as he put it later, under ‘heavy smoke.’

When he was alone Admiral Foxe-Forsyth stood for some minutes gazing out of the scuttle. It was a perfect autumn morning. Warm, flooded with sunlight, the Clyde looked at its best. The Argyll hills were still covered with mellow, drifting mists and the waters were blue. Against these stood the varying shapes of the ships in company—the dark-grey Americans and the lighter British ships and, borne through the bright, crystal stillness of the sparkling air came a multitude of sounds—a Corsair revving up on the flight-deck, a band playing, the throb of a ship’s boat, the hollow, unearthly boom of a ship’s loudspeaker.

It was a brave sight, the Admiral decided. He had seen nothing like it since the war. A pity though, that he had not another two squadrons on board; a pity that he didn’t have helicopters; that the other two carriers in his group were not more up-to-date. He could see the fighters ranged on the flight-decks of the three American carriers with wings folded upright, looking like black insects. There seemed to be hundreds of them. And what of Admiral Kzecky? He had not met him before. Would he be one of the sandy-haired American admirals promoted by Washington after a successful career in industry? Or the inarticulate type. Rumour had it that Burnett J. Kzecky, U.S. Navy, was the possessor of a sense of humour. Admiral Foxe-Forsyth frowned. Then he settled down at his desk and took up his pen to compose his speech. He wrote:

‘Admiral Burnett J. Kzecky in command of Carrier Task Force .1 and myself welcome you on board H.M.S. Impenetrable ...’

He stared at this for a long time. Carrier Task Force .1. Why point one? Burnett, too! What could the fellow’s parents have been thinking of at the christening? Admiral Foxe-Forsyth forced his pen again along the paper.

In the marines barracks on Three Deck there was much confusion. The visit of the American admiral for the press conference before the start of the exercise had been made the occasion for full ceremonial. This meant guard and band on the quarterdeck and the major of marines had taken no chances. The band had practised the ‘Garb of Old Gaul’ until they were something something sick of the something tune and now, in the last minutes before the show, there was a desperate polishing among the crowded tin lockers and plush benches which were the concession to the ‘comfort of the modern Navy’ in the Impenetrable.

The Commander, too, was having a busy morning. The Impenetrable, a nightmare rabbit warren of vertical companion ways and wandering gangways in which a man might be lost for days was a difficult ship to keep clean. Paint and holystone seemed to make little difference but, at least, the route to the lower hangar where the conference would be held was clean and efficiently signposted with boards that said ‘To the Conference’ in red paint (with a pointing arrow). Rows of midshipmen, too, had been paraded as guides to the visiting officers and pressmen: the wardroom had been transformed with spotless napery and piles of cigarettes and cigars stuck into tumblers, while the ship’s motor fishing vessel had gone off to Gourock in due time to collect the visitors. The Commander was able to inform the Captain with confidence that he thought the whole affair would go with a swing.

As the hour approached, the quarterdeck presented an animated spectacle. Guard and band were standing-to; the Officer of the Watch was covering his incipient nervous breakdown with a brave display of efficiency; the Chief Bos’n’s Mate was standing by with his pipe, and opposite the gangway stood Captain and Commander to greet the early visitors. Once the Press had arrived on board (a curious-looking lot, but no matter), it was the turn of Admiral Kzecky.

Admiral Foxe-Forsyth, his speech safely in his pocket, left his cabin to greet his fellow commander.

Telescopes raked the carrier Benjamin O. Pinkerton, Jr. in which Admiral Kzecky flew his flag. Yet no boat had left her: indeed it looked as if the Admiral’s barge had not even been called away.

‘They have ninety-three boats,’ said the Commander pettishly. ‘They cannot all have broken down.’

‘Helicopter approaching, sir,’ came a report from the bridge.

It says much for the training that, for three minutes, all the officers concerned returned to their normal deportment—telescope under arm, bending slightly from the hips, turning importantly or, even, looking critical—all according to rank. It was the Commander, who had been watching in a dispassionate way the approach of the helicopter, who suddenly sprang to life.

‘Do you suppose, sir, he’s arriving by helicopter?’

There was a moment of stunned silence at such a revolutionary thought.

‘Officer of the Watch ...’

But already the Officer of the Watch (who knew that everything so far had been a lot too easy) had sprung to the telephone.

‘Helicopter is hovering, about to land on, sir,’ he reported.

‘Is there a flag flying?’

‘No, sir.’

‘The helicopter is landing, sir.’

(‘Let them work that one out,’ thought the Officer of the Watch, looking smug and slightly obsequious. ‘What else do they get their pay for?’) Aloud he snapped: ‘Hold on and report who disembarks.’

‘Tell him to report who disembarks,’ said the Commander, the Captain, and the Admiral, almost simultaneously.

‘I’ve given that order, sir,’ said the Officer of the Watch, impassive, but calculating how he would dine out on this.

There was a minute or two of suspense, then the voice from the island above said: ‘The helicopter is down, sir.’

‘Does it bear any identification?’ snapped the Admiral.

‘It is called “Hiya Rosie,” ’ came the grave report. ‘There is a lady painted beside the name. Otherwise——’ the voice broke off. ‘There is an Admiral, sir, just stepped out.’

It was a case for quick action. The ancient rule held good. Even in the most difficult and undignified circumstances due honour should be paid to a senior officer. If Admiral Kzecky arrived in unorthodox manner on the flight-deck the ceremony must be taken to him. It would, indeed, take some minutes to transport the band there—but it could be done speedily and most impressively with the band rising in full martial blast on the for’ard aircraft lift. The immediate need was for Admiral Kzecky to remain on the flight-deck.

One could not call the ensuing passage of officers and band to the lower hangar a dignified procedure, but it was carried out at best speed. In very few minutes they were rising past the apple-green walls of the hangar with the ‘Garb of Old Gaul’ in full swing. Those who beheld this spectacle from the island vouched that it was as brave a sight as they could wish to see. Admiral Kzecky, detained by a splendid piece of sprinting by Commander Air, who happened to be in the briefing-room when the telephone rang, must have been deeply moved.

Meanwhile he honoured pipe and salute with a cutaway salute. Admiral Foxe-Forsyth advanced to him with a smile of great cordiality which concealed his deep private views on admirals who arrived by helicopter without prior signal.

‘My apologies,’ he said, with a glare at the panting Officer of the Watch. ‘Shall we go below? The Press are waiting.’

Exercise ‘Flamethrower’ was a typical naval exercise of the international type now fashionable. Its aim was to provide training for combined fleets in all aspects of the war at sea. It was to stuff such incidents as air and submarine attack, attack by raider, the flying off of naval strikes, the escort of convoys, and everything else that could be thought of into the days of its duration. As usual Russians were not mentioned by name: the exercise planners, with a humour which must have been the death of the combined headquarters, called Russia ‘Pinkland.’ Once harassed staff officers had got over the mirth of this, they could be sent into fresh paroxysms by the reference to their own forces as ‘Yangland.’

In fact, exercise ‘Flamethrower’ provided a tremendous thrill for staff officers who, crossing the vague, undefined fringe between reality and insanity in which they normally dwelt, became convinced that the whole thing was real. It was a damned nuisance to the ship’s officers, who had their first serious spell of watchkeeping since 1945 in prospect. As for the ship’s company, like all good ship’s companies, they did not care a great deal what was going on, anyway.

It was not these truths, however, with which the two Admirals had to deal at the conference. To them was assigned the difficult task of saying as little as possible about the exercise while stressing how important, significant, wholesome, and newsworthy it was. The attack on this problem by each of the speakers was curious. Admiral Foxe-Forsyth was witty, urbane, making copious service references, while Admiral Kzecky, a bluff man with a skin like crumpled brown paper, was ostentatiously informal.

‘At the Battle of the Midway,’ he said, jutting out his jaw, ‘we had a motto, “If you don’t swim, you sink.” So we decided to swim. We have three fleet carriers and we are going to operate them as if there were real enemies right over there with real submarines and real bombers loosing real bombs....’

(‘How many more times is he going to say “real?” ’ wondered Admiral Foxe-Forsyth as he automatically nodded his head in agreement.)

‘In other words, this is a real exercise, on a real sea with real aims to defend real peace,’ concluded Admiral Kzecky.

Curiously enough, this speech went down well with the company and was greeted with audible approval. They had, of course, these American correspondents ‘from some of the most influential papers in the States,’ a few questions to ask—questions which made the English correspondents slightly envious: ‘Admiral, if Russia declared war during the conduct of the exercise, would you go straight into action?’

‘I leave you to guess that,’ said Admiral Kzecky, looking bellicose.

‘Could you carry the atom-bomb from one of your carriers and drop it on Vladivostok?’

‘In the necessary circumstances,’ said Admiral Kzecky, ‘I am prepared to drop anything on Vladivostok or anywhere else—should The Peace be broken.’

‘Do you have an atom-bomb on board one of your carriers now?’

‘No comment.’

Admiral Foxe-Forsyth rose to his feet hastily. What next would be said?

‘Gentlemen,’ he beamed, ‘I shall now ask the Chief of Staff to outline the movements of the two carrier striking groups. After that, gentlemen, the ship’s officers will be happy to entertain you in the wardroom.’

The Chief of Staff, who was equipped with a large chart and a lieutenant with a pointer, succeeded in delivering a narrative of such technicality that all further questions were stifled. The gentlemen of the Press were conscious of a growing thirst which corresponded with their diminishing interest. The end of the conference came with almost indecent haste once the Chief of Staff had finished. The party repaired to the wardroom.

Now it is a fact that some thirty years ago a gentleman named Josephus Daniels abolished alcohol from American warships. It is also a fact that a great number of the American nation do not make a habit of drinking in the middle of the day. A third fact is that the Royal Navy, who are fortunate enough to be able to buy a glass of gin for threepence, are renowned for their splendid hospitality.

The Impenetrable was a new ship and this was her first major occasion. She had to do it justice. All the ship’s officers were imbued with a sunny love of their fellow beings which at breakfast was usually conspicuously absent. Some, like the Commander (S) and the Squadron Medical Officer, were practising a studied charm which they had learned in many a station between Bermuda and Hong Kong; younger officers made up in enthusiasm what they lacked in experience, summoning the white-coated waiters and determined that no visitor should lack for anything he required.

All these matters combined to achieve the desired result. Admiral Foxe-Forsyth mingled in the throng, and, although a young pressman cornered him and instructed him how the Battle of the Atlantic—in which the Admiral played no small part in Western Approaches—should really have been conducted, he felt that the damned nuisance the Press conference represented was a ‘Manœuvre well executed.’ Accordingly he was able to usher Admiral Kzecky out past the marine sentries and the polished corticene to his day-cabin to discuss details of the exercise with the Staff.

It was after they left that the trouble began, although, perhaps, ‘trouble’ is too strong a word. It was mainly the result of a photographer mislaying his camera. If this had not happened there would have been no cause for dismay beyond a couple of gentlemen from Texas in ten-gallon hats crossing the gangway smoking cheroots. As it turned out, however, the motor fishing vessel which was to bear the company ashore was delayed at the bottom of the gangway.

It then became evident that the company of pressmen—and the representatives of some of the most influential newspapers in the United States were far from being an exception—were in a splendidly cheerful frame of mind. The Padre was the first to suffer, as padres often are. Being unwise enough to stand at the rail to bid a courteous farewell designed to cement bonds between nations, he was greeted with a joyous rejoinder:

‘Good-bye, Padre. If God’s anything like you, He’s all right.’

The Padre smiled palely and retired: his place at the rail was taken by the American embarked for liaison in the Impenetrable. He was a commander, but he was distinguished by one outstanding feature—he had a clipped, grey moustache.

‘Hi, Red,’ he called down, leaning over the quarterdeck rail, ‘did you get my envelope?’

Red, a stout correspondent with rimless glasses and a sea-green mackintosh, shouted up: ‘Sure, boy, I got it here. Look at that! Photographs! And your life-story on the back. You think of everything.’

‘Will it make the paper?’

‘Sure. I’ll see it makes the paper. And another thing—I wanna take another picture of you.’

The Impenetrable was a new ship, but her namesakes had performed various heroic feats in the past. It is probable that in none of them had there ever been seen the spectacle of a commander with a grey toothbrush moustache leaning over the quarterdeck rail to have his picture taken for the Press.

Yet this did happen. Red levelled his camera: the Commander’s face split into a ghastly grin and he actually held his hand aloft and said ‘Hi!’ The picture was taken. Lined up was a row of midshipmen to whom the proceedings had proved most diverting. To add to their pleasure Red finally waved at the Commander and shouted:

‘So long, Commander. Come and see me when you’re an Admiral.’

Mercifully the missing camera had by now been located: it was hustled in almost indecent haste down the gangway into the waiting boat. The coxswain was told to carry on, and with an uninhibited cheer from the grateful pressmen the boat pushed off and headed towards Gourock pier.

‘This,’ said the Captain fervently, ‘is a morning I shall remember for the rest of my life.’

What Admiral Foxe-Forsyth would have said had he been present to witness such incidents on the sacred quarterdeck cannot be guessed. He had been closeted in the day-cabin with Admiral Kzecky to discuss the operation, and he, too, had been subjected to a certain amount of strain.

Admiral Kzecky showed himself completely impenitent at his unorthodox arrival and seemed, moreover, to be a disciple of that firm American doctrine that the British Navy does not know how to operate carriers. He even went so far as to lecture Admiral Foxe-Forsyth on the Battle of the Coral Sea and aircraft carrier operation ‘in the event of a future war.’

‘We shall use our task forces to strike unexpectedly to obtain a local air superiority over any given area. Having concentrated fighters over the peripheral defences of the enemy, our bombers could then move in with the atom-bomb.’

‘Hmm,’ said Admiral Foxe-Forsyth. ‘Cannot an atomic bomb also sink an aircraft carrier?’

‘Sure it can, providing it falls within the task force and reasonably close to the ship. But don’t forget the vital element of surprise is on our side. A carrier is more difficult to hit than a land base and a carrier task group is difficult to locate, and, owing to its great defensive strength, difficult to attack when located.’

‘I cannot agree that that was entirely our experience in the Mediterranean,” said Admiral Foxe-Forsyth.

His companion dug his hands deeper than ever into his trousers pockets—a posture he had assumed the moment official duties were behind him.

‘It’s the same anywhere,’ he said flatly. ‘You’ve just got to have the carriers and, then, put ’em in there.”

Before them on the desk lay a chart of the waters in which exercise ‘Flamethrower’ had been planned to take place. It would not be betraying secrecy to state that these were well north of the Arctic Circle. The coastline revealed on the chart conveyed a grim and rugged outline—giving a mental picture of tall cliffs, gulls borne away in the wind, and a grim, steel-grey sea.

‘Do you know these waters?’ asked Admiral Foxe-Forsyth.

‘No, sir.’

‘Inclined to be treacherous at this time of year. The weather may well hamper us.’

Admiral Kzecky’s nod conveyed agreement, together with the unspoken reservation that nothing really mattered so long as you had the right equipment. At that moment, however, a signal arrived. It was brought in by the Squadron Communications Officer—a worried young man when in the Admiral’s presence. On this occasion his eyes were positively haunted.

‘Received from Admiralty, sir,’ he gulped.

The Admiral looked at the signal and the S.C.O. rather as if a stray cat had brought in a mouse and laid it at his feet. This was his normal demeanour with his staff.

Having observed the signal, he immediately looked away, continuing to speak to Admiral Kzecky; then, a full three minutes later, he turned his attention back. He took the signal and read it. It began: ‘Exercise “Flamethrower.” Assume command of Carrier Task Force Point 2 under Task Force Commander Admiral Burnett J. Kzecky, U.S.N....’

It says much for Admiral Foxe-Forsyth that not a muscle of his face moved. He read to the end before glancing at the S.C.O., who was all too well aware of the biblical precedent for slaying the messenger who brought bad tidings. The Admiral’s eyes rested only for a moment upon his staff officer, then he merely nodded a brief dismissal.

‘The whole coast is subject to sudden, strong gales, sometimes as much as force nine ...” he went on.

But this time, by the subtlest fractional intonation which many years had taught him, he made this not a statement, but a submission.

According to the narrative of exercise ‘Flamethrower,’ Pinkland was at war with Yangland as from 0001 on the following day. Pinkland ground forces were assumed to have made a strong attack on the north of Norway: at least twenty of its submarines were known to be at sea and it had, in addition, possession of two large, well-equipped air bases.

Things, in fact, as they usually do in exercises, looked rather grim for Yangland, whose reply to Pinkland consisted in despatching two carrier groups to the north to attack air bases and give air support to ground troops. Admiral Kzecky was in command of this force and also of Carrier Task Force Point 1, which comprised an American battleship, two cruisers, three large fleet carriers, and some twenty destroyers. Carrier Task Force Point 2, Admiral Foxe-Forsyth’s group, was a more miscellaneous collection. Apart from the Impenetrable and two light carriers, it was made up of a French cruiser, a battleship, and a screen of twelve Dutch, Belgian, Norwegian and British destroyers.

Admiral Foxe-Forsyth was well aware of the disparity between the two groups, but, whatever private wound had been inflicted on his pride, he outwardly showed little but a strict determination that the ships under his command should be on the top-line in every respect. Nothing but the best was to be good enough: accordingly it was without signal and at a prearranged time that his group weighed anchor at the sailing-hour. Now ensconced on the tall chair on the admiral’s bridge, Admiral Foxe-Forsyth watched the winking signal lamps of the Americans and compared it to the impressive, silent precision of his own ships. He nodded grimly. At least he had suffered nothing by comparison here.

Separated by about fifty miles, the two groups steamed north under leaden skies. The sea stretched out to a far horizon, calm and featureless, like a vast steel plate. It was so still, so unruffled that it seemed utterly silent—a desert, emptied of colour except for varying shades of grey—and the hum and throb of the ships’ engines seemed unbearably loud.

Soon after daylight the two groups closed to two miles and, surrounded by the destroyer screens, the ponderous capital ships headed north in company.

The weather was perfect for flying and, as dawn broke, the combat air patrols were ready to fly off. The Impenetrable carried three squadrons of jet-fighters and these, combined with two squadrons of piston-engined anti-submarine aircraft, made at least an adequate display of air strength to set against the dozens of aeroplanes silhouetted on the decks of the American carriers.

Earlier the Admiral had sent for the Commander Air.

‘Which squadron is flying off?’

‘Nine-eighty, sir.’

‘What’s their state?’

‘They’ve had plenty of flying, sir. Merrihew, the C.O., is first-class, sir. I think you’ll find they’re on the top-line.’

The Admiral looked at the young commander.

‘I don’t want any “I think,” about it,’ he snapped. ‘We shall be watched. You know the standard I expect.’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Commander Air.

He returned to his platform on the island lamenting more than ever over the two squadrons, only half worked-up and with aircraft that were obsolete before the last rivet had cooled. For all this, it seemed, the mistake of policy, the difficulties of the weather, the drafting of pilots, he alone had been made responsible. He had never rated his chances of promotion so low as when the cold, pale light began to drain from the night sky.

The Admiral, who had been aware of the answers to all the questions he had asked (and even of the obsolescence of the aircraft), returned to the high chair on his bridge and sat there, duffel-coated, binoculars hanging round his neck, waiting for the squadron to take-off. He would never in a hundred years have admitted that he was entering into competition with the Americans, but this, in point of fact, he was doing.

To those unaccustomed, flying off from an aircraft carrier is an exciting performance. The Impenetrable’s flight-deck presented an animated scene. The first two Attackers, the current jet-fighters, were ready in the port and starboard catapults: the remainder of the squadron, the shapes of the pilots in grey helmets, visible beneath the perspex covers, were waiting aft. Round them were the flight-deck personnel in coloured skull-caps, the Flight Deck Officer with his flag, and the fire parties. To fly off was routine, but some tenseness is always present at such moments.

To the second, Commander Air gave the orders from his platform.

‘Stand clear of jet pipes ... Start up.’

There was a whine of electric starters, then the first roar from the jet pipes of the Attacker. The air was full of numbing sound and the canvas straps of the nylon barrier indulged in a fluttering, fantastic dance. On the port catapult the pilot’s thumb went up as the Flight Deck Officer whirled round the green flag. The flag revolved quicker and quicker; there was the thunder of full throttle; the flag went down and, in the little glass cubicle, the catapult operator obeyed.... All this meant that the Attacker shot forward and was airborne.

At least that was what it should have meant. In fact, something very different occurred. The catapult did indeed run forward, the wire cable duly shot into the sea—but the Attacker remained precisely where it was. At the same moment the first Banshee left the flight-deck of the Benjamin O. Pinkerton, Jr. two miles away on the port beam and soared into the pale sky. The Americans were away first.

There was no time to be lost. Attention was now focused on the Attacker in the starboard catapult. Once again the F.D.O. waved his green flag; once again the pilot’s thumb went up. Once again came the signal for full throttle ... at this moment a very small mechanic in a red skull-cap dashed forward, pointing. What had been frighteningly obvious to the bridge now dawned on the pilot. The tips of the Attacker’s wings were still folded upwards, a position in which it is unwise to take-off unless keen on swimming.

It took but a moment or two to put this matter right, but in that time a second Banshee was off and away from the Benjamin O. Pinkerton, Jr. There was no avoiding the fact that with two Americans in the air before a single Attacker had left, the Impenetrable had, to say the least, shown up badly. The Admiral, fuming on the bridge, was also aware that the whole unfortunate performance had been witnessed from the other ships. He spoke a few terse, pointed words to the Captain, but his mood demanded blood.

‘Commander Air, He is to report to me as soon as flying off is finished.’

At that moment the signal lantern on the Benjamin O. Pinkerton, Jr. began to flicker. In due time the signal was brought down from the flag-deck. It was from Admiral to Admiral. It read: ‘My congratulations to Wilbur and Orville Wright. Can I loan you sand for ballast.’

So, in addition to everything else, Admiral Kzecky possessed a pawky sense of humour! Admiral Foxe-Forsyth pictured him across two miles of water in a sea-green jacket and a windjammer cap, laughing his head off at the Limeys. He folded his signal sixteen times and then tore it up. He could hardly wait for Commander Air.

The inauspicious beginning had an unfortunate effect. Of course, the Service held no excuse for either mishap, but it is, in fact, comparatively easy for a cable to become unhooked on one side, and, as for the folded wings, no one but a pilot can appreciate how the mind is apt to go blank at take-off. It was, according to the squadrons, an S.A.M.U.—or Self-Adjusting Mess Up.

‘I hate flying when there’s an Admiral on board,’ as one lieutenant said. ‘Everyone gets into a panic.”

Nor was the atmosphere confined to the squadrons. The Captain vented his spleen on the Major of Marines, the Commander on the Gunnery Officer; and, finally, the Admiral’s cook failed to produce fresh milk for breakfast. The Admiral gave him blazes. ‘One grown man,’ said the C.P.O. cook, ‘speaking to another like that!’ H.M.S. Impenetrable was far from a happy ship at this moment.

Outwardly, however, the impressive armada ploughed its way northwards in unruffled calm. The sea and sky were still merged into one mist of slate-grey, save when a squall darkened the water as it poured across the surface and spattered the look-outs with icy drops. There was no sun and no land. In these waters even shipping was absent. There was a sense of tension and loneliness in the air.

Various exercises as designed by the planners of ‘Flamethrower’ were carried out. There were ‘attacks’ by land-based bombers and by Pinkland submarines; on D3 a raider was reported, chased, and ‘sunk.’ It was stuff out of the copybook, and one could picture the joy of the planners at their own cleverness.

The Admiral slowly recovered his equanimity; for no further accidents (beyond an Attacker through the barrier) occurred. He made it a daily practice to speak to his staff officers in the staff office and make an appreciation of the situation as he saw it. He spoke on these occasions very much as if thinking aloud—addressing no one and with his blue eyes focusing out of the scuttles at the force around him.

‘We must yield to the Americans,” he said, ‘certain basic superiorities. Their aircraft carriers are not only more modern but, in some respects, more efficient than ours. This is not so much the question of design. There is also a simpler matter of practice, in that, once a contract with a shipbuilder is signed and plans approved, no further changes may be made. Our own ship is an example of the possible unwisdom of “Alterations and additions.” ’

The eyes roved from for’ard to starboard scuttle and then across to observe that a Belgian destroyer was not in station. The staff officers eased the strained lines on their faces which had indicated breathless interest and wholesome respect.

‘By comparison,’ continued the Admiral, as if aware that most of the forenoon watch lay ahead, ‘our aircraft suffer far worse. It is beyond question that the Americans at this time have aircraft which are more robust, whose wings fold as they should, but which suffer little in the matter of speed. I do not need to emphasise that our own planes at the moment have nothing like their range. The Americans, therefore, will be able to attack targets some hundreds of miles more distant than ourselves. On whom are we to lay the blame for this? In its time there was no carrier-borne plane like the Swordfish. Why have we lost that lead? We can in part blame it upon the stringency of the country’s economic situation; we can blame the Navy’s poor representation upon the appropriate committee of the Ministry of Supply; but there is a far deeper reason than that.’

The Admiral paused and there was a silence of at least three minutes, during which the red-headed pins in the operational charts seemed almost to tremble in expectation.

‘That deeper reason is what?’

The Admiral’s eyes passed from face to face as if he would force in the truth of his thinking.

‘Complacency,’ he snapped. ‘For nearly a hundred and fifty years the Royal Navy has had no competition. We have lacked a stimulus. We are still possessed of ingenuity. It was we who made the first deck landing, we who pioneered the first naval jet, an Englishman even landed the first helicopter on a naval vessel. We must see to it that, while acting as faithful allies, we nevertheless maintain the supremacy of the Royal Navy in all departments.’

He paused, stood graven for two minutes, and walked from the staff office without a further word. His staff officers sighed. They were well aware of the truth he spoke, hard as it was, but, somehow, spoken by Admiral Foxe-Forsyth the message had a sobering force.

It was almost as if this open acknowledgment healed something of the Admiral’s pent-up feelings towards the Americans in general and Admiral Kzecky in particular. He seemed over the next twelve hours more relaxed, almost genial. He could even look at the fuel pipes that honeycombed the Impenetrable marked ‘Av. Gas’ and ‘Av. Tur.’ without inwardly shuddering for the old ‘Aviation Spirit.’

Furthermore, there was more than a little element of doubt whether, in locating and ‘sinking’ the raider at night, the Americans had not, in fact, attacked one of their own cruisers. The Admiral touched on this in the staff office next morning:

‘I, myself, would be strongly disinclined to proceed in these waters without a zigzag. However, that is merely a matter of opinion and I have no doubt that Admiral Kzecky has good reasons for supposing we should be immune from submarine attack. Last night’s attack on the raider was successful. Again, in my opinion, the attack was carried out in a somewhat unorthodox manner and it would seem to me that the night action was fought with H.M.S. Vituperant, who, no doubt, acquitted herself well by firing at the correct target. However, that must rest until the analysis. The Vituperant would not be the first junior ship to be sunk by weight of gold braid.’

A poor, pale ghost of a smile flitted for a moment across the Admiral’s set face. He paused in silence for another two minutes. Then, without a word, he left the office. The indications were that he was not displeased.

On the fifth day the ‘Flamethrower’ force approached the area, some hundred miles from the coast, from which the strike at air bases was to be made. The weather had remained flat, sky and sea a colourless monotone. By now Carrier Task Force Point 2 had assumed an individuality of its own: the black silhouettes of the ships, the positions in the screen, the flying off of combat air patrols and anti-submarine patrols had become routine. The ships plashed through the elephant-grey waters, leaving short, stunted wakes of dirty cream that were soon lost in the colourless expanse of sea. Stationed five miles away, against a curtain of grimy mist, steamed the American force, identified by the occasional flash of a signal projector like a bright golden guinea against the grey curtain.

The air strike was timed for 0925, and in the two vast, pale-green hangars of the Impenetrable there had been a frenzy of activity to get the aircraft ready. The Admiral had been on the bridge since first light. He stood now, as the morning watch ended, gazing at the distant horizon, the beetling eyebrows seeming to stand out more than ever. At 0815 there was an alteration of course: at the same time the long-hidden sun came out. It poured down on the still sea and colour was suddenly flung to the sky—the sea a deep amethyst blue; bright, white clouds: the gay colours of fluttering ensigns were, for a few minutes, warm and inviting. Then, equally suddenly the sun was blotted out and the force sailed through a dead sea that had become a country of ghosts in which every sound was magnified in the stillness.

The Admiral left the bridge without a word and climbed the ladder—emerging through the double doors on the flag-deck and going forward. There he stood for some minutes before going below, where he sent for the Meteorological Officer. When he came, the Admiral tapped the Met. forecast.

‘The Americans predict wind force two. You forecast wind force five, from 1400.’

‘Yes, sir.’

The Admiral’s eyes rested on the ‘Schoolie’ who was a slight man of remarkably unscholarly appearance.

‘You stick to that?’

‘Yes, sir. I’ve never been more sure of anything.’

The Admiral grunted.

‘Neither have I. Only it’s going to be a hurricane—and we’ll have it within an hour. I am going to cancel all flying from this Group.’

It was a brave decision. Admittedly exercise ‘Flamethrower’ was not war, but it took courage to cease participation in the most vital phases of an exercise which had cost thousands of pounds of taxpayers’ money. There was no apparent change in the weather. It looked exactly as it had done for the past five days. As the Impenetrable’s aerials were lifted inboard and the aircraft taken below, it was as if the ship were huddling into herself against the softest of elements.

The Americans were still flying off from their carriers. With the helicopter hovering astern like a black beetle, four squadrons took off from the Benjamin O. Pinkerton, Jr., and an equal number from the sister carriers, until the pallid sky seemed as if full of locusts. They gained altitude and then headed north-east towards the target.

The Impenetrable was silent and inactive. Time passed. Forty minutes, fifty. It might have been seemly to pity the Admiral during this vigil. Yet this was far from necessary. Some sense born of seafaring ancestors, of sharing a bridge between Jutland and Matapan with countless men of deep experience, some essence of personal wisdom acquired through contact with the weather, had guided him. The Admiral had never been more confident in his life, and his confidence gave him pride.

He had signalled the Americans in strong terms. A courteous reply had been received:

‘I have perfect confidence in your judgment. Our appreciation shows strike possible before weather closes.’

Now, as below and between decks gear was lashed down, the Impenetrable was waiting. The pilots, lounging in the wardroom despondently, aware that they had ‘gone off the boil’ after being keyed up, grumbled among themselves. Nothing wrong with the weather, they told each other. The whole lot up top were windy. Up in the staff office the Squadron Aviation Officer took a suck at his pipe and growled:

‘Hasn’t come yet.’

‘It had better,’ said the Staff Officer Operations.

And then the weather obliged. The beginning was so gentle that it would almost have passed unnoticed had not so many eyes been straining for it. There was a flutter on the water, which was ribbed like sand where a tide had passed. Wavelets smacked against the ship’s side and the first breath of wind passed along the flight-deck. The thousands of tons of the Impenetrable’s hull gave a short brief shudder. And then, within a few minutes, they were in the teeth of it—the meter on Commander Air’s platform indicating forty knots with the first gust.

‘The Pinkerton’s getting in her aerials, sir.’

Later, on the R/T could be heard the signals ordering the American squadrons to land on shore.

‘Where,’ as the Squadron Aviation Officer observed, ‘they will be very comfortable, with no change of kit and not so much as a toothbrush until this lot blows itself out.’

The Admiral received these reports in silence. If he had any private satisfaction it was not visible.

‘It is going to blow up to force eight,’ was his only comment.

It was. The fleet was now transformed from calm mastery to semblance of a desperate, pitching battle with the seas. They were enveloped in a world of white, blown spume: the nearest destroyer’s bows dipped into the waves almost lazily; there followed an explosion of white spray which, from the Impenetrable, seemed to drift lazily down her length. The waves were short, bottle-green as they curled towards the ships. Before they were finally blotted out the Americans could be seen pitching ominously, the lashed aircraft clinging like flies to slanting flight-decks.

The Admiral sat on his tall chair, watching, like a conductor with an orchestra. The weather had not let him down.

The gale, which at times swept at a hundred miles an hour down the flight-deck, lasted for three days. It put paid to several dozen Carley floats, boats, booms, and other gear. It also put paid to the planners’ dreams for exercise ‘Flamethrower’ wherein continuous strikes would be made on the spot for refuelling—the destroyers being sent south to Norwegian ports. A scattered ‘Logistic Support Group’ had to be reassembled. By that time ‘Flamethrower’ as a set-piece exercise was doomed. The force turned back towards the Clyde.

Throughout all this Admiral Foxe-Forsyth kept his feeling of private satisfaction, of personal vindication to himself. Indeed, he masked it by venting more vituperation on his harassed staff than previously. As the ships headed for home, however, he mellowed a trifle and therein came his downfall.

One day out from the Clyde, a signal was surprisingly received from Admiral Kzecky asking the Impenetrable to report her state of supplies.

This was both annoying and unnecessary, but Admiral Foxe-Forsyth complied. In addition, however, he made a personal signal to Admiral Kzecky. This read:

‘Your 021347. I. Kings xvii. 12.’

To make a lighthearted signal with a biblical reference at sea is common enough practice among commanding officers of the Royal Navy. The recipient replies with a reference, more barbed, or, even, more improper. Admiral Foxe-Forsyth’s reference made his signal read:

‘Your 021347. An handful of meal in a barrel and a little oil in a cruse.’

It was not wildly funny, but for him it was a step in the right direction. The American reply was therefore eagerly awaited on the flag-deck. In due time it came. It simply said, ‘Roger.’

Nothing could have been more crushing than this Service acknowledgment of receipt. If Admiral Foxe-Forsyth had dressed as a clown and danced on the flight-deck before the ship’s company he could have hardly looked more foolish than that ‘Roger’ (which said in effect, ‘You are too senior for poor jokes’) had made him. He was perfectly aware that the snub would be right round the fleet, would penetrate the Admiralty, and the United Service Club and, probably, stick to him for the rest of his life.

Although Admiral Kzecky had certainly sinned in ignorance, it became paramount that the position should be salved. But how? It was hardly likely that the triumph of the gale could be repeated. Yet somehow the determination was firmly lodged in the Admiral’s brain.

On its return to the Clyde the ‘Flamethrower’ force had an unexpected honour. It was paid a surprise visit by Royalty. There was precious little time to get shipshape, but wonders were achieved with paint and metal-polish. Ships were dressed overall—the Clyde echoed with pipe, band, and salute. It was a brave occasion and it went without a hitch. When it was over both Admiral Kzecky and Admiral Foxe-Forsyth had reason to be pleased. Indeed, Admiral Kzecky proposed a second visit to the Impenetrable.

This time no mistake was made about the helicopter. Pride forbade inquiry, but a battery of telescopes raked the Benjamin O. Pinkerton, Jr. for the slightest move: the Admiral was seen to emerge from the island on to the flight-deck and proper reception was waiting in good time and good order.

Admiral Kzecky was in high spirits as he shook hands with Admiral Foxe-Forsyth. The two men stood on the flight-deck for a moment, looking strangely similar, as men do who share the common bond of the sea and move upon it on their own occasions. Round them the fleet lay at anchor beneath the mantle of the Clydeside hills which have mothered ships since remembered time. It was a clear evening and still: the aircraft, the Corsairs, the Banshees, the Attackers, were silent. The only sound was that of the liberty boats throbbing to the shore.

‘Won’t you come down?’ said Admiral Foxe-Forsyth.

He had recovered from the pang he had felt when he had almost caught himself welcoming Admiral Kzecky with ‘Happy to have you on board.’ He led the way to the island, across the flight-deck.

‘I have to hand it to you about that hurricane, Admiral,’ said Admiral Kzecky. ‘You caught me looking the wrong way. You must have quite a weather-nose.’

Admiral Foxe-Forsyth smiled abstractedly at the compliment. Here was praise, genuine and unstinted. The mood to wound left him. Instead he felt, somehow, that he must repay. Fate sometimes aids generous purposes. A signal was given to him as he led the way below. In his day-cabin he looked at it. It said, ‘Splice the Mainbrace.’

‘Make it so,’ he told the Communications Officer. And he added, with a smile at Admiral Kzecky: ‘Have it—er—“two-blocked.” ’

Then the two of them sat down to work. The trouble was, however, that each was still convinced that he and his navy was right.