Mole starts to hum some ditty down the tube, Charlie catching parts of the tune before they are snatched away on the slipstream. The observer is always singing as he scratches away with his pencils and compass on the charts. Charlie has no idea how he manages to balance the boards and the rubbers and all the other paraphernalia, since he isn’t really sitting down at all. It is only Charlie who gets a proper seat. The others perch on nothing more than a cross bar.
It is an hour’s flight to the merchant ship. Nothing to do but enjoy it. He uncricks his neck, rolls his shoulders to loosen them up as much as he can in the cramped seat. The sky is a patchwork of dark and light. Visibility is good. The sun breaks out, and Charlie could be four years old again – on his first flight: there’s the same roar of the wind, the rumble of the plane – and him, weightless, soaring into the endless sky, his father behind him, beaming with pride, his mother’s face receding way, way below, creased with worry. His thoughts drift to the girl he met on the train. Olivia. Perhaps he could bring her up here one day. She is the kind of girl his mother would have approved of. Or at least, he thinks she is. He remembers his mother talking about families, and how she hoped that one day he would meet the right person, like she had. She had laughed, imagining herself as a grandmother. In his memory, they are stretched out on a picnic rug on the beach. His father must have been swimming in the sea. The air is warm, and he is lying looking up at her, and she is stroking his head, her curly hair a hazy halo of gold around her smiling face. He is not sure whether the memory is true or false. It feels real, but he must have been only five or six. The year before they both died.
Mole has stopped humming. ‘Dead ahead.’ The words bring Charlie back to the present. As usual, the observer’s calculations are spot on, and already they are closing in on the merchant ship. Charlie pushes all thoughts from his mind. The world shrinks. As they approach, one of the Skuas flies past them, back towards the carrier. ‘Must be low on fuel,’ Mole yells down his ear. Charlie nods, concentrating. Ahead, he sees another Skua wheel around like an angry seabird. He sees the tiny bombs fall and the plumes of smoke and spray as shrapnel bursts from the sea where they land. It swoops in low – too low – next to the ship. As the mess clears, he can see that the plane is in trouble: smoke trails from its nose. Damaged by its own bomb, it splashes into the sea.
‘Bugger,’ says Charlie. ‘Where’s that U-boat?’ All he can see is the merchant ship, a long and low smudge on the sea, her drab sides a dusky contrast to the red ensign that flutters at her stern. She is hove to, rocking in the waves.
‘Must have dived,’ says Mole.
Charlie loops around the merchant ship. He needs to assess the situation as quickly as he can. It looks as though some of the crew are still on the ship. But the ship’s lifeboats are in the water – and full of crew waving at them frantically. There is a lot of debris around them, some of it from the plane that just crashed. But another plane is missing. Did that go down too? There are two yellow life jackets – the missing airmen? – swimming towards the merchant ship; a third bobs inertly on the waves. Charlie has swung the plane right back out to sea. He works the port rudder and they turn towards the ship again. They must be eight hundred yards away when, ‘There! There!’ Mole suddenly yells.
The submarine is rising. Its conning tower and gun break the surface first as water cascades off its back. Charlie’s heart thumps. This is not a dummy run with pretend bombs. It’s the real thing. He swallows. His mouth is suddenly dry. Time moves slowly. Second by second. His thoughts are clear as a reflection in a puddle on a still day.
It’s all in the timing. He drops the plane lower over the water. Closer and closer. The submarine lies alongside the merchant ship, sleek and black. Wait, wait. Wait. Now! Charlie presses the button, and, as they pass over, the Kid starts to fire, clack-clack-clack, manoeuvring the gun into position. There is a thud that resonates in their chests as the bomb Charlie released explodes, and spray spatters the back of the plane.
Mole cranes his neck to see behind. ‘Good shot, boyo,’ he shouts. ‘It’s dived again. Won’t go far. It’s Germans on the ship. Five of them. Must have boarded before we got here.’ Charlie knows the Germans will take whatever provisions and information – and British – they can and then scuttle the ship with their torpedoes.
He circles again. He can see the life jackets have reached the ship and are being hauled out of the water. The third life jacket still bobs near to where he first spotted it. The Kid keeps his finger on the trigger as he swings the gun back and forth, always ready. Sure enough, the U-boat resurfaces. Charlie goes in for the attack. This is their last bomb. He needs to make it count. Five hundred yards. His hand is on the button. ‘Steady, boy,’ says Mole. Four hundred yards. Three hundred. He presses the button. The charge dislodges from its bracket. Another thud resonates through their bodies and seawater spurts into the air as the bomb explodes. They can’t see anything through the smoke and the froth.
‘Spot on!’ says Mole.
‘Thanks for the shower,’ says the Kid.
‘You were beginning to smell.’
‘That’s it. We’re all out,’ says Charlie.
The sub is on the surface again. The German crew are scrambling to get off the captured ship and back to their submarine. There is a kerfuffle, and the British airmen leap off the ship and into the water, yellow blobs in the dark sea.
The Kid yells from behind, ‘Take us in closer, Charlie. Let me have a go.’ But Charlie doesn’t dare. It’s a mess down there. The submarine is trying to pick up her German crew, who in turn are trying to grab the British men from the water. Training doesn’t prepare you for this.
Mole is in his ear. ‘Here comes back-up, boyo.’
Frank and Paddy are here at last. But too late: the greedy shark has swallowed its German crew and its British prize. Charlie is relieved that he doesn’t have any more bombs to drop. He doesn’t want to make that decision. Frank and Paddy go in for the kill. But the submarine sinks back into the ocean with its catch. As a final goodbye it sends its own torpedo to take out the merchant ship. Charlie spots the track of the missile under the water but there is nothing he can do. The merchant ship flinches, spewing black smoke up into the air. Her back is broken, and, as dark clouds cascade into the sky, she too sinks deep into the sea.
It is as if she were never there.
Mole doesn’t sing on the way back to the carrier. There is just the sound of the air rushing past, and the hum and rattle of their aeroplane. Charlie has kept his crew and his plane safe, but seeing a ship die leaves a bitter taste in their mouths. He tries not to dwell on the captured airmen, men whose hands he grasped only moments ago on the flight deck, who will either never wake again, or find themselves in an enemy camp.
They are about eight miles from the rest of the fleet, close enough to see the carrier in the distance, when suddenly Charlie hears Mole’s breath catch in his throat. At the same time, Charlie sees it too.
‘Forty-five degrees starboard,’ says Mole.
Charlie presses the foot pedals to operate the rudder. The plane responds immediately. He dips the starboard wing. There is shadow, and above it a mark like a white scar in the water. Charlie feels a shiver of anticipation. There’s no mistaking the track of a periscope.
The U-boat is heading straight for the rest of the fleet, approaching at a ninety-degree angle. It is almost close enough to attack. The British ships won’t have seen it yet, but Charlie can’t warn them: radio silence must be kept at all times in case the Germans pick their messages up. They have no bombs left, either. There’s only one thing to do.
‘Take me in!’ yells the Kid.
Charlie doesn’t even have to think about it. It’s the only way they can alert the fleet. He feels the gunner’s weight shift as he leans out over the side of the plane, searching for his target. The hunter is about to become the hunted.
Charlie has his own gun in front of him. Its barrel gleams gold in the afternoon sun. He drops as low as he dares,