Landfall (19 page)

He might have got in three or four hours’ more work before going to bed that night. Instead, he had given up and slept at his club, travelling down next day. Those hours now were lost for ever. They might have made a difference. There might be some new factor only a few hours ahead of him, some presage of disaster.

He tortured himself with the thought that he could have worked harder, got through more, if he had not been lazy. His laziness might mean the death of this young man.

Wing-Commander Hewitt came up to him. “Pretty well finished now, I think, Professor. The car’s waiting. It’s about time we went down to the pier.” They were to watch the trial from a trawler.

The civilian hesitated, irresolute. “Just one moment,” he said. He walked quickly round the machine and went into the fuselage again. The wing-commander waited patiently till he reappeared.

“All right?”

“I think so. Just let me have another word with the pilot.”

They crossed the grass to where Chambers was chatting to the flight-lieutenant. “You
will
remember to keep looking at, the milliammeter the whole of the time?” Legge said. There was a note of entreaty in his voice. “That really is very important indeed.”

Behind him the wing-commander winked at the pilot merrily. With a grave face Chambers said: “I understand that, sir. It’s all right up to forty milliamps. If it goes over that I throw the switch.”

Legge said: “That’s it. It will be quite all right if you do that. Mind, it ought not to go over twenty-five.” He hesitated, and then he said: “I wouldn’t let it go quite to forty. Say thirty-eight.”

“Very good, sir. I’ll cut the switch at thirty-eight.”

The professor sighed. “That’s better, perhaps. You are quite happy now about what you’ve got to do?”

“Quite all right, sir. I understand everything perfectly.”

The wing-commander said gently: “I think we’ll have to get along now, Professor.”

“All right.” Legge turned to the pilot again and smiled with attempted cheeriness. “All the best.”

The pilot grinned. “We’ll go out on a blind tonight if this thing works all right, sir.”

He watched the wing-commander and the civilian as they walked over to the car. He turned to the flight-lieutenant by his side. “And we’ll go to the bloody mortuary if it doesn’t. What about a beer before lunch?”

In the trawler a small party of naval officers were
already waiting. Captain Burnaby was there, and greeted them affably.

“Good morning, Wing-Commander. Good morning, Professor Legge. I hope we’re going to see a good trial today.”

The civilian licked his dry lips. It was incredible that these officers did not seem to realise the risk of absolute disaster staring them in the face. He said: “I hope so, too.”

Burnaby turned to the Air Force officer. “Everything all right, Hewitt?”

“Quite all right, sir. The machine is ready to take off now.”

“Very good.” He turned to the R.N.V.R. officer in the little wheel-house. “You can cast off, Captain.”

The trawler slid away from the quayside and headed for the Solent. Half an hour later they were passing through the Gate: in the open sea outside the island the trawler began rolling. It was a grey, cold day with clouds down to about fifteen hundred feet. As soon as the vessel left the quay the naval offices all bolted down below and crowded into the little cuddy, filling it with their gossip and tobacco smoke. Legge followed them, but the motion of the vessel, the smoke, and the tension of his anxiety combined to drive him up on deck again into the cold, salt air. He stood in a sheltered corner watching the flung spray drive past him from the bows, cold and miserable, and feeling rather sick. Presently the R.N.V.R. officer invited him into the wheel-house; he sat down on a bench inside the door behind the helmsman and went on torturing himself with mental calculations of the influences round the battleship.

An hour later the trial took place.

The trawler lay rolling head to sea: everyone was now on deck. Most of the officers held field-glasses in their gloved hands: Legge had no glasses, but the captain of
the trawler lent him his own. Half a mile away the battleship lay, practically stopped, rolling very slightly in the trough of the sea. Above her, circling around, was the twin-engined monoplane.

Captain Burnaby said: “All right. Give him the light.”

A signalman began flashing at the aeroplane with an Aldis lamp. In answer a red flare detached-itself from the machine and floated slowly down against a cold grey sky. Hewitt said: “He’s ready now.”

The aeroplane withdrew a couple of miles to the south, then turned and flew straight for the battleship. Legge watched, tense and apprehensive. The naval officers watched with interest, tempered with unbelief.

The machine came on … and on … and on. Nothing happened. Sick with anxiety, Legge watched it fly over the ship, turn slowly, and fly back towards the south.

There was a general relaxation and a few faint smiles. Somebody said aloud: “The bloody thing won’t work.”

The minutes crawled by. The machine returned, flying a little lower. Again it passed over the ship and nothing happened. Again it turned towards the south.

Captain Burnaby turned to Legge. “What do you think can have happened, Professor?” he said. There was a grim set to his face; he did not like to be trifled with.

“I’ve no idea.” The suspense was unbearable.

Hewitt said: “The pilot’s probably just being very careful.”

Again the monoplane approached the ship. But this time that happened which was meant to happen.

The machine roared down upon the trawler in a power dive, pulled out twenty feet above her mast-head and went rocketing up from her in exultation. On her decks the tension was snapped: everyone was talking at once. Burnaby said: “I do congratulate you most
heartily, Professor. And you too, Hewitt. It went splendidly.”

The civilian said weakly: “Thank you, sir.” Above everything he wanted to go somewhere and sit quietly and rest. He was desperately tired, too tired to be pleased with the success.

The naval officers stood around in little groups discussing in low tones. What they had seen disturbed them very much. Ships were their homes, their livelihood, their very lives. It hurt them and distressed them to see a ship treated in the way that that one had been treated.

Somebody said ruefully: “There wouldn’t have been much left of her if that stuff had been loaded.”

Another said, with doubtful optimism: “I should think the multiple pom-poms would have got the machine….”

The discussions ranged in low, uncertain tones all the way back to harbour.

The trawler made fast to the quay at about four o’clock. Burnaby said to Hewitt: “I’ll come up with you to the aerodrome, if I may. I should like to see the installation in the aeroplane.”

“By all means. We’re going back there in the car.”

They drove up to the aerodrome. Hewitt and Burnaby went straight into the hangar to the machine: Legge turned aside and went to the pilot’s office to find Chambers.

The pilot was reading a novel at the bare wooden table. He got up as the professor came in.

The civilian said: “That was a great success, Chambers. Everyone was very pleased.”

The pilot blushed a little. “I’m glad of that, sir. It seemed to go all right.”

“It went very well indeed. What was the matter on the first two runs?”

Chambers said: “On the first one the milliammeter went right up, sir. It went to somewhere between thirty-two and thirty-six. It was jumping about a bit, so I switched off.”

A cold hand clutched again at the professor’s heart. There was no ending to the tension of this job.

“What happened on the second run?” he said quietly.

“On the second run it didn’t work at all. The milliammeter stuck round about eighteen. It never got over twenty, and nothing happened.”

This was terrible. Legge’s half-formed theories of the distribution round the ship went crumbling into dust. They were just blundering in the unknown.

“And the third time?”

“The third time it went perfectly, sir. The milliammeter got up to twenty-five quite a long time before and stayed there steadily. I didn’t feel it go at all. I just saw the ammeter go back to zero.”

The Cambridge man said absently: “It all went very well. The Navy thought it was wonderful. In fact, I don’t think they liked it much.”

The pilot laughed. “I don’t suppose they did. Hitler could give them a sick headache if he had it.”

“Yes. As soon as we’ve got this to work, we’ll have to concentrate on the defence against it.”

“How can you do that?”

“Increase the influence from the ship or oscillate it rapidly.”

The pilot thought for a minute. “That would mean my milliammeter would go all haywire?”

The professor nodded. “The explosion would take place in the aeroplane.”

The pilot laughed. “Bloody good fun. You can get another pilot when you start on those experiments.”

The civilian smiled faintly. “I shall want a lot more
time for pure research before we can begin on that.”

Outside in the hangar Wing-Commander Hewitt crawled out of the fuselage on to the stained, greasy floor. Captain Burnaby followed him and adjusted the gold-peaked hat upon his head. “I do congratulate you again,” he said. “It’s very neat, and certainly it seems to work.”

The Air Force officer nodded. “Would you like a word with the pilot, sir? I haven’t heard his story yet.”

“Yes, I’d like to see the pilot.”

The wing-commander sent an airman to the pilot’s office. Legge came with Chambers out into the hangar. They walked round the tail of the machine and came face to face with Burnaby and Hewitt.

The wing-commander said casually: “This is Flying-Officer Chambers, the pilot, sir. Captain Burnaby.”

There was a terrible pause. The pilot slowly became crimson, blushing to the roots of his hair, embarrassed and furious with himself for blushing. The naval officer stood staring at him, four-square, the grim eyebrows knitted in a frown, the square jaw set firm. He did not offer to shake hands.

He said at last: “Good evening, Mr. Chambers. Do you feel satisfied with the trial today?”

The pilot said in a low tone: “Yes, sir.” He cleared his throat. “I think it went all right.”

The grey eyes bored into him. “And do you feel competent to carry on and complete the series of trials?”

The pilot said huskily: “Yes, sir.”

The captain swung round on his heel. “I’d like to have a word with you alone, Wing-Commander,” he said. They walked together out on to the tarmac.

Professor Legge turned to the pilot. “That was very queer of him,” he said.

“He’s a queer fellow.”

“You knew him before?”

The boy nodded. “I suppose he’s telling Hewitt all about it now,” he said. There was a note of resignation in his voice. “I sank one of his bloody submarines last December.”

The civilian stared at him. “You sank a submarine—a British one?”

The pilot nodded curtly. “It was miles out of position. I took it for a German.”

“Oh …” The professor said no more. He felt himself in the presence of a service quarrel that was far above his head, and which he could do nothing to resolve. What the pilot had told him, so curtly and so shortly, was entirely shocking, and must obviously have created the bitterest feelings in the Navy. It was difficult to suppose that Burnaby would consent to the trials proceeding in the hands of Flying-Officer Chambers. And with that thought there came to the professor the swift corollary that he would get more time. The trials could not proceed if the pilot were to be changed: they would be held up for a few days, and in those few days he could press forward with his calculations. It might still be possible to mitigate the frightful risks that they were taking.

On the tarmac the two officers paced side by side in silence for a few minutes. At last Hewitt said:

“I didn’t know a thing about this, Captain Burnaby. If I had I’d never have accepted him for this work. I can’t think what Postings were about.”

The naval officer reserved a grim silence. He would not say what he was thinking of the organisation of the Royal Air Force.

The wing-commander went on: “At the same time, there he is and we must make the best of him.”

The naval officer stopped dead. “I hope you don’t propose that these trials should continue in his hands? In our view he’s completely irresponsible.”

The wing-commander turned and faced him. “I’ll tell you what our view of that is tomorrow morning, sir,” he said coolly. “In the meantime I’ll get on to the Coastal Command right away and find out all about him. Probably I’ll go over tonight and see them at Emsworth.”

“The trial tomorrow must be cancelled.”

The Air Force officer said: “Not by us. We shall cancel it if we find our pilot is unfit to do the work. If not, we shall be ready to proceed tomorrow morning in accordance with the
pro forma.”

There was an angry pause. At last the captain said: “Do you consider him to be a fit pilot, then?”

The wing-commander said directly: “I’ve not made up my mind, and I must see my A.O.C. If you had asked me that an hour ago I should have said that I thought him a very suitable pilot for the job.” He paused, and then he said: “His conduct of the trials to date has been both serious and competent.”

The captain gave him a long, reflective look. “I can’t deny that,” he said at last. “At the same time, the trials have only just begun. We very much object to going on with him.”

Hewitt nodded slowly. “I see that. Will you leave it with me for this evening, Captain? I must find out his record, and I must see his late CO.; after that we’ll make up our minds. We’ll run no risks by using a bad pilot for sentiment. But to change him will set back these trials a week, and I’m not going to do that because you don’t like his face.”

“No,” said Burnaby. “But in our view he’s not responsible.”

“I understand that, sir. Tell me, where can I get hold of you tonight?”

“I live at Shedfield.” The wing-commander took down the telephone number.

“Very good, sir. I’ll get in touch with you upon the telephone after I’ve been to Emsworth.”