Last Out From Roaring Water Bay (10 page)

Josh Bane raised an eyebrow inquisitively. “A farmer and his dog discovered the wreck.”

“Ah-yes-well, that’s not strictly true. At the time I thought it would be best that I should let someone else take the credit.”

Josh Bane tapped the side of his wrinkled nose. “This tells me you’re missing some important narration, young man?”

I didn’t want to alarm him in anyway, so I tried to play it down. I said, “There isn’t much to say really.”

He just screwed up his eyes at me. “There’s enough for you to come seeking me out. I’m listening, young man.”

I shrugged. “It’s a little awkward to explain. What I mean is I couldn’t afford to take any credit for the find. To certain authorities I’m a bit of a renegade, a rogue really. I sell on the artefacts I dig from the ground. I won’t bore you with the details of what I’ve found over the years, but put it this way, if the Tower of London still housed hardened criminals then Customs & Excise and the Treasure Valuation Committee would have jointly locked me up forever. I preferred to be invisible on such delicate issues and unearthing the Spitfire was one of them.”

“I see,” Josh Bane said probingly. “Let me get this clear. You discovered the plane with a metal detector and you were afraid of being arrested?”

I nodded. “That’s sounds about it.”

“That’s poppy-cock! Finding a wreck doesn’t warrant an arrest. How about stretching the truth a little wider? That you actually feared being arrested because of another reason?”

There was no fooling Josh Bane despite his frailty.

“Well I did find one of the reconnaissance cameras amongst the wreck.”

“You stole the camera?”

I shrugged, expressing my guilt.

“That’s damned despicable! Robbing war graves is against the Law!”

“I know,” I said humbly.

“You’re going to get into a lot of trouble.”

“I’m already in a lot of trouble. And before you ask, I didn’t take anything that belonged to the pilot. All I took was a rusty old camera that would have probably been scraped for what it was worth. Or so I thought. Somebody had other ideas and decided that the camera was worth killing for.”

His cup and saucer rattled violently. “What do you mean by
killing for
?”

“I mean exactly that. The only other two people who knew of the camera’s existence were the victims of nasty but questionable accidents. I’m sure they were silenced on purpose. I’m a little concerned that I might be next”

“Good gracious young man! You must inform the police at once.”

I shook my head. “I’ve already been down that avenue.”

“What did they say?”

“They practicably laughed in my face and instead accused me of inciting trouble.”

“Well I’m sure the police would have done their investigation thoroughly on the two people you knew.”

“They’ve been hoodwinked. The killings were made to look like accidents, that I’m certain, only I can’t prove a thing. The only way I can shove it back up police noses, is to venture out there in the wilderness of uncertainty and prove they weren’t accidents but murders.”

Josh Bane flustered. “I can’t see how I can possibly help you?”

I finished the drops of my tea and placed the cup and saucer onto the table. I said, “There’s a tremendous amount you can help me with. Like beginning with the day Wing Commander Craven went missing. I need to know everything that happened; any minor detail you can remember. It’s important so I can piece together a few facts that are disturbing me.”

Josh Bane puffed out his cheeks to prepare himself. “To be perfectly honest I remember the day as if it was happening right now. It was the day of my birthday; not that there was much time for a celebration. Though some of the events of the day are a little hazy…a lot of years have past under the bridge since then.”

“My integrity depends on what you can tell me.”

“I’ll try, young man, but my accuracy may stray a little.”

“Anything you remember will be worthwhile, even minimal scraps of information will be appreciated,” I said encouragingly.

He was on the verge of beginning his narration but stopped. He leaned forward, placed his cup and saucer shakily down on the table, leaned back into his chair, and all completed in one continual movement of incredible slow motion, as if he was preparing for a nap. The wait narked me.

“Now then,” he finally began, “The mission-ah-yes the impossible mission, as us pilots called it that day.” He paused and his lips twisted as he thought of something he wasn’t sure about.

“Is there a problem?” I asked.

“I’m not quite sure, young man. I’m a little bothered that I could be contravening the Official Secrets Act by relaying military information to a civilian.”

I was about to casually mention ‘that went out with the Ark’ when he beat me to the mark.

Josh Bane slapped his hand down on his thigh. “No. How damned silly of me! How can I be accused of such damnability when the TV nowadays is splattered with war documentaries? Now let us get on with the mission in question. Duxford fighter command received orders from the War Office that was of vital importance. At our pre-flight briefing we were told that an operation, involving British Intelligence and the American Atlantic fleet, was in motion at that very moment while we were sat on our arses listening to a piece of summarizing. The Allies were tracking a Japanese submarine attempting to rendezvous with a German U-boat out in the Atlantic to transfer essential cargo. We weren’t told what the cargo was but rumours had it that the Jap submarine was carrying gold bullion, allegedly, to assist the Germans financially in continuing the war in Europe.

“I did learn later the full details of that Atlantic operation. The Allies had cracked a number of German codes. This enabled the Allies to track a Japanese submarine from its base in the Southern hemisphere all the way to the Atlantic for a rendezvous with the German U-boat. Using ships modified into small aircraft carriers, the Americans launched their attack and caught the Japanese submarine far out in the Bay of Biscay and sank her to the bottom of the sea. That is historical fact.

“I recollect there was a documentary on the television concerning the discovery of that very same submarine; the I-52, a transport class submarine capable of staying beneath the waves for long distances. The documentary involved a team of American treasure hunters. They were convinced that the sunken sub still had gold aboard. The same old riff-raff excuses; treasure seekers pretending that the historical intrigue of the lost submarine held precedence over the importance of finding gold bullion; cods-wobble! But as it was, to add insult to injury, the greedy sods never found any gold and probably never will. Serves them right too!”

“Do I hear a little animosity in your voice, Mister Bane?” I asked cheekily.

“You must understand, young man, disturbing the dead serves no purpose at all. Bloody treasure seekers are a pain in the arse.”

I wondered if that included me.

“The Japanese may have been the enemy,” he went on. “But, by god, they were still true warriors and were willing to give their lives for what they believed; a lot of brave men died that day when the Allies hit the submarine with all they had.”

I hurried him along. “What was your squadron’s mission?”

“Give me time, young man! I’m coming round to that.” He coughed to clear his throat. “While the Americans were playing war games in mid-Atlantic and chasing submarines for real, R.A.F. Duxford command had been given a pointless exercise of trying to locate an apparent renegade Japanese submarine. The Allies were reacting to an independent intelligence source that came from deep within Japan, so we were told. The information received indicated the departure of a second submarine apparently displaying the same prefix I-52, which set sail at precisely the same time as the first I-52 but from a different port and its destination, supposedly, was German held territory. Because there was no codename from the mysterious informant, the Allies, under standably, suspected that the information regarding the second submarine was a diversion to throw them off the scent of the initial target they were tracking. But in war those vital scraps of intelligence can prove to be priceless, so the search for the second submarine went ahead.

“Duxford was chosen mainly because our squadron had Super-marine Spitfires that had been previously redesigned for the purpose of long flights to protect Bomber Command on their raids over Germany. It meant our Spits could cover a large area in quick time.” He drifted into a tediously boring explanation of the intricate modifications done to the crafts. I tried to look interested, “The mission was given the code-name ‘Huggermugger’. It involved reconnaissance flights as far wide as the Spitfires fuel tanks would take them; the North Atlantic; the North Sea. It was hit and miss really; like searching for a ghost submarine. In all truth we’d have probably found a needle down a dark passageway at the height of the blackout period far quicker. There were no reports of any sighting whatsoever.”

“Not quite that difficult to find needles if you look in the right places,” I said and slipped the photographs from my inside jacket pocket and gave them to him for inspection.

He looked long and hard at the photographs. Finally, he said, “The qualities bad. How did you come by these?”

“The camera I took from Ralph Cravens wrecked plane.”

His eyes illuminated. “Good grief! That means Ralph must have taken these photographs on the same day he went missing. They always put fresh film into the cameras for every mission so there’s no confusion.”

“I thought they’d be of interest to you.”

“Quickly now,” he pointed to a small writing desk sat in a corner, “there’s a magnifying glass in the top drawer. Can you get it for me, please?” There was excitement in his voice, a new lease of life.

I did as he asked, sat down again, observing his reactions as he meticulously scanned every millimetre of each photograph. Finally, with a slight shake of his head in disbelief, he said, “This submarine carries the identification I-52. The shape alone tells me it’s the design of a Japanese cargo submarine, and one that’s in some considerable trouble.”

“Could that be the mysterious submarine that set sail the same time as the Atlantic bound submarine?”

He looked up. “You’re certain that these photographs came from the crash site?”

“I should know.”

“Well there can be no doubt then.” He handed the photographs to me and I slipped them back inside my jacket pocket. He went on thoughtfully. “You’re positive you saw the identity tags with Ralph Craven’s name on?”

“I could only make out Craven, but I did check war records which confirmed that Ralph Craven was listed as still missing in action.”

“Then we can disregard that these photographs are connected to the recorded Atlantic sinking of the I-52. Craven’s Spitfire never went anywhere near there. So there had to have been two submarines carrying the same prefix I-52. Blimey! Craven found the elusive sub after all. It’s incredible! Ralph found the needle in a haystack and died for his troubles. What a shame ‘Sniffer’ Deveron never got a glimpse of the submarine too. He could have taken the glory in finding the submarine.”

“Who’s Sniffer?” I asked curiously.

“It was just a nickname we’d given to another pilot based at Duxford. Squadron Leader Dillon ‘Sniffer’ Deveron, as I knew him at the time. He was Ralph’s wing protector on that fatal day.”

My eyes illuminated. “This wing protector, does that means he flew with Craven?”

“That’s what a wing protector does, young man. Anyway, when Deveron landed back at Duxford he reported his Spitfire had developed engine trouble and he had lost sight of Ralph’s Spitfire somewhere over the Welsh mountains. After twenty-four hours Craven was finally reported missing.”

“Was anything done to find Craven at the time?”

“There was plenty done, young man. The moment he was reported missing, naturally; a sea and air search was implemented; normal procedure when one of our Boy’s fails to come home. No wreckage was ever found along his predicted flight path, so the next procedure was to inform the local police in all counties and the Home Guard. All we could do was to continue our attempt to win the war. I’m afraid the dead soon became a distance memory especially when the war in Europe intensified.”

“What happened to Deveron afterwards?”

“Within three months he’d jumped up a rank, which wasn’t surprising.”

“He was a popular fellow then?”

“Popular in the right places more like. Better known for his brown-nosing when in the company of senior officers; hence the nickname ‘Sniffer’. He was a damn good pilot, admittedly, but boy, could he shift up to the higher command’s backsides when he got the chance. By the end of the war he’d raised a few more ranks so there was no great surprise when he continued his service in the Air Force after the war finished.”

“Trustworthy type of chap, was he?”

“That would depend on how you define trustworthy?” The look in his eyes told me he was suspicious with my line of questioning. “I certainly wouldn’t have verbally insulted a higher ranking officer in his presence for the fear of him splitting on me and I’d have been hauled before a military court. But other than that, we got along without any major disagreements.”

“Would you trust him with your life?” I tried not to sound dramatic.

“In war time you had no choice but to trust your comrades.”

“How well did you know him?”

“Personally, you mean?”

I nodded.

“There was very little time to get to know anyone personally at Duxford. The war took its toil on a regular basis; eat, sleep and fly and that was about your lot. After Ralph went missing, a few months on I was deployed to a European airbase helping the Allies drive the Germans back to Berlin. Deveron remained at Duxford.”

“How did Craven get on with Deveron?”

“They got on together, if that’s what you mean.”

“They never fell out at anytime?”

“I wasn’t aware of any disturbance between them.”

“What about the flight path Ralph Craven flew that day?”

“Ah-well, that’s difficult to remember. But I think his flight path would have taken him around the coast of Ireland, probably twenty or thirty miles out into the Atlantic before heading north, circling the Scottish Isles and then back down the West of England. It’s hard to be precise. And Ralph was a bit of a Tally Ho man; he loved the thrill of fast flying.”