An Irish Doctor in Love and at Sea (52 page)

“Bugger it.” He grabbed his seat as the plane plummeted from under him. He would have banged his head on the roof of the cockpit had he not been strapped in.

The engines howled as the pilot advanced the throttles, put the plane's nose up, and struggled to regain lost altitude.

“Sorry,” the voice said in his ears. “Air pocket. Lots of them and thermals over desert.”

“I nearly lost the scrambled powdered eggs I had for breakfast,” the flight sergeant said in thick Aussie tones. “Not that I'd miss them. Bloody awful stuff.”

Fingal laughed. Whoever had come up with the idea of spray-drying whole eggs to save storage space and preserve them probably thought it had been a clever idea. The things were universally detested in war-rationed Britain and the armed forces. One submarine cook, it was rumoured, had tried to fool his shipmates into believing they were eating real eggs. He'd sprinkled bits of real shells into the reconstituted ones.

The plane levelled off and the engines settled into the usual steady beat that had driven them more than three thousand miles since their journey had begun in a Nissen hut back in Takoradi.

He leaned back in his seat remembering the initial briefing five days ago. An RAF flight lieutenant had stood on a platform in front of an easel on which was mounted a large-scale map of Africa. Over the left breast pocket of his blue/grey battledress blouse he wore the half-wing of nonpilot aircrew and the blue-and-white diagonally striped ribbon of the Distinguished Flying Cross.

Six pilot officers sat on folding chairs. Lord, but they were young. An older flight sergeant sat by himself, looking bored. He'd earlier told Fingal he'd been doing this run since September 1940, when the ferry route had opened: Takoradi to Cairo, then being flown back to Takoradi either in an air force Bombay troop transport or a civilian passenger aircraft. The squadron leader sat on a folding chair on the platform. Fingal noticed that instead of the embroidered cloth wings under a crown of the RAF, the man wore a badge of a silver bird with a laurel wreath in its beak, the insignia of a pilot in the Polish air force.

“Right,” the briefing officer said, “I'm the local navigation expert, Flight Lieutenant Bayliss. Smoke if you want to.”

There was a small eruption of matches and lighters as everyone except Fingal lit up.

“Beside me is Squadron Leader Rayski, who will be in command of this convoy.”

The Pole stood, smiled, bowed, and sat.

“The naval officer Surgeon Lieutenant-Commander O'Reilly will be a passenger on this run. Glad to have you, sir.”

Fingal nodded and smiled back.

The briefing officer took a pointer and indicated a ribbon that ran horizontally across the map of Africa from Takoradi in the corner where the continent starts its bulge to the west. The line ran to nearly the far eastern side, where the marker made a right-angle turn due north.

“The run will be made in six legs, with refuelling stops on any leg over five hundred and fifty miles, to accommodate the six-hundred-mile range of the Hurricanes.”

There was a muttering, but whether or not of assent wasn't clear to Fingal. Not himself a flier, he reckoned a mere fifty-mile safety margin was cutting it a bit fine, but he must assume these airmen knew what they were doing.

The pointer jumped from place to place on the map as the officer said, “Takoradi to Lagos, to Kano, to El Geneina to Khartoum then turn north to Wadi Halfa and finally on to Cairo. Do try
not
to come down between Kano and El Geneina. There's bugger all but sand marsh and scrub on the ground…”

Someone whistled but was ignored.

“Squadron Leader Rayski will brief you before takeoff from each landing field about fuel mixture settings, meteorology, compass headings, ceiling, winds, and your next destinations. He'll also inspect your aircraft. The radial engines on the Blenheim can get buggered up and air filters can get clogged with sand and that's bad for Hurri engines too, so pay attention to what he tells you. Flight Sergeant Park, who's from Brisbane,” he nodded to the older man, “will be lead navigator. If all goes according to Hoyle, it'll take five days.”

“And if it doesn't?” one of the young pilots asked.

“All the squadron leader can do is get a fix and radio in a report. Each plane carries a desert survival kit. If you get down in one piece, you're going to have a sod of a long, hot walk home.”

Fingal squirmed in his narrow seat beside the Blenheim pilot. That had been gallows humour if ever he'd heard it.

*   *   *

He didn't remember dozing off, but Fingal was awakened by a violent roaring coming from the starboard engine. He stared, mouth agape, as a long yellow flame burst from under the cowling and blazed away behind the wing. He had an overwhelming urge to yell “Do something!” but swallowed down the impulse. Ever since he'd had to anaesthetise Flip Dennison, the burned Hurricane pilot, Fingal's morbid fear of being burned himself had gained new life, and this bloody plane's engine was on fire somewhere over the Sudan between Khartoum and Wadi Halfa. He remembered Angus saying, “One thing about Blenheims, if one engine conks out they can keep flying on the other.” Fingal stared at the flames and hoped to God the Scot was right.

The Polish voice said as calmly as if the man was ordering a pint, “Extinguisher on.”

There must be one built into each engine, because as Fingal watched, transfixed, yet as alert as a cobra facing a mongoose, the tongue of flames shortened and withdrew beneath the cowling. The engine was blackened, the cowling distorted, and the shining disc of the whirling propeller had vanished, only to be replaced by three idly spinning blades.

“Feathering prop.”

The blades turned to present their narrow edges to the air and cause as little drag as possible.

“All right down there, Navigator?”

“No worries, mate, but bring your heading to zero zero two degrees magnetic, Skipper.”

“Zero zero two. Roger.”

The plane banked slightly to port and settled on her new course. Fingal snatched a quick glance to see the six fighters conforming. He exhaled and inhaled slowly. There was a bang, a shriek of tearing metal, the cowling blew away, and he was staring into a blast furnace where the starboard engine should have been. “Holy thundering Mother of—”

“Hold tight everybody. Diving.”

Fingal braced himself as Rayski put the plane's nose down and, with the single engine roaring at full throttle, hurtled toward the ground. On the instrument panel, the altimeter unwound at a rate of knots like a child's toy windmill on a stick in a gale, and outside the window the ground rushed up to meet them. And still the fire roared just outside his window until—until, as if somebody had shut a valve, it went out.

He let out the breath he'd been holding, switched on his mike, and said, “It's out.” He turned to see the pilot, both hands on the joystick, veins standing out on his forehead, straining to pull the yoke back and lift the aircraft's nose. Fingal found himself clenching his teeth and pulling both fists into his chest as if his extra effort could help. He glanced ahead and the scrub bushes seemed to be moving astern, not rushing directly at him as before.

It was the last thing he saw. A huge hand was forcing him into his seat. He couldn't raise his arms and his face felt as if it was drooping like the watches in a Dali painting he'd once seen. Under the immense G-force, the blood drained from his brain. His last thought—we're straightening up—was left unfinished as he passed out.

“Hello, Wadi Halfa control. Hello, Wadi Halfa control. Woodcock flight leader calling. Over.”

“Woodcock flight leader. Woodcock flight leader. Wadi Halfa control answering. Receiving you strength eight. Over.”

Fingal struggled to sit upright, shook his head, looked ahead to a small town, and could make out a level sand landing strip, some parked planes, and a few low buildings to the northwest of the place. He listened to the pilot explaining about the fire and the ground controller's instructions giving landing precedence to the damaged Blenheim and putting it in the circuit on final approach.

His ears pained him, and as he'd been instructed he took off his oxygen mask, pinched his nose, clamped his lips shut, and blew. Hard. The pain disappeared.

The undercarriage came down with a pair of
clump
s and in moments the plane jolted, bounced, settled down to taxiing and losing speed. Through the side window he could see a fire engine and ambulance racing along beside them. The plane stopped, and already the heat inside was making Fingal sweat. The single engine was turned off. As Squadron Leader Rayski started to unbuckle his straps, he turned to Fingal and said,
“Przepraszam.
Is Polish. Means I am sorry. Sands, they play hell with air cooling system. It was go and touch for a while.” The man's English might not be perfect, but there was nothing wrong with his ability to pilot an aircraft.

“But you got us down, thank you,” Fingal said, unstrapping and noticing a fireman in an asbestos suit up on the wing using a foam extinguisher to be certain the fire was really out.

“You know what RAF say. Good landing is one you walk away from. Excellent one is when you can use kite again.”

“True,” said Fingal, “and it was an outstanding one.” They had made it down safely, he wasn't burned, and he would live to see Deirdre again. Life was very good and Fingal laughed and laughed until tears sprouted in the corners of his eyes. He was still chortling as he followed the pilot out of the plane and into the blazing heat of an African noon.

*   *   *

“… The poor old Blenheim had to stay at Wadi Halfa until a new engine could be flown in, but there was a Martin Maryland that had been left behind for repair and was waiting for a crew and so we took it instead to Cairo. The next day I pinched a ride from Cairo—on another Blenheim I might add, with my heart in my mouth—but here I am,” Fingal said to Tom Laverty and Richard Wilcoxson as they sat sharing predinner drinks in
Warspite
's anteroom. The place was busy. Officers who were not having a run ashore were chatting, smoking. Four were playing liar's dice. The buzz rose and fell. It was as if he'd never left—the ever-pervasive smell of bunker fuel, the steady whirring of fans, the grumbling of machinery, the noticeable roll of the ship.

He'd reported aboard the great vessel as she swung at anchor in Alexandria Harbour not an hour ago and had learned in very short order that since he had left Haslar in January,
Warspite
had seen much duty escorting convoys to Malta and had been bombed on numerous occasions both at sea and in harbour. She had escaped damage until January the second, when a Stuka had dropped a bomb on the starboard bower anchor. No sooner was she repaired than she had been accidentally rammed by the destroyer HMS
Greyhound
on January 31st, but was once again seaworthy.

He had been assigned a cabin, stowed his gear, put his war diary and the photo album Deirdre had given him at Christmas into his desk drawer, and headed for the mess where he'd been delighted to meet his chief and his old friend. Fingal had immediately conveyed messages from Marge and had seen the look of intense relief on Richard's face when it was confirmed for him that Tony was safe and sound. Tom puffed out his chest at the news that Fingal had been able to phone Carol, Tom's wife, before he left Gosport and she'd said that Tom's son, Barry, was growing like a weed.

Then his friends naturally had wanted to hear about his adventures. He'd kept the story short and to the point.

“Sounds bloody hair-raising to me, an engine fire,” Richard said.

“It was,” Fingal said, “but everything happened so quickly.”

“All's well that ends,” Tom said, “and it's,” he assumed a Belfast accent, “sticking out a mile to have you back.”

“It's good to be back among shipmates, including you, Tom, you Ulster bollix,” Fingal said. “Mind you, Richard, your Marge was a tower of strength and your friend Angus Mahaddie is a gentleman of the first order, and a fine teacher. I enjoyed their company. I'm still no Sir J. Y. Simpson—”

“Who?” Tom asked.

“Scotsman who discovered in 1847 that chloroform was a good anaesthetic,” Richard said.

“But I reckon the victims will be a bit safer now. Thanks for the opportunity to learn, Richard—and for the opportunity to get married.”

“My Marge says your Deirdre is a lovely girl. To both of you.” He raised his glass.

Richard and Tom drank.

“I think you both got out of England in time,” Richard said. “Portsmouth was hit on January 10. Poor old Guildhall got it. Gutted, I'm afraid. Just the outer walls and tower standing.”

“Lovely old building. What a shame. I first met your son Tony outside the Guildhall in October when he was—”

“Excuse me, sir.”

Fingal turned to see one of the petty officers who handled the ship's mail. “Yes, Ingersoll?”

The man handed Fingal a letter. “It come three weeks ago and my officer saw you come aboard, sir. Reckoned you'd want to see it.”

“Thank you.” Fingal recognised her handwriting. “Your officer was right. Carry on, Ingersoll.”

The man left.

“Deirdre?” Richard asked.

“Yes.” Yes, yes, yes.

“Don't mind us,” Tom Laverty said. “Read your letter.”

As Fingal ripped the envelope open, he seemed to vanish into his own world as the conversations, the clink of glasses, the smell of smoke and beer receded into the background.

The letter, a single sheet of paper, was dated November 9, 1940. She'd written it immediately after their honeymoon.

Darling Fingal, darling husband,
he read,

I know it takes nearly three months for a letter to reach where you are going in January and I want to be sure you'll get this the minute you arrive. I know this will be read by a censor, but I don't care. I want to thank you, my dearest, for marrying me, for loving me, for caring for me. I want you to know that no woman could love a man as much as I love you …