Battlecruiser (1997) by Douglas Reeman Page A

plane, the Walrus’s crooked shadow blotting out everything.
    ‘
Now!
’
    He felt the aircraft jump as the two charges were released. Thank God for a good crew to check every small detail. If only one charge had jammed, it would all have been too late.
    ‘Come on, old girl!’ He felt his seat lean over, and was in time to see the other plane altering course violently as pilot and crewman realized their danger.
    They had missed. With one eye on the compass, he swung the Walrus into another turn.
    He stared down, startled, as Buck’s gloved fingers fastened on his arm like a vice. He was shouting into his mouthpiece, but no sound was coming through.
    Rayner watched, the moment frozen in his mind as the two depth charges exploded almost simultaneously. Not that near: any U-Boat commander would have merely crossed himself and grinned. But close enough for the finely balanced float plane. The explosions had blasted off one wing completely, so that the plane was turning over onto its side, the sea thrashing around the propeller until it, too, came to a sudden stop. Like a dead bird. No menace. Nothing.
    Buck was switched on again. ‘You did it, Dick!
You clever old bugger!
’
    Rayner allowed his nerves to settle. ‘You’re not so bad yourself, kid.’ He added more sharply, ‘Now give me a course to steer. We’ll head back.’
    What the hell is the matter with me? They could have shot us down without a thought.
Would have, if they hadn’t been so curious about the dead airman in the dinghy. Or were they just doing what he himself would have done, out of humanity?
    The thoughts disturbed him, and he dismissed them.
    They climbed steadily into the cloud again, each man reliving privately what they had seen and shared.
    Hardie was crouching beside the controls, a mug of tea in one grimy fist.
    ‘Char, sir?’ He watched as Rayner dragged off one glove with his teeth.
    Then, almost shyly, he said, ‘Nice to have you as skipper, an’ no mistake.’
    Rayner leaned back in his hard seat and sipped the tea. It was the finest he had ever tasted. Later on, maybe much later, they would set up the drinks and celebrate, and somebody would paint a little symbol on the side below the cockpit to represent their kill. After this, he would be accepted. One of them. And later, he knew how much it would mean to him.
    But now, all he wanted to do was find
Reliant
and report what they had found, and where. At the same time, he knew he would never forget how he had felt.
    ‘Aircraft’s hooked on, sir!’
    Sherbrooke walked to the extreme side of the bridge and peered down at the surging water, so far below, after his last ship. He could see little of the Walrus but for the tips of the wings, but the great arm of the aircraft hoisting crane was turning slowly inboard, where the handling partywould be waiting to secure the plane to the catapult again.
    The Walrus pilot had done well, and he sensed the relief all around him when the garbled signal had been received and the plane was sighted, flying within feet of the water. It had all taken time. Slowing the ship and turning to provide some sort of lee while the Walrus had manoeuvred carefully alongside. One false move, or a sudden change in the weather, and the aircraft could have been smashed against the hull like a toy.
    Once, Stagg had called up from his own private bridge beneath this one, a small nerve-centre which was connected to the main communications systems and transmitting station, and complete with its own radar repeater.
    When Sherbrooke had told him that the Walrus was ready for recovery, Stagg had said tersely, ‘Taking long enough!’
    ‘All secure, sir.’
    Sherbrooke walked past his chair and looked through the forward screen. It was misty: perhaps more fog was on the way. If so, Rayner was luckier than he knew.
    ‘Resume course and speed, Pilot. Inform Captain (D) that we have recovered our aircraft.’
    He could picture the senior destroyer captain very well, a