Voices on the Wind - Assault

Ahead of them sat 650 feet of rectangular steel that passed itself off as a ship. In Robin’s eyes, the massive metal box looked more like an alien object dropped from outer space than the descendant of the proud and elegant vessels of Britain’s seafaring past. Particularly the bridge, clinging precariously to the starboard edge of the flight deck, offended his sense of nautical harmony. It made the gigantic, grey, floating block look lopsided and unbalanced—as if she might flop over in a heavy gale.

They came alongside the accommodation ladder and the gig’s crew masterfully handled the little craft so Robin could step with comparative ease from the bobbing dinghy onto the slippery metal ladder. He climbed up 27 feet of freeboard divided into 40 stairs and stepped onto the deck of the carrier to the trill of bosun’s pipes and the stiff salutes of the small but smartly turned-out welcoming party.

The formality of this welcome did not sit well with Robin. Yes, as a Wing Commander he technically held the same rank as a Navy Commander, which meant he was entitled to the same courtesies. Robin knew all about those because he came from a Navy family. His grandfather was an admiral, and he had two cousins sailing under the White Ensign. He therefore knew that it took a man decades to reach the rank of Commander, while Robin was all of 25.

He fulfilled the expected protocol meticulously, determined to defy RN expectations of Air Force sloppiness. Then, having completed the formalities, he left his gear in the cabin assigned him and returned on deck to watch the carrier put to sea.

Already, smoke blew from Eagle’s funnels, bunting fluttered on her stays, pipes squealed, and men shouted. Before long, the steady vibration under his feet changed tone and intensity. With yet more shouting from the foredeck, the clank of metal and the grinding of winches, the aircraft carrier got underway. Gradually, she cranked on speed until she was smashing her way towards open water.

A couple of destroyers took station on either side, drawing Robin’s attention. These slender ships, with foaming bow-waves and towering mainmasts, looked far prettier than the lopsided carrier, but then he was biased: his father had been in destroyers. He’d also gone down with one in 1916. Although Robin had been born posthumously, he’d been fascinated by these elegant ‘greyhounds of the sea’ throughout his boyhood. It had been assumed that he would follow in his father’s footsteps. Instead, he’d caught the flying bug and, despite every trick and threat his grandfather tried, he’d insisted on applying to the Royal Air Force College at Cranwell. When he was accepted, his grandfather had played his last card: he’d refused to pay the tuition. Fortunately, Robin’s maternal aunt had sprung into the breach. He’d held his course, earning his RAF wings and a commission by 1937.

Robin did not regret it—although he was not insensitive to the majesty of the Navy at times like this. The Eagle and her destroyer escorts were thrashing their way through the murky waters of the Mersey at more than twenty knots. Frothing wakes, yards wide, boiled up behind them. With their White Ensigns standing out stiff in the wind, the three ships seemed to embody British power and tradition. The deep-throated chorus of engines seemed almost to be singing “Britannia Rules the Waves.”

Yet it was only possible, Robin reflected, because more than two thousand men were each doing their little job: stoking coal, oiling gears, cooking meals, stowing shells, running up signal flags, handling the helm, and so on. The Navy was great only through the combined work of the many. In the Navy, a man was always a cog in a machine, an ant in an anthill. In a Spitfire, in contrast, a man could slip the surly bonds of earth and top the windswept heights.

Robin looked toward the grey, overcast skies that shrouded them in gloom. The clouds were threatening rain, snow or sleet at any moment. But above them, invisible here on the surface, was a blue sky and a bright sun. He longed to be there—flying again. God, he prayed silently, if I have to go overseas and be separated from Emily, then let it be for a flying job!

They were overtaking a convoy of merchant vessels sailing in two columns, reminding Robin that he had cousins in the Merchant Navy, too. Stevie Mackay had been his favourite cousin when growing up because they’d been the same age. They’d gone to the same boarding school and shared countless adventures, scrapes and punishments, as well as books and dreams. But the war had come between them. Robin hadn’t a clue where Stevie was now; last he’d heard, he’d been promoted to Chief Officer on Clan Sinclair.

He turned his attention to the cargo ships, preparing to read their names as the carrier overtook them. Although dowdy in comparison to the flashy warships, Robin felt a surge of affection for the hardy merchantmen. None of them wore bright livery anymore. Their affiliation with the shipping lines that had bound the world together in peacetime was hidden under a coat of dull, grey, wartime camouflage. The grey was darker than that of their naval escort and intended to make them as invisible as possible against a backdrop of wintry sea. In place of waving passengers, 4-inch guns had been installed on the after decks. Many looked battered, displaying dents, scrapes and warped railings. Yet their humble appearance disguised their importance. All the show and pomp of the escort notwithstanding, the proud warships with their spit and polish were mere servants to the trading ships.