“They’re leaving soon,” Barbara said and swung her binoculars toward the stern to see Caitrin climbing the air line just ten feet below the deck.
“Will she be all right?” Duncan said.
“I think so. They’re leaving now. She—” Barbara stopped as commands rang out on the ship to raise the anchor and haul in the air-supply line. Barbara did not hesitate. She switched on all the Ben Lui’s navigation and deck lights, pushed the throttle wide open, fired a red flare into the sky, and surged toward the bow of the Celtic Twilight.
* * *
Hector and James Gordon were sitting on a capstan in the bow of the ship, smoking celebratory cigarettes and watching the hold being closed, when the sky above them glowed red. James instinctively reached for his pistol, paused as he saw his men race for the starboard rail, and shouted, “No guns!”
They joined the men and looked down at the Ben Lui, its lights blazing, running parallel to the freighter. A mad woman, gray hair whipping around her head, was shouting up at them from a wheelhouse window. “My son, have you seen my son? He’s not allowed to go fishing by himself.”
“Out here at night? Are you mad?” one of the men shouted back and made a “crazy” gesture.
“My son, my son. I’ve lost him.”
The men laughed as Duncan, wearing only his underpants, climbed up from the hold. He rubbed his eyes and stared up at the freighter in dumb amazement.
“There he is, old lady! Behind you!” a man shouted, and they all pointed at Duncan. “Buy your idiot child some clothes,” another man yelled and threw a coin at her.
Barbara glanced at Duncan, glared up at the men, and shouted, “Tha thu cho uilebhstein grànda!” You are all monsters!
“What did you say?” a man said. “You want me? All of me?” “Bha do mhàthair na lachan!” Barbara screamed at him. Your mother was a duck!
Duncan disappeared, came back with a blanket wrapped around him, glanced toward the stern, saw Caitrin had reached the rail, and whispered, “Mhàthair, tha i sabhailte.” Mother, she is safe. “Our pantomime worked.”
“I just hope you are wearing clean pants,” Barbara said as she slammed the window shut, switched off the deck lights, and swung the helm hard to starboard.
“Bha do mhàthair na lachan.” Duncan shook his head and said with a grin, “Your mother was a duck?”
The Celtic Twilight picked up speed as they saw Caitrin wave from the stern. She was safely aboard.
As Caitrin swung over the top rail, her knapsack caught on a metal edge and split open. Its contents scattered across the deck, and the Walther pistol bounced off a stanchion to go spinning overboard. She collected the pieces, jammed them into her pockets, picked up the greaseproof-paper-wrapped haggis slices, and peered down at the water. “Damn!”
She waved as the Ben Lui motored past, found a lifeboat, climbed inside, and pulled the canvas cover over her. She was safely aboard but unarmed.
* * *
Standing at the starboard rail, Hector watched the Ben Lui fading into the distance. James nudged him and said, “What a strange event. The wonders of the deep, huh?”
“Yes, indeed.”
“You seem a bit distracted, Hector.”
“I keep thinking about Caitrin Colline,” Hector said. “By now I imagined we might have read a newspaper report or heard something about her on the wireless.”
“She chose a bad place to leap off the lorry. That was almost a sheer drop to the river.”
“Do you think she survived?”
“No, which is sad for her but good for us,” James said. “I doubt we’ll ever hear about her again.”
30
They were young men with aged faces. Thompson recalled a phrase he once read in an American Civil War book about soldiers facing the horror of battle: They had seen the elephant. But unlike soldiers or sailors, who usually had quiet periods between battles, these young RAF fighter pilots faced the elephant daily, sometimes more often. And, as elegant as their Spitfires were, he could not imagine being strapped into that claustrophobic cockpit alone. Death in the air could strike in an instant, if you were lucky, and you never knew or saw who attacked you. But so many young men fell to earth, wounded and trapped in their burning metal coffins, and it could take a while to hit the ground. No wonder they looked old.
Churchill had bluntly refused to remain in London, insisting instead on being seen; he said the nation demanded it of him. He usually traveled to where it might be dangerous and was a magnet to the pilots as soon as he arrived at the fighter station. His speech about the Few, given in August, had given recognition to their struggle. Never in the field of human conflict was so much owed by so many to so few. They were the Few, the young men who faced overwhelming odds, survived, although with great losses, and for the time being had kept the Germans at bay.
The airfield had taken severe punishment too. It had been bombed repeatedly, buildings were destroyed and aircraft damaged, and numerous bomb craters needed to be filled. But still the aircraft flew.
A Spitfire roared low overhead, turned, leveled off, and made a perfect three-point landing. Some of the pilots applauded, and they all watched as it taxied up to dispersal and stopped.
“It’s a new delivery,” a pilot said. “We’ve lost a couple lately.”
Thompson was surprised when the pilot climbed out, whipped off her flying helmet, and shook free a mane of blonde hair.
“ATA, Air Transport Auxiliary,” the pilot said. “Those women are damn good too. I hear they might even be getting equal pay soon.”
Thompson nodded to the Spitfire. “That is a fine aeroplane.”
“Aircraft, not aeroplane,” Churchill corrected him. “And it’s called an airfield now, not aerodrome.” He turned to the pilots. “Are there any complaints about them?”
They shook their heads, but one pilot said, ”We did have one a while ago, but it was taken care of.”
“What was it?”
The pilot raised his hands, flat, one behind the other, an aircraft chasing another aircraft, and said, ”The German 109s have fuel injection, while the Spit has a carburetor. When we’d chase one, they’d push the nose forward and dive.” He dropped the forward hand and put it behind his back but left the other one still. “We’d follow, and the carburetor would cut out, just for a second, but it was long enough for him to escape.” He dropped the second hand.
“You say it was taken care of. What was the answer?”
