in the next ten hours.
There was little good news.
The RCN corvette that had found and attacked the submarine was no longer answering; it was now feared lost with all hands. Other flying boats and craft were assigned to the dual mission, all hoping to rescue or recover, depending on how fate had dealt with the Canadian sailors, as well as attack and sink the enemy vessel.
Flight Lieutenant Cox, an extremely experienced pilot, hummed loudly, as was his normal habit when concentrating.
Having just had a course check and finding themselves a small distance off their search pattern, he eased the huge aircraft a few points to starboard, before settling back down to the extended boredom of searching for a scale model needle in a choice of haystacks.
The Sunderland carried many comforts, including bunks, a toilet , and a galley, the latter of which yielded up fresh steaming coffee and a bacon sandwich, brought up from below by Flight Sergeant Crozier.
“ There you go, Skipper, get your laughing gear around that, man. I’ll take over for a moment.”
South Africa n Crozier wasn’t qualified to pilot the aircraft, but that didn’t trouble the old hands of NS-X. He flopped into the second seat and took a grip, permitting Cox to relinquish the column to the gunner.
He let Cox start into the snack before airing his concerns.
“Skipper, I think Dusty’s an ill man. He’s wracked up on a bunk, looking very green.”
Dusty Miller was the second pilot , and he had disappeared off to sort out a stomach cramp, about an hour beforehand.
“ Too much flippin Jamesons last night, that’s what that is, Arsey”, the words came out despite having to work their way around large lumps of bread and bacon.
Rafer Crozier didn ’t much care for being called Arsey, but it didn’t pay to point that out, for obvious reasons.
“ Don’t think so, Skip. Dusty was the only one to have the goose, wasn’t he?”
The local procurer of all things, Niall Flaherty, had slipped such a beast to the camp cooks for a small consideration. In contravention of standing orders on aircrew’s meals, Miller had wangled a portion of the well-hung goose, prior to flight ops.
“ Maybe you’ve a point, Arsey. Best we keep quiet then, eh?”
Another voice resonated through the intercom.
“Contact, Skipper. Starboard 30. One thousand yards. Possible wreckage.”
Flight Sergeant Peter Viljoen ’s crisp and concise report interrupted the great Goose discussion, as Cox wiped his hands clean on his life preserver and took back command of the aircraft, releasing Crozier to crane his neck in the direction of the sighting.
Viljoen’s voice came again.
“Contact confirmed Skipper, Starboard 35, One thousand yards. Wreckage, and lots of it too.”
Cox spoke t o the crew.
“ Pilot to crew. OK fellahs, close up now, and keep your eyes peeled. Turning for a low level run over the site now. Sparks, get off a report to base right now. Magic, pass Sparks the position please.”
Both radio operator and navigator keyed their mikes with an acknowledgement , as the port wing dipped to bring the lumbering seaplane around in a circle for a west-east run across the wreckage.
Whilst some of the crew used binoculars to probe the floating evidence of recent combat, others remained with eyes firmly glued elsewhere, seeking out the tell-tale plume of a periscope, or the reflection of sun from the wing of an aircraft.
Nose-gunner Viljoen was first up again, professionally and matter-of-factly , at least at first, then rising in pitch and excitement as his eyes worked out the details of what he was seeing.
“ Contact dead ahead, 500 yards. Dinghy in the water. Men onboard, Skipper, there’s men onboard! They’re waving!”
“ Roger, Dagga. How many?”
“ Hard to say, Skipper. Five, maybe more. Looks like a standard issue navy dinghy, and I’ll bet a pound to a pinch of pig shit that they’re navy uniforms, Skipper.”
The reason behind Viljoen ’s
There was little good news.
The RCN corvette that had found and attacked the submarine was no longer answering; it was now feared lost with all hands. Other flying boats and craft were assigned to the dual mission, all hoping to rescue or recover, depending on how fate had dealt with the Canadian sailors, as well as attack and sink the enemy vessel.
Flight Lieutenant Cox, an extremely experienced pilot, hummed loudly, as was his normal habit when concentrating.
Having just had a course check and finding themselves a small distance off their search pattern, he eased the huge aircraft a few points to starboard, before settling back down to the extended boredom of searching for a scale model needle in a choice of haystacks.
The Sunderland carried many comforts, including bunks, a toilet , and a galley, the latter of which yielded up fresh steaming coffee and a bacon sandwich, brought up from below by Flight Sergeant Crozier.
“ There you go, Skipper, get your laughing gear around that, man. I’ll take over for a moment.”
South Africa n Crozier wasn’t qualified to pilot the aircraft, but that didn’t trouble the old hands of NS-X. He flopped into the second seat and took a grip, permitting Cox to relinquish the column to the gunner.
He let Cox start into the snack before airing his concerns.
“Skipper, I think Dusty’s an ill man. He’s wracked up on a bunk, looking very green.”
Dusty Miller was the second pilot , and he had disappeared off to sort out a stomach cramp, about an hour beforehand.
“ Too much flippin Jamesons last night, that’s what that is, Arsey”, the words came out despite having to work their way around large lumps of bread and bacon.
Rafer Crozier didn ’t much care for being called Arsey, but it didn’t pay to point that out, for obvious reasons.
“ Don’t think so, Skip. Dusty was the only one to have the goose, wasn’t he?”
The local procurer of all things, Niall Flaherty, had slipped such a beast to the camp cooks for a small consideration. In contravention of standing orders on aircrew’s meals, Miller had wangled a portion of the well-hung goose, prior to flight ops.
“ Maybe you’ve a point, Arsey. Best we keep quiet then, eh?”
Another voice resonated through the intercom.
“Contact, Skipper. Starboard 30. One thousand yards. Possible wreckage.”
Flight Sergeant Peter Viljoen ’s crisp and concise report interrupted the great Goose discussion, as Cox wiped his hands clean on his life preserver and took back command of the aircraft, releasing Crozier to crane his neck in the direction of the sighting.
Viljoen’s voice came again.
“Contact confirmed Skipper, Starboard 35, One thousand yards. Wreckage, and lots of it too.”
Cox spoke t o the crew.
“ Pilot to crew. OK fellahs, close up now, and keep your eyes peeled. Turning for a low level run over the site now. Sparks, get off a report to base right now. Magic, pass Sparks the position please.”
Both radio operator and navigator keyed their mikes with an acknowledgement , as the port wing dipped to bring the lumbering seaplane around in a circle for a west-east run across the wreckage.
Whilst some of the crew used binoculars to probe the floating evidence of recent combat, others remained with eyes firmly glued elsewhere, seeking out the tell-tale plume of a periscope, or the reflection of sun from the wing of an aircraft.
Nose-gunner Viljoen was first up again, professionally and matter-of-factly , at least at first, then rising in pitch and excitement as his eyes worked out the details of what he was seeing.
“ Contact dead ahead, 500 yards. Dinghy in the water. Men onboard, Skipper, there’s men onboard! They’re waving!”
“ Roger, Dagga. How many?”
“ Hard to say, Skipper. Five, maybe more. Looks like a standard issue navy dinghy, and I’ll bet a pound to a pinch of pig shit that they’re navy uniforms, Skipper.”
The reason behind Viljoen ’s
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