on Tuesday, and I want to have answers for the General Secretary,” the Marshal’s face darkening slightly as he pondered the meeting ahead, “And some questions for our Comrade, Marshal Beria.”
0917hrs, Saturday, 8th September 1945. North West Atlantic, 20 miles south of Cape Sable Island, Nova Scotia.
To the British and Canadians it was a Canso A. To the rest of the allies, and the Russians too, for that matter, it was a Catalina PBY flying boat. Built under licence, the Canso looked precisely like her American parent and was equally businesslike.
G for George of 162 Squadron RAF was on a rescue mission, as were a number of her sisters.
The weather was unfavourable, low cloud and squally showers, all driven along by high winds that were whipping the sea into white-tipped savagery.
None the less, G for George’s twin Wasp engines drove her forward, fighting the resistance, keeping her at a steady 140 mph, eight hundred feet above the roiling water below.
As yet, there was no sign of the missing blimp, or her crew.
Radar had steered them onto a large contact, too large to be wreckage from the blimp.
Hawkins, the radio operator, reported to the pilot, presently circling the neutral vessel below.
“Skipper, Sparks. She’s Swedish. Called Golden Quest. They are having some engine difficulties and are heading north to take shelter in the lee of one of the islands while they sort it out.”
“Roger Sparks. Did you inform them?”
A short pause, either because the man had to put his mask back on, or because he was annoyed that his pilot felt he should ask. Or both.
“Yes, Skipper. He’s seen nothing, but he has his own problems in any case. If he sees anything he’ll sing out, over.”
Flying Officer Joy didn’t care for the man, recently arrived from training school to fill the place of his former radio operator, a competent man who had succumbed to some sort of heart problem and been taken off Ops.
“Skipper, Navigator, time to commence turn to port for next leg.”
“Roger Navigator.”
The Canso gently dropped its left wing and eased round ninety degrees to port, almost mirroring the intended course of the Swedish vessel.
The aircraft approached Blanche Island.
“Starboard Waist, Skipper. On the surface at two o’clock low. Huge slick and wreckage.”
All eyes that had a chance to look strained but there was no need. The oily mark was immense.
“Pilot to crew. Going down for a closer look. Stay alert.”
Turning to port, the Canso circled and bled of some height, coming back in over the site at two hundred feet.
“Anyone see anything other than rag and oil?”
There was no reply of note.
The aircraft turned again but this time to starboard, prescribing a figure of eight over the site of something that they suspected was the grave of a submarine.
Joy gave voice to his feelings.
“Pilot to crew. I believe that slick is confirmation that the Blimp killed the sub it was attacking. Anyone disagree?”
The crew, except Hawkins, were all experienced men who had their own U-Boat kill under their belts.
No one challenged Joy, and he determined to say as much in his report.
In any case, Hawkins was distracted by something else entirely.
“Skipper, Sparks. I’ve a radar reading here, heading 027. Picking up weak IFF, over.”
Allied aircraft all carried ‘Identification Friend or Foe’ transponders that marked them as friendly when ‘painted’ by their own side ’s radar.
Joy acted immediately and the starboard wing dropped, as the Canso altered course to fly down the line of the signal.
“Pilot to navigator, now flying 027.”
“Skipper, it ’s gone, over.”
“Then find it man! I shall circle. Where are we, Nav?”
Squinting at the map, Flying Officer Parkinson thumbed his mike.
“Skipper, directly below us is Cape Negro Island and…”
“Got it , Skipper. It’s back, same heading 027.”
“Roger Sparks.”
Joy’s mind was already working the problem, and
0917hrs, Saturday, 8th September 1945. North West Atlantic, 20 miles south of Cape Sable Island, Nova Scotia.
To the British and Canadians it was a Canso A. To the rest of the allies, and the Russians too, for that matter, it was a Catalina PBY flying boat. Built under licence, the Canso looked precisely like her American parent and was equally businesslike.
G for George of 162 Squadron RAF was on a rescue mission, as were a number of her sisters.
The weather was unfavourable, low cloud and squally showers, all driven along by high winds that were whipping the sea into white-tipped savagery.
None the less, G for George’s twin Wasp engines drove her forward, fighting the resistance, keeping her at a steady 140 mph, eight hundred feet above the roiling water below.
As yet, there was no sign of the missing blimp, or her crew.
Radar had steered them onto a large contact, too large to be wreckage from the blimp.
Hawkins, the radio operator, reported to the pilot, presently circling the neutral vessel below.
“Skipper, Sparks. She’s Swedish. Called Golden Quest. They are having some engine difficulties and are heading north to take shelter in the lee of one of the islands while they sort it out.”
“Roger Sparks. Did you inform them?”
A short pause, either because the man had to put his mask back on, or because he was annoyed that his pilot felt he should ask. Or both.
“Yes, Skipper. He’s seen nothing, but he has his own problems in any case. If he sees anything he’ll sing out, over.”
Flying Officer Joy didn’t care for the man, recently arrived from training school to fill the place of his former radio operator, a competent man who had succumbed to some sort of heart problem and been taken off Ops.
“Skipper, Navigator, time to commence turn to port for next leg.”
“Roger Navigator.”
The Canso gently dropped its left wing and eased round ninety degrees to port, almost mirroring the intended course of the Swedish vessel.
The aircraft approached Blanche Island.
“Starboard Waist, Skipper. On the surface at two o’clock low. Huge slick and wreckage.”
All eyes that had a chance to look strained but there was no need. The oily mark was immense.
“Pilot to crew. Going down for a closer look. Stay alert.”
Turning to port, the Canso circled and bled of some height, coming back in over the site at two hundred feet.
“Anyone see anything other than rag and oil?”
There was no reply of note.
The aircraft turned again but this time to starboard, prescribing a figure of eight over the site of something that they suspected was the grave of a submarine.
Joy gave voice to his feelings.
“Pilot to crew. I believe that slick is confirmation that the Blimp killed the sub it was attacking. Anyone disagree?”
The crew, except Hawkins, were all experienced men who had their own U-Boat kill under their belts.
No one challenged Joy, and he determined to say as much in his report.
In any case, Hawkins was distracted by something else entirely.
“Skipper, Sparks. I’ve a radar reading here, heading 027. Picking up weak IFF, over.”
Allied aircraft all carried ‘Identification Friend or Foe’ transponders that marked them as friendly when ‘painted’ by their own side ’s radar.
Joy acted immediately and the starboard wing dropped, as the Canso altered course to fly down the line of the signal.
“Pilot to navigator, now flying 027.”
“Skipper, it ’s gone, over.”
“Then find it man! I shall circle. Where are we, Nav?”
Squinting at the map, Flying Officer Parkinson thumbed his mike.
“Skipper, directly below us is Cape Negro Island and…”
“Got it , Skipper. It’s back, same heading 027.”
“Roger Sparks.”
Joy’s mind was already working the problem, and
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