Free Ship of Force by Alan Evans Page B

hell of a fright.”
    Smith could imagine it bursting around Morris and his observer, tossing their little aeroplane about the sky.
    He sat very still as Morris went on, speaking more quickly, nearly finished and wanting to get it over. “I turned out to sea and got right down on it and that got us out of the Archie. But then that damned permanent patrol of theirs came down behind us and chased us out to sea. Albatros V-strutters, like I said. Three of them. They gave us a pasting until they turned back after a bit, but by then they knew they’d got us. The engine was dicky, smoking and burning. Just as it was getting dark I had to put her down in the sea. And that was that. I hung on to a lump of the fuselage and then your chaps pulled me out.”
    Smith imagined Morris in the sea, paddling about looking for Bill. Darkness all around him, hiding him, and the cold reaching out fingers to clutch at his heart. While all the time the observer lay dead far beneath him.
    Smith said, “I think you did very well.”
    Morris shrugged, embarrassed, shuddered as he drained the mug. “Wish I could have saved the camera. I’m sure Bill got something at the end.”
    Smith felt a touch on his shoulder, looked around and saw Brodie. The steward said “Mr. Sanders would like a word sir. He says, would you go over, please.”
    Smith stood up and saw past Brodie’s shoulder the face of Sanders, looking at him anxiously. He said to Morris, “I’m sorry about your observer. I should try to get some sleep if were you.” He reached out and took the empty mug, passed it to Brodie and then asked Morris, “Anything you want?”
    He shook his head. “No, sir. Thank you.” The pilot huddled down into the blanket, pulled it over his head and rolled on to his side, turning his back on the wardroom, its sights, sounds and smells, turning his back on the world. Clearly he had taken all he could stand for that day.
    Smith paused a moment, looking down at him. If the war went on long enough or Morris lived long enough then one day he would have taken all he could ever stand of war, and then they would send the wreckage home. They might call it shellshock or flying sickness D but it meant you were finished.
    Smith swung away, sidled between two of
Judy’s
crew sprawled snoring on the deck and across to the couch where the U-boat commander lay. He looked to be a tall man. He lay on the couch with his head and shoulders propped up against the bulkhead. Brodie had set him up like that so he could still draw what breath was left to him. He was lean with a thin, hard-boned face that was pallid now and glistened oily with sweat in the dim yellow light. His eyes were closed but his mouth gaped as he fought for breath. He was naked under the blanket that was pulled up to his chest and that heaving chest was swathed in bandages. The rags of the uniform they had cut from him lay on the deck beside him. It was salt- and blood-stained and filthy with oil but the insignia was that of a Kapitänleutnant of the Imperial German Navy.
    Sanders crouched right up against the bulkhead and Smith knelt beside him so their faces were close to each other and that of the Kapitänleutnant. Sanders’s face was as pallid as the German’s. He was not yet familiar with the sight of death. He whispered, “Brodie says his chest’s stove in and he’s all cut up about the body and legs. It must have happened when we shelled them, sir.”
    Smith nodded. The Kapitänleutnant had survived that and they had saved him from the sea. But only briefly. Brodie said the man had not got long and Smith agreed. He was a long way from being a doctor but he had seen men die before. Too many.
    Sanders went on, but hesitantly, “I — think there is something you should hear, sir. He keeps repeating some odd phrases. Every now and again he starts shouting or talking and goes on till he collapses. Then after a bit he starts again, though he’s getting weaker all the time. If you could wait,