Contact: Phineas_Redux@yahoo.com
—OOO—
Summary:— This is an Uberfic set in Great Britain in 1943. Zena Mathews and Gabrielle Parker, both pilots and members of SOE—Special Operations Executive—are stationed at Scapa Flow. They fly north into the Norwegian Sea to join up with the cruiser HMS Reliable . After which they are involved in a daring raid on a German battlecruiser berthed in the Norwegian port of Alesund.
Disclaimer:— MCA/Universal/RenPics, or whoever, own all copyrights to everything related to ‘ Xena: Warrior Princess ' and I have no rights to them. All other characters are copyright © 2014 to the author.
Caution:— There is a considerable amount of general, though not foul, swearing in this story. Those who find this uncomfortable should consider not reading the following tale.
Notes:— a) The Royal Navy and German Navy ships named in this story are all fictional.
b) Alesund, along with its local geographical environs, is a real place.
This is the 13th Story of the 'Mathews & Parker' series.
1. Anything To Anywhere
2. An Aerial Taxi
3. The Shetland Bus
4. A Brush With The Enemy
5. The Long Trip
6. A Rainy Sunday
7. The Ring of Brodgar
8. On Convoy Control
9. A Music Concert
10. A Series of Cyphers
11. A visit to Skara Brae
12. A Front Page Splash
—O—
The cruiser appeared powerful, yet sleek at the same time; with two forward 6-inch twin-gun turrets and another in the stern making up its main armament. The bridge was tall and square, giving a feeling of strength; while its two funnels reflected the power of the oil-fired engines deep in its belly. Around 550 feet in length, and 50 feet in the beam, it had the fine lines of a prime greyhound. In its centre, between the funnels, lay an open space presently protected on the port side by a lanky crane with a tall arm of steel strutwork. Here was where the ship's aeroplane was going to be placed. An aeroplane which at the present moment was rocking and rolling on the merry billows some thirty feet below the main deck. Gabrielle was standing on the top wing of the bucking Walrus; or, at least, clinging for dear life to the thickly-woven metal wires and coupling-ring placed there for the ship's crane to catch onto.
The north-eastern reaches of the North Sea, close to the Norwegian coast, were no place for a respectable biplane to be at this time of year. Although not actually undergoing bad weather the area was experiencing a strong breeze, just short of a gale. This, by necessity, created a fine run of whitecaps across the surface of the dark green miserably cold-looking sea; creating a situation, one might almost say by default, where landing a Walrus became, if not precisely dangerous, at least a matter of significant interest to all concerned. Zena, in the pilot's seat, had to judge the nearness of the looming cruiser's hull to a nicety; in order to cut the Walrus's single engine at precisely the right moment for the ship's crane operator to lower the arm of his crane with its cable and hook, which Gabrielle would need to attach to the waiting steel ring held by wires firmly fixed to each outlying corner of the central section of the upper wing immediately above the curved body of the huge four-bladed Bristol Pegasus engine. This was an operation which in calm weather would normally be a piece of cake, but with the energetic bounces and rolling turns which the sea's surface inevitably gave to the plane's hull, now literally became a matter of life and death.
Gabrielle had exited the cockpit via the top glass roof-window, which she slid aside after a fond farewell to her pilot.
“Zena, keep this bugger steady, an' mind that bloody Pegasus propeller doesn't get me, or I swear I'll come back an' haunt your sorry butt for the next forty years!”
“Get out there, gal. Jeez! A girl o'ten could do it. Don't worry, I'll look after your ever-lovin' butt. Quit complainin'.”
Standing on top of the cockpit, feet firmly planted on the steel edge of the structure, Gabrielle was clinging for dear life to the nearest of the four enormous stanchions which supported the mighty Pegasus engine with its rear-facing propeller. She would need to climb this five foot high metal column, using the foot-grips of thin bent iron bars; then clamber up and over the curved forward casing of the engine to grip further hand-holds on the leading-edge of the upper wing. From this position she would be immediately beside the four metal wires each, as noted, firmly anchored to metal plates on the outer forward and rear edges of the wing centre-section; all firmly attached to the central steel ring which would take the waiting ship's crane hook when it was lowered to her. But plans are one thing, and dire necessity quite another.
With the plane bucking like a wild bronco in the stiff breeze and choppy waves it had not been at all easy to reach her present position on the top wing; but careful manoeuvering had finally ended in success. However the lively sea meant that Zena had to keep the plane engine running in order to steer closer to the Cruiser's hull. She needed to come round into the wind; which meant the waves and spray were thrashing into and over the small aeroplane's hull like breakers crashing on a wild rock-bound shore. At some points, to those spectating from the ship's deck above, the plane was all but invisible amongst the walls of spray; while at others it seemed to be drenched in wild streamers of sea-spume thrown from some angry sea-god's breath.
Gabrielle was quickly soaked right through from head to foot; which was some concern because of her heavy flying-boots and sheepskin jacket, not to mention the thick gloves she wore in order that her fingers weren't shredded by the sharp edges and projections to be found all over the Walrus's metal body. She had also provided herself with a pair of flying-goggles, which were both extremely useful and yet at the same time completely useless. They protected her eyes from the lashing wind and salt spray; but were also covered in a myriad of water-droplets constantly streaming across the glass lens's under the power of the wind, rendering her all but blind. And meanwhile the huge Pegasus engine roared on, creating a hurricane around her body; the upper segment of the four propeller blades circling in a whizzing blur, horrifyingly like a circular saw, only a matter of six feet or so away from her chilled wet body.
Suddenly, with no warning, the engine died down and stopped; the propeller swung slower and came to a halt; the breeze and spray whipping across the plane's hull sounded louder in Gabrielle's ear; then, from nowhere the crane hook, evil, twisted, and sharp as a shark's tooth, came zipping across the top of the wing straight for her. Gabrielle took one startled glance then ducked to the side with lightning speed. She was only just able to catch one of the steel-wire ring-stanchions, bolted nearest her on the wing edge, with the fingers of one gloved hand; then she was hanging down the side of the curved engine cowling kicking and lashing out with her booted feet searching frantically for a firm hold, while the crane hook swung unrestrained to and fro above her. A moment later the crane driver took his equipment in hand and the hook disappeared as quickly as it had come. The Pegasus engine started up again with a coughing bellow, and its propeller once more took up the cause of creating its own storm-front for Gabrielle's sole benefit; while the rolling green billows all round returned to their self-imposed task of providing enough crashing waves and spray to drown a whale.
Gabrielle clambered back to the top wing; crouched by the four curved metal wires and loose central hook, holding it's slippery metal tightly; concentrating once more on the crane arm swinging out from the deck of the cruiser high above her. Zena meanwhile was doing things with rudder and ailerons which made the Walrus edge its nose more keenly into the wind, while at the same time edging almost imperceptibly nearer the hull of the huge ship. The crane-driver had his machine under control now; the long metal chain with the evilly curved hook now swept lower, with some sense of control, towards the wing of the plane; and Gabrielle prepared to raise her free arm to catch the hook as it came within range. There was a moment, seconds long though it seemed to the blonde woman like so many years, while the hook swayed at the end of its length of chain like a living thing; then came a short pause in the wild battering of the wind; the spray fell away for an instant, as the Walrus sat more calmly on the sea's surface. Taking what she knew would be her only chance, Gabrielle reached forward, opened her left hand, and grabbed the passing hook with the grip of a hungry grizzly bear. An instant later she had pulled it next to the waiting steel ring held, terrifyingly weakly it seemed to the casual onlooker, by the four bent and flapping wires; pulled the hook, with a strength she had never realised she had, into contact with and through the ring— quickly snapping the hook-connecter shut; and the plane was finally irrevocably linked to the cruiser's crane.
But all was not yet ended, for the aeroplane was bucking amongst the waves like a toy; only now, with its engine turned off and the plane held only by the top wing's four shockingly weak-seeming wires gripped by the crane hook, the Walrus thumped and crashed as if trying to tear itself apart as the sea rose and fell under its hull. The tail began to come round, exposing the run of the hull to the wind; a particularly heavy wave made the port lower wingtip and outer float lurch partially underwater for a heart-stopping moment; then the weight of the plane was taken by the crane hook and chain for an instant before it once again came slapping down onto the water surface like a bag of coal. Finally the sea rose at the same time as the crane-driver reeled in his chain; and the wallowing plane broke from the sea's clutch, as the dark green water fell away again, to hang in mid-air slowly revolving as the wind gusts took it. Abruptly, as if by magic, a seaman slid down a rope from the crane-arm to come to a crashing rest beside Gabrielle. He had another long rope in his hand which ran up to the deck of the cruiser. A few seconds later a second man joined him by the same method. Almost before Gabrielle could grasp what was going forward ropes extended from the Walrus's wing to eager hands on the ship's deck and the plane was pulled in as the crane revolved to hang its wallowing cargo above the stark steel cage-work of the catapult, which would be its resting-place on the cruiser. There were a few bangs and scrunchings of tortured metal; the Walrus twice bucked uncomfortably; then came to rest as the grateful echoes of a multitude of busy men sounded all round the plane, securing it firmly in place. Zena and Gabrielle, not forgetting their somewhat battered but still live Walrus, had arrived on board HMS Reliable .
—O—
“—so that's the plan.” Zena looked at the group of uniformed men sitting around the wardroom table listening to her. “Pretty straightforward, I think.”
“Damn silly, if you ask me.” A Lieutenant-Commander spoke up from somewhere down the port side of the long table. “About as much chance of success as a greyhound winning next year's Grand National.”
“Come, come, Lathaby.” Captain Keynes shook his head, from his position at the head of the table. “I hardly believe it that bad. Not, perhaps, a brilliant plan; but serviceable, nonetheless. Although I must say tacking you ladies onto our proposed bombardment-to-come seems a little, er, haphazard.”
“My commanding officer at SOE in London, who came up with it, thinks the plan'll work.” Zena gave the officers a long hard look from steely-blue eyes. “He thinks this chap Gabrielle and I have been sent to pick up is worth the risk. And your attack on the Norwegian coast at precisely the right place is just what we need as a diverting tactic.”
“SOE? Just who are they, anyway?” The Lieutenant-Commander didn't want to give up his protest without a fight.
“Never mind, Lathaby.” The Captain spoke crisply, in a severe tone. “That Department is highly secret, and will not be referred to again by anyone in this room—is that fully understood? Thank you. The plan goes ahead as Flying-Officer Mathews has outlined it—along with our own assault, which you all already have details of. Right, gentlemen, let's get things in order—it's going to be rather a busy day tomorrow.”
—O—
“What d'you think of our chances, Zena?”
“Oh, fair t'middling.”
“That doesn't exactly make me feel cheerful, y'know.” The blonde shuffled more comfortably on the edge of her bunk opposite Zena, in their small cabin. “I don't have any wish to finish this war as a POW in a camp somewhere in Germany.”
“Hell, it won't come t'that.” Zena, on the other hand felt that determination was the order of the day. “If the worst happens, an' we don't come down near this old tub, then wherever we do hit the drink there'll be an MTB or a couple of corvettes zipping about waiting for us, don't worry.”
“Huh, glad t'hear it.” Gabrielle didn't sound happy, though. “Do you really think we can get away with dropping the old Shagbat into a sea-bay to pick up a spy, while the Royal Navy is knocking seven bells out'ta a German battlecruiser in the next fiord along? It sounded crazy t'me the first time I heard it; an' it still sounds crazy.”
“Group-Captain Graham felt it was a ‘ Heaven-sent-opportunity ', as he told us, so who are we t'argue?” Zena shrugged in her turn. “Ours but t'do or—the other thing, y'know.”
“Huh!”
“OK, let's go over the details again.” Zena was always one for precision in important matters. “The Royal Navy—to wit, the cruiser HMS Reliable —is going to approach and enter the fiord where the town of Alesund is located—”
“—and there, sitting comfortably, it'll throw its 6-inch shells over the intervening low island of Hessa into the bay where Alesund actually lies.” Gabrielle continued the well-rehearsed tale. “Or, more accurately, it'll drop its shells on the German battlecruiser ‘ Marburg ', presently hiding there. All Hell will, of course, break loose—and in the confusion we fly into the northern bay of the nearby island of Godoya, some way west of Alesund.”
“Where, with unique skill and bravery, we pick up an unnamed agent who'll have taken a rowing-boat out from the tiny coastal town of Alnes and bring him back to the SOE Shetland base along with us. Piece of cake.” Zena could spy an easy walkover with the best, when it fluttered down to preen its feathers right in front of her. “Should be back home in Scapa Flow in time for a late supper.”
“Zena, that's what I most like about you—the ability to stare ruin, disaster, and certain death in the face, an' still think it's only your favourite aunt come with Christmas presents.” Gabrielle shook her head mockingly; with a twist of the lips that might have been a light smile; or a tender sneer; or, in fact, both. “You, Lady, are quite mad.”
“Hah!” Zena didn't seem much put out by this character assassination. Instead she once more commenced wriggling on her narrow bunk. “ Jeez! They don't exactly offer ya much in the way of comfort on these tub's, do they. I've slept on a coupl'a orange boxes pushed t'gether, in the past, that were more comfortable than this dam' bunk,—wha'd'ya think's in the bloody mattress's? It ain't feathers, that's for sure.”
“Wishin' you were back in the ol' Nissen hut, with our bunks pushed together, an' the door locked?” Gabrielle allowed herself to giggle lightly, at memories of their past week together at that location. “Yeah, does seem like Paradise, compared to here.”
“Anywhere where you are, is Paradise to me.” Zena spoke softly, but with intense feeling. “Always, an' forever, my love!”
There was a pause of a few seconds; then Gabrielle leaned over to reach across the intervening space to grasp Zena's outstretched hand. The last seven days had produced an enormous sea-change in their personal relations; from mere close friends a connection had been formed, and openly acknowledged for the first time, which had brought Romance and Happiness into their lives. They had admitted to each other their true love, one for the other, and an unbreakable bond had rapidly come into play. Zena, in fact, had previously experienced one relationship with a woman, early in her life; but this had not lasted, and she had gone forward henceforth with a sort of monk-like suppression of her natural persona—never meanwhile, however, having any deep commitments to a man. Gabrielle, though strictly in private and unrealised by Zena, had always known her inner physical nature rallied more towards the charisma of the feminine—indeed, she was at this point already the survivor of a couple of relatively long-term partnerships of a lesbian mode. Admitting their love to each other had opened the flood-gates; both of romance, and of the more physical sexual aspect of their new union. They had rapidly found that each had something of the same tastes and feelings; so allowing them to engage intimately with joy and delight together. Their short, but speedily burgeoning, romance had seemed like a fantasy or dream; or comparable, as Zena had quietly murmured to Gabrielle one moonlit night, to walking in reality through the beautiful asphodel fields of Paradise. They were, and both knew they were going to stay, deeply in love; while neither could really fully believe yet that, yes, they had indeed found their ideal life-partner. It was all love and bliss, and never-ending ecstasy.
The fact that, from a legal point of view, their new accord was strictly illegal never troubled them. It would, if discovered, mean their instant dismissal from the Armed Forces. In fact Zena, trying to point out the likely problems and dangers of their partnership to Gabrielle, had admitted she wasn't quite sure if such a discovery might not mean a jail sentence: but Gabrielle, on her part, had dismissed this peril with a deep long kiss which had put her new lover's mind at rest—she knew what she was doing, as did Zena. The only change in their public routine was to keep from appearing, or openly exhibiting, too intimate a friendship before either strangers or their more habitual acquaintances and workmates. And so their new rapport had progressed happily to the present point, where they found themselves about to take part in one of the most dangerous missions of their careers so far.
“That's sweet, dear. But there ain't much chance of any intimacy tonight, in this broom cupboard.” Gabrielle sniffed critically, as she eyed their surroundings. “A cat would feel confined, here. An' there doesn't seem t'be a lock on the damn door, either. Why d'you suppose that is. Cramps my style, no end.”
“Ha!” Zena turned on her left side, to gaze across at her paramour. “We shouldn't be thinkin' of ourselves, y'know. There's a real fireworks display gon'na happen tomorrow, that we're intimately involved with, in an entirely different meaning of the term.”
“Yeah, that's true.” Gabrielle lay back on her own bunk, hands behind head. Then an inspiration occurred to her, and she rose to softly cross the foot or two of space between the bunks. “But at least I can give you a kiss before sleep; g'night, Zena darling.”
“Goodnight, sweetheart.”
—O—
The Supermarine Walrus sat on its steam catapult between the two tall funnels of the cruiser. It was facing to starboard, though the ship would have to veer to bring the wind onto that quarter for the plane to be able to take-off safely. The morning was calm, with a slight sea-mist that would almost certainly vanish later in the morning; but for now the decks offered a damp shiny circle of some thirty feet or so to anyone standing there, beyond which all was vaguely outlined in shadowy silhouette with only the bridge, masts, and funnels reaching above the low-lying bank of mist. It was also surprisingly cold, as the women found when they stepped out from the relative warmth of the wardroom onto the open deck. All round was a hive of activity; not least at the gun-turrets. There were two of these on the fore-deck, sporting two 6-inch guns apiece; while another turret, similarly armed, sat out of sight on the stern-deck. There were, of course, a number of other smaller gauge guns at strategic positions up and down the deck, surrounded by groups of navy personnel busy with last minute adjustments to their armaments. A Lieutenant stood by the side of the heavy steel lattice-work frame of the catapult; making sure everything was ready for the women's departure, clapping his gloved hands together the while to instil some feeling of warmth.
“Hi'ya, Lieutenant Waltham, ain't it?” Zena liked to establish formal communications with workmates as quickly as possible. “How's it all lookin'?”
“All shipshape, I can assure you, ladies. Did you manage to have a good breakfast? I know I did.” Waltham favoured the women with a wide, easy grin. Though only twenty-four he was completely at home in his position of command, and knew exactly what was what in his particular area. “Not the usual thing for ladies t'blast-off from one of these things, y'know; but I'm sure you'll manage alright. Ever done it before?”
“Er, no.” This was the point of no return, as far as Gabrielle was concerned. She had made her concern known to her companion earlier, but had just been met with a smile and a raising of black eyebrows—Gods, lovers could be so insensitive sometimes. “I haven't; an' neither has my crewmate, here, I'll let you know.”
Zena grunted, and shuffled closer to playfully nudge Gabrielle's shoulder; but as they were both ensconced in sheepskin flying-jackets and padded trousers and boots, the effect was minimal.
“Ah, is that so.” The Lieutenant pondered this information for a few seconds, then shrugged philosophically. “Worse things happen at sea, so I'm told. Maybe I'd better run through the procedure, then. First, you have to climb up the, er, girders of the catapult t'reach your plane. The mist's made them somewhat slippery, so go canny, as my old Scottish grandmother often said. Then you clamber into your cockpit, as best you can, and settle down—not forgetting to fasten your seat-belts, if you've never done so before. A necessary preliminary, I assure you—this catapult has immense power, and can easily throw an unsuspecting person right out of their seat! Then you have to watch Leading Seaman Carruthers, over there; the man with the shock of black hair. Just a mo'. Carruthers! Carruthers! Get a bloody haircut! Right, where was I?”
“We'd just been thrown out'ta our seats.” Zena considered their instructor, unenthusiastically.
“Ah, right.” He grinned widely again, master of all the details of his arcane profession. “Carruthers is your sign-man. He'll give you the signals for when the catapult's up to power; when he'll release the holding-clamps—”
“Clamps?” Zena raised her eyebrows, this being the first she'd heard of such a piece of equipment on the Walrus.
“On the catapult.” Waltham pointed vaguely to his left somewhere; into the mass of girders, metal bars, and other unidentified paraphernalia which made up the infernal machine; parts of which were already exuding various jets and puffs of steam, in a threatening manner. “Then he gives the signal to brace yourselves—and I mean, you should really brace yourselves, I'm not joking.”
“Christ!” Gabrielle shook her head, with a grimace.
“Then comes the good part.” The young officer was obviously warming to the task of explaining his pride and joy. “Before we go further, perhaps I ought to mention a particular action you have to take. When you're finally shot off, it's absolutely imperative you—the pilot that is,—immediately banks a trifle to starboard. Don't wait to see how things are playing out—just do it, even before the plane's left the catapult.”
“What happens if I don't?” Gabrielle, being the pilot on this mission, suddenly found her interest focussing minutely on the man's discourse. “Something—horrible?”
“You will inevitably sideslip into the drink, faster than a pint of Guinness down a parched coal-miner's throat.” Waltham shook his head censoriously. “Did occur once—plane went straight in, no hanging about—smashed to pieces on contact, nose down, an' bottom up. We did finally rescue the pilot; but by that time it was far too late,—dead instantly anyway, having broken his neck on impact.”
“Bloody Hell!” Gabrielle felt a quivering in her stomach, and began repenting taking two sausages for breakfast.
“But that won't happen with you ladies, I'm sure.” Waltham exuded complete confidence in his charges. “Clear t'see you're both experts. Piece of cake. D'you want to start gettin' up into the plane now? Times a'movin' on.”
—O—
“God, thought I'd never get here.” Gabrielle settled in the pilot's seat, as her companion fiddled about on her right-hand side. “You OK, Zena?”
“Yeah, just about.” The black-haired Valkyrie bared perfect teeth in a sneer. “Though it was a near-run thing. I almost fell off the dam' girders down there. Jeez , ya don't realise how high the plane's sitting, till ya have t'climb up that damned steel jigsaw puzzle. Can't they provide ladders, or what?”
“Probably get in the way of our being shot off.” Gabrielle shivered slightly. “God, I ain't lookin' forward to this.”
“Don't worry, darling.” Zena laughed softly, and put a comforting gloved hand on her blonde lover's shoulder. “I'm here with ya all the way—to wherever!”
The next few minutes were spent in a general check of the cockpit procedures, for the coming hour or two would test the plane to its limits, or beyond. Finally, everything seemed to have been accounted for.
“How long d'we have t'sit here waitin'?” Zena picked up on the main topic of interest to them both. “How far away from the fiord are we at the moment?”
“According to the sea-chart in the wardroom, about another four miles t'go.” Gabrielle shifted in her seat, glancing around at her instruments. “We go up—always supposing the catapult launch is successful—then fly over Alesund to recce the gunnery for the cruiser. Is the radio working properly?”
“Yeah, sure.” Zena nodded briefly. “It's workin' fine.”
“Then, when we're certain the ship's got the range of the German battlecruiser to a nicety, we head off West for Godoya island.” Gabrielle fixed her navigator with a beady eye. “You got the chart an' compass directions sorted?”
“ ‘course! God, Gabs, give me a break.” The Valkyrie snorted contemptuously. “I know how to read a bloody chart; d'you know how t'fly?”
“Ha! Ha!” In answer the pilot in question curled her own lip gently. “I can fly this thing in any conditions y'care t'name, don't worry, baby. OK, we're set, then?”
“Yep, we're set.”
—O—
The cruiser's bridge seemed rather more crowded than normal; but this was accounted for by the fact that everyone was at action-stations, and so a larger complement of seamen than usual were occupied at various tasks in the long room with its row of windows.
“Any sign of the mist rising?” Captain Keynes addressed his second-in-command, Lieutenant-Commander Timothy Lathaby, standing by his right-hand side close to the steersman.
“Not yet, sir.” Lathaby spoke with a note of suppressed excitement, this being the first time he would see real action. “But I'm told it should be gone in half an hour or so.”
“Splendid. Just in time for our little visit to commence.” The Captain smiled thinly. “I do hope we surprise our friends neatly. All turrets reporting green, Quartermaster?”
“Aye, sir. All main turrets, and all secondary turrets, and all anti-aircraft guns,”
“Good. Lathaby, what about the women in the plane.” Keynes always felt concern for all those under his command. “Dicey business for them. Still can't quite understand why women have been sent on this caper.”
“Apparently they have all the proper security clearances, sir.” Lathaby shrugged lightly; he had other worries at the present moment. “The Admiralty seems happy enough; or, I suppose, we'd have had a sharp message telling us to pull our socks up, and get rid of them.”
“Has Lieutenant Waltham got them sorted out with his little toy?”
“Oh yes, sir.” Lathaby allowed himself a light laugh. “The apple of his eye, that catapult, sir. I had a confirmation message from him five minutes ago, sayin' they were all cosily sitting on the, er, machine, waiting for take-off.”
“Let's hope it goes better than that ‘ Seafire ' incident, a couple of months ago.” Captain Keynes growled low, under his breath. “Total cock-up on the piloting front that was, and no mistake. God, I didn't know the Admiralty could throw quite so many forms at us; twenty, at least, I'm sure. I nearly got writer's cramp, filling the damned things in. Hope these women pilots are, um, more professional. We can't stop t'fish them out of the drink if it all goes wrong y'know, Lathaby. Just have t'leave them to an MTB, or one of our corvettes.”
“Shouldn't be any problem there, sir.” The Lieutenant-Commander nodded knowingly. “The ‘ Calypso ' and the ‘ Condor ' are sweeping the area behind us; and I know for a fact there are at least two MTB's wafting around somewhere close by, too. The desk johnnies must think a lot of these women; to have all this back-up to rescue them if needed, eh, sir?”
“Suppose so, Lathaby.” Keynes grunted a little morosely. “Wish they thought as much of us. If we were to sink, I wouldn't put it past the Admiralty to think we were somewhere in the Indian Ocean—and to contact the Eastern Fleet C-in-C to look for us someplace off the Seychelles!”
“Chartroom reports we've reached Station A, sir.” A young rating popped his head out the door of a room at the back of the bridge, and waited expectantly for further orders.
“Alright.” The Captain stood straight, shrugging his shoulders inside his heavy uniform overcoat. “This is it, everyone. Lathaby, order Waltham to send off the plane now. Everybody get ready, and keep a sharp eye out. Remember, we're still not quite sure if there isn't at least one German destroyer lurking in the vicinity, or not.”
—O—
The catapult, powered up to full capacity, was emitting jets of highly pressurised steam from a variety of locations; unofficial as well as official—it being long in need of a good service. The ratings involved had all huddled to one side, near a deckhouse which gave some protection. Lieutenant Waltham stood at their head, eyes on the steel lattice of the powerful machine; while high above sat the Walrus itself.
“Carruthers, it's all yours. Go!”
The rating in question, actually a leading-seaman, nodded confidently and took a step back, so he would be visible to those sitting in the plane's cockpit. He raised his left hand in the pre-arranged signal for Gabrielle to fire up the powerful Bristol Pegasus engine; waited about a minute till the four-bladed propeller was merely a faint transparent circle slightly beyond and below the plane's upper wing behind the now roaring engine, and Gabrielle finally stuck a gloved hand out the side-window to wave her readiness; then dropped his own arm in acknowledgement that the clamps had been released. A few seconds pause ensued, while he gave the plane's crew time to finally settle themselves—then he raised his right arm this time, and just as quickly dropped it again. Immediately there was a shriek of escaping steam, like a demon soaring out of Hell; a cloud of rust particles, dust, and steam materialised from nowhere; then came another groaning shriek as the plane was pushed forward along the steel ramp. A mere second passed until the plane left the catapult to soar out, only thirty feet above the waves. A teetering moment ensued, as the observers saw the plane wobbling from side to side as it shot forward; then it seemed to catch hold of itself and soar upwards into the sky, out of danger—safely airborne.
—O—
“God! That was hairy.” Gabrielle sighed from the bottom of her heart, as she adjusted her rudder pedals and ailerons on the way to their fifteen-hundred feet operating altitude. “Don't ever ask me t'do that again. I think two of my ribs broke with the pressure.”
“Ha! Don't worry, just a little muscle strain. Ya need more exercise, t'stay in shape.” Zena grinned broadly, as she opened the chart on her lap. “Right, we ain't got much time. The bay where Alesund sits is just a mile or so away. When the Jerries see us they'll let loose every anti-aircraft gun they've got; so sit tight, an' don't panic.”
“Huh, easy for you t'say.” Gabrielle managed a grin, though, in response to her navigator's insouciant attitude. “Hey, look! The mist's almost gone. Christ, there's Alesund, and—oh my God, that must be the Marburg ! Jeez , it's big!”
“Just watch your steering, lady.” Zena, gazing keenly through the windscreen, noted the most important salient facts of their position. “There's bloody mountains everywhere; all far too close together for comfort, for my taste. What's that,—that pyramid-like—is that—?”
“ Sukkertoppen ; all 1,000 feet of it.” Gabrielle had studied the relevant charts over the last few days until she was note perfect. “The island of Hessa; makes an' encircles the bay where Alesund lies—and the Marburg .”
“What's that other lump, just a couple o'miles west?”
“ Storhornet, on Godoya Island—it's 1,600 feet.” The blonde came up with the facts in seconds. “More of a huge steep-sided plateau, than a mountain, really. And of course, as y'can see if you look about, there's plenty others in the offing in about any damned direction y'care t'name.”
“Just don't hit any o'them; pretty please.” Zena started her gunnery-aiming duties, over her radio. “ Petrel to Eagle , Direction, 22 degrees North-East. Range three thousand eight hundred and twenty yards. Bay clear for firing, over.”
“Message understood. Ready for broadside. Keep clear, to the west, out.”
“Jesus, we'll keep clear, alright.” Gabrielle snorted derisively. “I don't want a 6-inch shell up my backside. Hang on, Zena, the flight of the shells past us might still make the ol' tub rock about a bit, even at a fair distance.”
“ Jeez! ”
—O—
On the bridge all was silent, the moment of action having finally arrived. Now all was down to training and expertise. Suddenly there came a high-pitched voice over the open intercom.
“Gunnery Director, all main turrets—turret A, turret B, turret Y,—open fire on my command. — Fire! ”
The resulting broadside took place slightly out of sequence, to avoid overdue strain on the ship's hull. Turrets A and B fired one and a half seconds apart, while the stern turret Y took its time, firing a good three seconds after receiving the command. The resulting noise, though considerable, was felt on the bridge more as a huge pressure surge than any ringing of the ears. Then the outside view was lost as the ship was surrounded by an impenetrable cloud of smoke from the cordite. As the weather was now more or less a dead calm the cruiser, from this point on, was virtually invisible in an ever-expanding greyish-white acrid cloud.
“Main turrets—Ready! Fire! ”
—O—
“ Jesus! ”
Gabrielle had to grip the wheel with white knuckles to keep any form of control over the wildly bucking Walrus. The passing of a series of 6-inch shells, even at a distance of some half-mile or so, still made the atmosphere react as if there was a tropical storm in progress in the vicinity.
Zena leaned forward to look out the cockpit window, searching for the fall of the shot. She didn't need to look far. Suddenly, in a jagged line shadowing the hull of the battlecruiser far below, there came a string of white fountains—soaring some hundred and twenty feet into the air—about two hundred yards short of their target. At the same time a series of brownish-grey puffs of smoke appeared in the sky about quarter of a mile to the west of the Walrus, and three hundred feet higher up.
“The Marburg's started shootin' at us.” Zena made this unnecessary remark more out of habit than any need to keep her pilot apprised of the unfolding situation.
“I noticed.” Gabrielle could be cutting when the opportunity arose. “Pretty poor aim, though. They'll have t'do better than that.”
As if the gunners on the German ship had heard her every word a line of brown puffs soiled the sky immediately to port of the Walrus; closely followed by a series of sharp cracks, just like thunder. This in turn was echoed by some horrible wrenching tearing noises from the fuselage behind the women, amid a severer than usual trembling of the whole aircraft. Zena turned in her seat, not without some difficulty, to gaze back through the access hatch into the shadowy interior.
“ F . . k! I can see daylight, in several places. We've been punctured.”
“ Christ! Hope it's all above the waterline, or we're scuppered.” Gabrielle saw the main danger immediately; then shrugged her shoulders philosophically. “How'd that last group of shells land?”
“Short.” Zena narrowed her eyes and gripped the radio microphone again. “ Petrel to Eagle . Direction 19 degrees North-East. Range three thousand six hundred yards. Forward 220. Repeat forward 220. Over.”
“Affirmative. Forward 220, out.”
The next broadside from the cruiser sailed invisibly past so close to the aircraft the women easily heard the rasping whistle as the shells cut through the atmosphere. The Walrus, in turn, tried to buck like a wild bronco—then sideslipped towards the ocean below.
“ Goddam! ” Gabrielle hunched over the wheel, straining her every shoulder muscle as she fought to regain control. Finally the plane returned to an even keel, some three hundred feet below where a closely bunched group of brown puffs now sat in the sky, pretty near to their last position.
“ Jesus! I think we just missed being torn t'shreds by that last burst of Archie.” Zena whistled in relief, then returned to her chart. “Our shells were much closer t'the target, though.”
“I'm coming about, to gain height again.” Gabrielle glanced all round, through the windscreen and side-windows—with a quick look overhead through the roof window-panes at the brown anti-aircraft fire still bursting above them. “ Christ! It's getting crowded around here, ain't it.”
“ Petrel to Eagle . Direction 18 degrees North-East. Range three thousand five hundred yards. Forward Port 150. Repeat, forward Port 150, out.”
“Affirmative, out.”
“ Holy God! ”
This wild ejaculation from Gabrielle was occasioned by the German battlecruiser's No.2 turret letting fly with both barrels. For a frighteningly significant few seconds it seemed as if they were actually targeting the small biplane above them; but then the shells whipped past at near supersonic speed in the direction of the invisible British cruiser sitting out in the open mouth of the fiord. But they came so close the women felt a physical blow as the air pressure thumped against the plane's sides, rocking it in the air once more. Gabrielle struggled with her wheel yet again, until she regained control. And then, with no chance to draw a breath, another clump of anti-aircraft fire blackened the sky all round them. There was a bang as a hole suddenly appeared in the side-window at Gabrielle's left shoulder, and a crack as the piece of shrapnel embedded itself in the rear wall of the cockpit—having obviously flown within an inch of both women on its journey there.
“ Jee-sus Christ! ” Zena paused to draw in a lungful of air, having stopped breathing in fright; then returned to her chart. “ Pe — Pet — aah, Petrel to, uh , Eagle . Direction, umm , 17 degrees North-East. Range three thousand five hundred and twenty yards. Forward 80. Repeat, forward 80, over.”
“Affirmative, out.”
The town of Alesund sat—as the Walrus's crew could clearly see from their bucking vantage-point—in a little bay, formed by the island of Hessa; whose single 1,000 foot high mountain and long, relatively lower, peninsula protected the town from the broader fiord outside. This arm of land, though, was still high enough to make any chance of the German battlecruiser seeing their British attacker impossible. Therefore, although they had started firing their main guns, it was merely in the nature of a purely rhetorical gesture—the German battlecruiser having no idea of the range or exact position of their assailant. As a result their first shells fell some four miles out to sea; causing the corvette HMS ‘ Calypso ', which was steaming unconcernedly in that vicinity, some momentary anxiety when one burst on the surface five hundred yards off its starboard bow.
The booming thud as HMS Reliable fired its latest full broadside was instantly audible to the crew of the battered Walrus, fifteen hundred feet above and a mile to port.
“God, here we go again.” Gabrielle was now getting used to the capers of the Shagbat in the wildly disturbed air; though she still needed to concentrate on the bursts of anti-aircraft fire which were beginning to pin-point them all too closely. “I hope the bloody cruiser hurries up and makes a hit. In a short while the dam' Jerries'll have our range to the nearest half-inch, an' then where'll we be?”
“Just watch out for that goddam mountain; it's getting' too close for comfort.” Zena growled low in her dry throat. “ Jeesus , a hit! Two hits!”
She stared down, hypnotised, at the panorama spread out below. The outline of the enormously long battlecruiser had suddenly disappeared in a welter of white water as the broadside crashed down all round its hull. On the ship itself two vast plumes of black smoke burst in huge globes of gas, smoke, fire, and debris.
“ Petrel to Eagle . Two hits. Repeat, two hits. Centre superstructure, behind forward funnel. And near, if not on, the stern turret.” Forgetting her earlier worries, Zena was now virtually screaming her news excitedly into the microphone in her hand. “Yes, stern turret hit and out of action. Direction 16 degrees. Range three thousand five hundred and fifty yards. Forward 45. Repeat, forward 45, out.”
“Acknowledged, over.”
Another rolling crash of thunder heralded the next broadside from the British cruiser. Gabrielle was occupied with the plane, but Zena continued staring intently at the map-like vision below. Again the German ship disappeared amongst a thrashing cloud of water and black smoke—then she could see the result.
“ Petrel to Eagle . Two more hits. On the forward deck just short of the bow. And on the rear deck, near the second funnel.” The glee she felt could easily be heard in her tone. “Heavy fire broken out on stern superstructure. Aim perfect. Repeat, aim perfect. Over.”
“Affirmative. Will continue at this range. Permission granted for Operation Speedwell. Repeat, Operation Speedwell affirmative, over.”
“Acknowledged, over.” Zena heaved a sigh, and glanced over at her sweating pilot. “Time t'head for the next stop, Gabs. Get us out'ta here, for God's sake.”
“Not a minute too soon, baby.” Gabrielle hardly had enough spare breath to answer, but she grinned widely. “I was beginnin' t'get bored. Christ! ”
The German anti-aircraft gunners far below, though caught napping at first, had now sprung to efficient action, fairly marking their target. The latest salvo burst in a ragged line slightly above and to starboard of the Walrus—but much too close for the swaying swerving plane to escape unscathed.
‘ Bang! Bang! Tfff! Sceech! Wharaang! '
Thick smoke from the exploding shells seemed to block the two women's vision for a few seconds, then the Walrus shook as a mass of assorted shrapnel pierced its metal sides, seemingly from every direction. Holes appeared in the two forward windscreens; both Zena's and Gabrielle's side-windows; several of the many glass panels of the upper roof sections; and at a variety of places in the outer skin of the plane's hull. For a frightening few moments there seemed to be a swarm of raging bees present as bits of shrapnel hit the interior, and the occupants, of the now dust-filled cockpit.
“ Aagh! Graagh! I'm hit. Dam'it, I'm hit!” Gabrielle gasped in shock as she felt the impact of what seemed like several punches to her body, all at the same time.
“ Jeez! Christ and damnation!” Zena too wriggled in her seat, trying to bring her left side into better view. “ Jeez, I've been hit,—in my ribs. Gods! That hurts.”
The Walrus side-slipped to port at what was an alarming rate; though at this point it went mostly unnoticed by the occupants, who were both too busy trying to see if they were mortally wounded or not.
“ Christ! There's blood on my jerkin, in two—no, three—places.” Gabrielle made some contortion-like movements, striving to examine herself—or as much as she could reach. “ Jeez! Blood on my right leg, too. How're you, Zena?”
“I—I think—I think— Jeez, aagh! ” Zena gritted her teeth in pain, as a number of places on her body made themselves known as impact points. “I'm cut t'ribbons! No, no, not that bad. Several wounds—on my left arm an' ribs. An' I think there's blood in my left boot. Jessuus! You alright? Tell me you're alright, for God's sake!”
“Yeah-Yeah.” Gabrielle sat back and drew a deep breath, then grabbed her steering-wheel again; fighting the bucking machine as it headed for the ocean's surface. “Hang on a moment—I got things t'do here.”
In another few seconds the blonde woman had successfully brought the Walrus back under her control, and set a course on a more or less even keel towards their next port of call.
“OK-OK, I'm gon'na hav'ta fly over to starboard a'ways—t'get air-room t'climb a little higher.” Gabrielle gasped once more, as various parts of her body signalled their damaged status to her brain. “I'm hit—but I'm not out—not yet, anyway. I got several, er, punctures—but I don't think they're bad—I hope. You?”
“ F—k! ” The dark-haired New Zealander didn't hold herself back in this crisis. “I'm bleedin' from places I didn't know could bleed. F—k! There's blood every-f—king-where. Wait a minute. Aagh! Aah! My left arm's nearly useless—may be broken. An' there's wounds over on my left side—think a rib's bust there, too. An'—yeah, there's somethin' wrong with my lower left leg. God, there's blood seeping out'ta a tear in my boot. F—k! F—k! F—k! You gon'na be alright, Gabs?”
“Y'asked that already.”
The pilot now found herself under real pressure. Hessa was now behind them, with Godoya, and its more and more ominous looking flat-topped mountain, looming ever nearer. She would need to make some delicate course-adjustments on the hoof, to bring them around the right side of the island; find the small bay where the town of Alnes sat; and land the Walrus on the slightly choppy sea to pick up the man in his rowboat, who by now ought to be awaiting rescue—she hoped.
“Look, Zena,—neither of us is gon'na conk out right off—at least I sincerely hope not!” Gabrielle focussed her mind on the next step of their proposed plan of action. “We got'ta find this dam' man in his dinky little boat, then head back out t'sea. At least one corvette ought'ta already be in place t'pick us up at the pre-arranged spot, if we hav'ta abandon goin' on to Shetland. —”
“Dam' hope so.” Zena was still engrossed in examining her flying-jacket, which showed ever-increasing red splotches at several places on the chest and left arm. “I think I'm gon'na need somethin' more than a few Band-Aids here.”
“Can you get out'ta your seat, t'go back t'the rear gun position t'help the man t'come in?”
“ Aah! Aargh! ” Zena tried to lever herself out of her seat, but found the effort too much. “No. No. My arm really is broken, no jokin'. Jeesus , I can hardly think straight. Gaugh! My chest's beginnin' t'hurt somethin' awful, too.”
“OK. OK.” Gabrielle glanced across at her navigator. “These padded jackets an' trousers are a dam' hindrance when y'want t'see if you're hit badly or not. Maybe it'd be better if you didn't try'n unbutton your jacket. Leave it as it is; the pressure may stop the bleedin' somewhat. When we land, I'll try an' look after the pick-up, myself. Hold on.”
Godoya, being separated from its neighbour Hessa by no more than two miles of open water, was now looming near at hand. Its own single mountain, Storhornet , was much higher and bulkier than the one on the other island; presenting a real danger to Gabrielle as she flew the plane ever closer. She kept at a height of some five hundred feet above the dark green surface below, but this was still a good thousand feet lower than the peak of the flat-topped massif now so near on her port side. Though wounded, and in some appreciable pain, the simple straightforward drama of the women's situation—and necessity to keep the plane in the air and out of danger—seemed to act as a temporary pain-suppressant. Finally the side of the island opened out ahead of the approaching Walrus; and Gabrielle and Zena could for the first time see, some distance away sitting on the island's edge, the small community of Alnes. From their position it seemed to be made up of a mere handful of low shed-like buildings widely scattered haphazardly in a strip along the coast, with no appreciable planning design to it. Gabrielle clamped her jaw tightly shut, forcing herself not to groan or cry out audibly as she concentrated on bringing the bucking plane lower towards the sea's surface. She was in no way searching for the object of their mission, being content at this juncture simply to get the plane onto the water in one piece. Looking for the small rowing-boat with its single passenger could wait till this primary need had been successfully accomplished.
When the hull of the Walrus met the surface for the first time it bucked raggedly across the low waves, jarring the two wounded women agonisingly in their seats. But finally it settled in the water and ran forward smoothly till Gabrielle cut the mighty Pegasus engine to a gentle throbbing, in place of its usual roar. The inescapable sheets of water thrown up by their skimming through the waves had inevitably obscured any sighting of other boats or ships; as well as soaking the two crew-women, via the shrapnel punctured windows and torn gaps in the outer hull casing; but now, with all way more or less off the plane, they could see across the dark water to the nearby coast. And, thankfully, the object of their concern revealed itself at no great distance.
“ Jeez! Is that him?” Zena leaned forward a trifle to peer out the port side of the holed and splintered windscreen. “It's a boat, in any case. Must be him.”
“Yeah, that's him.” Gabrielle, in considerable pain, took a few gasping breaths which only seemed to make her chest feel all the worse. “Stay where you are, Zena. I'll see t'this. I don't know whether that's our man or not; but, by God, I'm gon'na drag the bastard aboard whether he wants it nor not—then we're leaving, pronto. So it dam' well better be him. See ya.”
Struggling out of her seat far more slowly than she thought possible, because of the pain involved, and past Zena's slumped form Gabrielle bent down to pass through the low entrance to the inner compartment usually reserved for the radio operator and navigator members of a full crew. In doing so she was appalled to realise that, with every pain-wracked step, her right leg sent out piercing stabs of agony that threatened to make her dizzy and physically sick at the same time. Glancing down she noted with horror that the area of her padded leather trousers around her right knee seemed to have turned bright red, shiny, and wet, in a significantly not-good manner. Limping through the constricted fuselage and bowing her head for safety she finally got down on her knees, favouring her left as the right exhibited a capacity to incite levels of pain she'd never experienced before. She finally reached the rear gun position; undid the clamps of the cover above her head and laid it on the floor; then stood up in the cramped round opening, with the roar and whining wind from the much-too-close Pegasus engine ruffling her hair uncontrollably. The resulting blast of cold, salty air nearly finished her as it hit her face and nostrils. She had to cling to the circular sides of the open space with each hand to stop herself from collapsing. A few deep breaths, however, had their effect and she pulled herself upright once more.
Now only ten yards or so away and bobbing up and down, in what seemed to the blonde woman a ridiculously toy-like manner, the row-boat lay on the slightly choppy water—its oars shipped inboard while the single occupant peered across at the plane.
“ Jesus! ” Gabrielle was in no mood for hesitation. “ Hey! Get your sorry butt over here, an' make it snappy, ya f--king fool! Come on!”
Although Gabrielle had taken no consideration of whether or not her prospective passenger could speak English, all turned out well—the middle-aged man clearly having at least enough grip of the foreign tongue to gauge the meaning of the woman's words; allied to her frustrated gestures, which were unmistakable.
In a moment the boat was at the plane's side, banging dangerously against the metal hull; though by this time Gabrielle was past caring about such minor troubles. The man leaned over to grip the edge of the hull; rose shakily to his feet; then, with surprisingly seamanlike skill, clambered aboard onto the fuselage top. Gabrielle leaned down and struggled backwards, to give him room to enter the plane; but as he writhed amateurishly into the confined space he inadvertently brushed against her, causing further rivers of fiery pain to course through her body from all sorts of unexpected locations. Gabrielle, now nearly speechless, motioned to him to go forward, which he did after giving the woman a suspicious glance; then Gabrielle struggled once more with the round gun position cover before finally managing to replace it. On slowly creeping, nearly on hands and knees and in great pain, back to the inner compartment she turned to the new passenger with no great enthusiasm.
“Listen sunshine, I don't know if you can understand me, or not—”
“Yes, madam.” The dark-haired man looked his saviour over with about as much liking as she had just shown him. “I understand English, pretty well.”
“Right, that makes things easier then.” Gabrielle nodded at this news, then made a motion of her head to the dark interior of the small compartment. “There's a seat, of sorts, over there. Sit on it; don't get off it for any reason whatsoever; don't start complaining about anything; an' if you're dam' lucky, we'll have you safely back at base before you can sneeze. Any questions?—No, great, see ya.”
Negotiating the climb from the low interior back up into the cockpit took more time and pain than Gabrielle thought either possible or necessary. But finally she sank thankfully into the pilot's seat again.
“How're you doin, pal?”
“I'm OK, I think.” Zena's voice showed, however, that she was still in considerable pain. “The bleedin' seems t'have stopped; or, at any rate, not be so bad. I don't feel great, but I'll make it. D'we have enough range, an' fuel, t'reach the Shetlands?”
“Yeah, easily, no probs.” The blonde pilot nodded reassuringly as she gripped the throttle with her left hand, right hand resting gently on the steering-wheel. “Gods, hear that? The ol' Reliable's still knocking seven bells out'ta the Marburg , by the sound of it. Shit, I hate this place; let's get our butts back t'Blighty post-haste. Sit back, sister; we'll soon be home.”
The Walrus rose and fell on the short green waves; took a firmer grip of the water as the powerful engine pushed the plane forward over the surface; then rose smoothly into the air; the grey bulk of Godoya passing out of sight on their port side as the plane climbed into the empty sky. Homeward-bound.
—O—
“Oh dear, no.” The white-coated Doctor shook his head firmly as he looked from the blonde to the black-haired woman and back. “You've both been shot up about as comprehensively as I've ever seen—and I've seen plenty, let me tell you. No, neither of you will be going anywhere for the foreseeable future. Oh, I'll let you out of hospital in a couple of days, don't worry; but your wounds are extensive, though generally minor—if you can call a broken arm and a badly shot-up leg minor, which I do. The other, numerous I admit, er, contusions are of a much less serious nature.”
“Contusions?” Zena, still mildly under the influence of a great deal of morphine, was in fighting mood. “Listen Doc, Gabs an' I have both been torn t'shreds by multiple shrapnel wounds t'our chests an' limbs. Now I ain't complaining, don't get me wrong, I'm just saying that's how it is.”
“Happily none of these wounds are serious or dangerously positioned.” The Doctor, rather off-puttingly, seemed to view the women merely as anonymous units of a future paper for the ‘ Lancet '. “I don't say you both won't be carrying around a substantial amount of small pieces of shrapnel for the rest of your lives—you will, I'm afraid,—that's just by way of being the nature of your, remarkably numerous, wounds. But of a life-threatening nature? Oh no; at least, not now. Yes, I'll have you both released from Hospital in, say, two days. Goodbye, goodbye.”
The matron opened the private room's door for the exalted surgeon; they both passed out into the corridor, and the door closed quietly behind them—leaving the two patients lying looking across the small intervening space between their single beds at each other.
“Well, I'll be damned.” Gabrielle was first to put their thoughts into words. “Here we are, havin' been bed-ridden in this fleapit of a hospital for just over a month, an' all he can do is as much as say there's nothing wrong with us. Nothing wrong! Hell, I still can't barely stand without falling over. How about you?”
“How about me ?” Zena grunted disdainfully. “I've got a bloody broken arm—an' a gammy leg, just like yours. What d'y'think ‘ what about me? ' I'm bloody crippled, is what. At least we'll be able t'get back t'our own Nissen hut. Gods, never thought I'd be so glad t'see the old ramshackle shed again.”
“Well, one good thing,” Gabrielle settled down, pulling the cold thin linen sheet up nearer her chin as she lay looking over at her battered paramour. “Captain Graham, in London, has given us extended sick-leave. God, a good long holiday, just what I need. What're we gon'na do, Zena?”
“Do?” The black-haired New Zealander gazed at the somewhat grimy white-painted ceiling, then glanced over at her lover with the beginnings of a small smile. “Whatever y'like, darling—as long as it doesn't involve having anything t'do with a goddam Shagbat for at least the next three months.”
“Hah!” Gabrielle laughed lightly, then regretted it as her chest and right leg protested vigorously. “ Aouch! Yeah, I'm with you there, babe. Here's t'the high life. Can you have a High Life, here on Orkney?”
“Dam' silly question, girl.” Zena snorted scornfully. “We've got lot's of loot saved, haven't we. We got free passes for the trains across the whole country, ain't we; courtesy of Captain Graham? What d'ya think that means, doll,—when we're back on our feet, anyway?”
“London?”
“Dam' straight, London.” Zena nodded determinedly. “An' it won't be just t'visit Captain Graham, either.”
“Hah!”
—O—
Afterword:— What, discerning readers may be asking themselves, is all this adding up to? And where do the original Xena and Gabrielle, Warrior Princess and Amazon Queen respectively, fit into the plot? And are Zena Mathews and Gabrielle Parker simply Mel Pappas and Janice Covington under different names?
Happily, I can relieve your minds on all fronts. At an earlier point in this series I introduced the concept of the classical Xena and Gabrielle being aware, in their own time-frame, of the doings of our two wartime flyers. This occurring as a result of Hera having sent a cursed golden arrow into the future—specifically the 1940's, in Orkney—to create and influence the capacity for the world to go to war. Now, what Zena and Gabrielle in the 1940's have to do is work together with Xena and Gabrielle from Classical Greek times, in order to alleviate this danger—so, hopefully, influencing the close of the war. Having been comprehensively wounded, the women will now be confined to ground manoeuvres for a while; allowing them to focus more on the chakram they have discovered—still lurking at the bottom of their clothes locker, y'remember,—and come up with a plan to find and destroy the golden arrow—helped now and again by appearances by Xena and Gabrielle from past times. And no, Mel Pappas and Janice Covington have nothing to do with our modern heroines. Zena Mathews and Gabrielle Parker are, admittedly, descendants of the originals—but at such a DNA distance as to be hardly family at all—and certainly without any of the built-in attachments to the spirits of their ancestors that Mel and Janice show.
Hope this explanation isn't too complicated—but I thought something of the sort might help to put to rest any thoughts by readers that I had lost the plot ages ago, and was just rambling on in a completely dis-oriented manner. Have no fear—I have a cunning plan. Phineas Redux.
The End
To be continued in the next story in the ‘ Mathews and Parker ' series.