Chapter 37: Trouble's Coming 10th November 1940
The Royal Albert Hall was brimming with people that evening. Even when the threat of the German bombers remained so high, those who needed to be there made sure that they were. The possibility of a spoilt evening was not one that put off those attending the event, members of high society that included the nobility, politicians and high-ranking military officers. There were others present too, whose roles were less understood, the men that worked in the dark to ensure the safety of those who remained in the light. Lieutenant Colonel Menzies was one such man. The Intelligence chief did not particularly enjoy having to attend the event himself, but his duties as an intelligence officer and a gentleman would often clash. His mind was elsewhere that night though, the desk he was pulled away from holding pages of scribbled notes about a situation that made the German bombers look very undaunting.
The plans for Taranto and the involvement of a certain young Captain that a considerable amount of his resources were used upon protecting.
Captain Smithers was a mere nobody when measured against those at the event that the Lieutenant Colonel was attending. He was not invited to the dinner and dancing that was taking place at the large venue, as there was no place for a man like him there. Some of the richer men and women were raucously rude about the waiters who would attend them, therefore the thought of someone from the lower classes mingling in as a guest was almost unthinkable. However, Menzies could not rest on his laurels when it came to the discussing their young Englishman. Using his considerable influence in the very highest of circles, he ensured that Smithers received a late invite to attend. The news had only reached his officer that morning, leaving him a frantic day of preparing his best suit to wear before travelling into the city.
Smithers was late, although Menzies expected that he would be given the rush of trying to get himself prepared. Some of the guests were beginning to make their way up to the main stage where the food was laid out to start with, moving away from the little clusters where they spoke together. High up in the galleries, Lieutenant Colonel Menzies watched on alone, without a drink to accompany him like most of the guests held in their hands. His life as an intelligence officer and a gentleman continued to clash, but it was the former that took precedence as he waited. When the first news of the plans to attack Taranto came through, he knew before reading them that it would be the young Englishman that would lead the attack. It was not the first he knew of the plans, having been aware of their existence before the war started. In truth, since the moment the young Maguire began to shine as a pilot, the thought niggled away at him that he would eventually be the man to lead the attack on Taranto.
As the revelry continued beneath him, footsteps behind him prompted him to turn. Captain Smithers was walking towards him. His officer scrubbed up surprisingly well for the event, despite being far out of his depth in when it came to the quality of his blood and the balance of his bank account. He'd told him to meet him up high, far above the guests who were amongst some of the most important people in society. Yet they were there to discuss someone even more important than all of them. It amused Menzies to note how insignificant the rest of the guests were compared to James, when they flaunted their importance at every turn.
"Smithers". He addressed his officer.
"Sir". Smithers dipped his head in reply.
Like the Lieutenant-Colonel, Smithers did not have a drink in his hand. They held many similarities that night, another one being of how much thought was being put into the safety of Captain Maguire. Smithers worked around the clock to carry out the orders that Menzies gave him which pertained to the pilot. He still did not know or truly understand the importance of James Maguire but did not hesitate to carry out his instructions. When the officers of the Fleet Air Arm on home shores began to question the continued promotion of the young man, he was quick to act to silence them. It was not the most pleasant of tasks, finding out which officers were having affairs behind their wives back or were committing some form of fraud, though he was trained to perform the tasks. He'd been taught well, partly by Menzies and partly by other intelligence officers.
"I apologise for the frightfully late notice…". Menzies continued. "… even with the strings that I could pull, it was not straightforward securing your invitation".
"Thank you, Sir. I never thought I would see inside this hall". Smithers replied, marvelling over the grandeur of the place.
"It is a good job that you have. With the bombers overhead at any hour, who knows whether it will remain intact much longer".
What Menzies did not know, was that the distinctive structure of the building acted as a reference point for the German bombers rather than a target. They would not need to bomb the Royal Albert Hall, as it acted as a beacon for the other valuable targets in the area that were not quite as visible from the air. If the bombers were to turn up that evening, the two of them very much safe.
Smithers drew up alongside the Lieutenant Colonel, the pair of them sharing the same viewing point to look over the guests. The majority of the guests were now queuing to retrieve some food from the buffet, if it could be described as that. Rationing did not allow for the grand banquets of old, as even those with wealth were having to accept that it would not be possible. Many of them did not care for the war, comfortable in the perceived knowledge that if Britain were to fail, they could simply buy their way out of trouble. They were too set in their ways to note that it was not the case in France, where rich landowners would suffer from the occupation just as much as the homeless of Paris did.
"Over by the far side of the stage, the man in uniform talking to the two large women". Menzies orated, his finger also pointing in the vague direction of the three. "That man is our problem".
Another officer of the Fleet Air Arm made noises when it came to Captain Maguire. The officer, a Lieutenant Commander based in the south of England, was not amused at all by being outranked by the usurper. If James mixed in the circles that he did, he would have been accepting of the decision despite his age, but nobody present that night other than the two men in the gallery knew who James Maguire was. Believing him to be a jumped-up commoner, the man began to ask questions about him around Admiralty House. Unlike all of those officers who'd asked questions before him, he'd managed to find some answers. Someone inside Admiralty House was willing to talk about the young pilot. With Smithers despatched to find out more about the rogue officer, Menzies went away to the Fifth Sea Lord to ensure that no further leaks about James were made. The Fifth Sea Lord himself was the man who'd reported the answers being given to the angered officer, identifying the staff officer responsible for them. The same staff officer who was now held somewhere out in the country, imprisoned in a place where he could no longer do damage.
Under his arm, Smithers carried a folder which Menzies took to be the proof that they could use against the man who was enjoying his evening beneath them. Smithers handed it over, the Lieutenant Colonel flicking the first page open to a shocking photograph that would cause incredible scandal should the newspapers get hold of it.
"That is…". Menzies stopped, clearing his throat. "… incredibly graphic, Captain Smithers".
"It was not my proudest evening, Sir".
When Captain Smithers followed the man a few nights before, acting more as a field agent than a handler for once, he never expected to discover some of the officer's… pleasures, in such detail. He knew when the man turned into what looked like quite a seedy backstreet, that the blackmail proof would be available yet being able to sneak into the building the man entered, allowed him to get the definitive proof he was looking for. He expected some form of affair and the presence of a woman that was not the man's wife appeared to confirm so at first. From his concealed position above them though, he did not expect what happened next.
"Did she?" An incredulous Menzies asked.
"No, Sir". Smithers could barely contain the laughter. "He did so voluntarily".
The two of them giggled like school children rather than the serious intelligence officers that they were. Occasionally their line of work would throw up a laugh or two, humour which had to be acknowledged quickly before it disappeared again. In position in his vantage point that evening, Smithers was able to obtain plenty of photographic evidence of the show that played out below. When the man returned to the room without any clothes on, he was already rolling his eyes from behind the equipment. When the same man then put on a blindfold, the incredibly confused Captain stopped, writing down a note on his pad to document the strange occurrence. Busy writing his note, he did not see the woman enter the room, but watched on with his mouth hanging open when he did turn around. She was in the process of tying the blindfolded man to the bed, vice-like restraints being applied to the officer.
"He enjoys being tied up". Menzies snorted.
"It would appear so, Sir. I was able to obtain a variety of images during my brief time there…".
Trailing off, Smithers watched on as Menzies flicked over every page to find more damning evidence. The images only became more graphic as they went along. If they were priests then it would have left them blind forever, the sheer decadence that was on display behind the closed doors of a backstreet London building. A simple affair would have been far easier for Smithers to sit through, but what he'd watched on from above would stay with him for some time. He was not a man open to such amazons, not even considering that other men would be able to find any form of pleasure from such an arrangement. Menzies knew better though; he did not approve of it himself, but he knew plenty of men that enjoyed being tied up. Tongues would become incredibly loose after plentiful alcohol. It would not be the first time that he would be bribing a man for his odd sexual habits.
"I must admit, Smithers, I did not have him down as that sort of a man".
The two looked out to where the man was stood. He'd moved away from the two larger women that he was talking to, instead engaging with a fellow officer back towards the tables where people were sitting to eat.
"My own thought at the time was certainly not what I discovered, Sir". Smithers commented. "I wonder what his fellow officers would make of it?"
"Some of them may be the same way inclined, Smithers. Although I suspect that his standing would fall dramatically for them to save face".
Nodding his head in agreement, Smithers yawned lightly. He'd had quite the day rushing around to get himself to London in time for the event, the tiredness beginning to show. He wouldn't have to mingle in and around the guests at least, as he would never get any closer than the galleries high above where the members of high society chortled to each other.
"How long did you stay that evening, Smithers?" Menzies asked as he came to the end of the photographs. "You have amassed a vast array of evidence".
Glowing red, Smithers really did not want to have to admit how well he'd kept his cover. It was not the place for a man like him, he quickly knew that, but he had a job to do which could not be dropped because he felt uncomfortable. His ears were assaulted with demands that he nearly choked upon hearing. Desire was not something he allowed himself to submit to very often, but the officer that they were gathering the information on appeared to submit with ease. Cracking the whip was a phrase that he associated with a leader or commander demanding more out of those at their command. It took on a whole new meaning that evening.
"I left when he began to address her as his father, Sir".
If Menzies laughed any louder then they would have had the attentions of the entire Royal Albert Hall upon them. Smithers did not find it amusing at all, having been the one who'd been present throughout what he looked back on as an ordeal. To the Lieutenant-Colonel though, it was hilarious. The officer who wanted to ensure that Captain Maguire did not advance any further in his career, was hiding a secret that would destroy him in seconds. The key to success when it came to advancing through command was either having the right influence or not having skeletons in one's closet. The officer's skeletons were rather tied to the bed on this occasion, tying him up in knots that the intelligence chief could easily tighten.
"Your commitment has been noted, Smithers". Menzies continued to chuckle. "I can handle the rest from here".
With the groundwork completed by Captain Smithers, it left the Lieutenant Colonel to complete the task at hand. His contacts within the papers would certainly be of assistance when it came to ensuring that the officer would not complain about Captain Maguire's promotions again. He would make sure that the man was given a chance to redeem himself first though, rather than going straight to the papers with it. If the man would agree to keeping his mouth shut then the evidence would remain safely in a folder at HQ, far away from the prying eyes of the tabloids. The same prying eyes that would work for him to protect the young Captain would also work against him too. If they got even the slightest of a hint about James, it would be a disaster.
"Tomorrow night…". Menzies spoke of the raid. "… tomorrow night is the night that I have been dreading for weeks".
"Me too, Sir". Smithers agreed.
They'd spoken at length about whether it was necessary for James to be part of the raid before, but Menzies would often avoid giving a proper answer. With Smithers still in the dark about who James really was, he would not give away anymore information to the Captain than he deemed necessary. What the two of them did know was that Taranto was home to the Italian Fleet, bolstering some of the best defences they'd ever seen. To attack the port with the most modern of bombers would have been ridiculous but for the Fleet Air Arm to attempt it with the Fairey Swordfish was nothing short of outrageous. The smattering of ancient biplanes, aircraft that did not belong in the theatre of war, attacking a harbour so well protected was so out of place, yet so very British. The logical answer would be to draw the Italians out to battle, where the odds favoured the superior British Mediterranean Fleet. That was not the British way though, it was too dominant and not plucky enough to be considered successful. It would not be a British military operation if there wasn't even the slightest hint of it being suicidal.
"They should be somewhere off the coast of Malta at the moment, Sir". Smithers informed him. "They'll make for Taranto early tomorrow evening".
"Very well Smithers". Menzies sighed.
Sighs were something that the two men were used to when it came to Captain Maguire. To Smithers, it appeared that there was no easy answer to the question of James, Menzies constantly showing the stresses of trying to manage the young man's life from afar. Taranto was the hardest task yet, one which still held many unanswered questions in the Captain's mind.
"Sir, might I ask?"
"Smithers, your persistent attempts to entice me are entertaining…". Menzies quickly cut him off. "… but I would have thought you would have realised by now, that they are futile".
"That was not quite what I was going to ask, Sir".
The one occasion that he wasn't trying to find out exactly who James was, Smithers wanted to know more about why they weren't pulling him off of the mission. He knew that Admiral Cunningham's admiration for the young man did not help their cause. Various reports that came back from the Med indicated that some of the most significant successes achieved by the fleet were by its Air Arm, almost all under the command of Captain Maguire. A captaincy that he did not understand, the young man technically outranked him, though the ranks of the Intelligence Services could not be directly compared to those of the military. It was needless to say though, that Smithers was far less important than James was.
"I wanted to ask whether it is truly wise to allow him to conduct this mission, Sir". Smithers explained himself, Menzies allowing him to carry on with a flick of his wrist. "This… this may just about be the most audacious, suicidal attack that I have ever heard of, yet we are going to allow him to conduct it?"
Menzies sighed again, though Smithers elected to ignore the sigh in favour of continuing on with his concerns about James' attack on Taranto.
"My assumption was that we were to protect him. We have been protecting him after all, certainly in Northern Ireland. Why is there a sudden change in approach?"
Removing himself from the banister of the gallery, Menzies put his back up against the pillar. Smithers copied the action on the opposite side, leaving the two of them face to face, staring at each other. Anticipating to find himself rebuked severely for his persistence, Smithers swallowed hard, gulping loudly as Menzies opened his mouth.
"Smithers, I have wondered that myself…".
The rebuke did not come, Menzies instead showing his own frustration that they were having to allow James to attack the Italian Fleet in port. Smithers was blissfully unaware of the ground that was already well and truly raked over by Menzies, who'd held discussions with even higher authority about whether James should be allowed to conduct the attack. The orders when it came to the Captain were as confusing as they'd been since the start for him. If trying to stay afloat in the conflict was a fine balancing act for the country, then an even finer one took place when it came to the life of Captain James Maguire. His promotion was one that Menzies contended at first, noting to those above him who were privileged enough to know about James, that he considered it to be a terrible idea. He warned that other officers would not be impressed by the decision to promote the young man further up the ranks, when men who'd served for ten years were stuck in their own ranks. Promoting him so suddenly again, his promotion to Lieutenant Commander only coming in May, gave the impression that he was being treated differently to every other man. Nobody could know that he was.
"Then may I ask why we allow him to proceed?"
A most determined Captain Smithers continued on with the questioning of his commanding officer. He still could not work out why James was being risked if he was valued so highly. Aside from whatever his background was, he was considered by nearly every officer who'd ever reported on him to be the best pilot they'd ever seen. There was danger at every turn in conflict, but he could be spared from what was an almost certain death in Smithers' mind if they simply pulled him off of the mission. The most high-ranking Fleet Air Arm officer in the Med did not need to be risked on a raid that would be a miracle if it were to succeed. Having reviewed the plans for it himself, Smithers could not see how it would, although he was no aviator or sailor for that matter. However, to a realist, it was nothing more than a pretty dream with a vicious sting.
"Smithers, sometimes when it comes to our young friend, we have to weigh up two different scales.". Menzies quietly and carefully spoke to his officer. "You are correct, we do need to keep him safe, but we also have to consider that his talents must be put to good use. I am not allowed to prevent him from doing his duty in the time of need we find ourselves in".
"What do we do if he is killed or captured?" The Captain asked the fateful question.
"If he is killed, then we may as well walk to the Tower ourselves, Captain, for we will most likely be dead men too".
Eyes widening, Smithers did not quite know what to say. If failure when it came to James meant that his life would have to be forfeited too, his curiosity was only heightened further to who he could be. Allowing for James to die, through no fault of his own, was a death sentence according to Menzies. Even in a time of war, a death sentence like that was not handed out on a whim.
"And… if he is captured?" Smithers dared to enquire.
"We are at a disadvantage in Italy, Smithers. We do not have a vast network of resources, but I have a man in Milan that I have contacted. He may be able to help us, but beyond him then we have nothing".
"We have to hope that the Italians do not capture him, then?"
"Capturing him would be most unfortunate. Turning him over to the Germans, would be far worse…".
Another complexity was added to their protection of James. At least it was for Smithers. For Menzies, it was always sat in the background waiting, the threat held in statis whilst others developed around it. If they were going to lose James, then death would be preferable. If he was killed then the secrets could be buried with him, the time and effort wasted but ultimately to the knowledge of very few and none who would confidently be able to harness it for their own good. Any officer of his ranking being captured by the Germans would cause a significant problem, as they would no doubt be tortured for information on upcoming plans and goals, their torturers knowing that a man of that rank would have that information. Whether they broke them would be down to their methods as well as the individual officer's ability to withstand pain. Captain Maguire could not be put through that.
"If, and we must pray that he is not, Captain Maguire is captured, then we cannot allow him to leave Italy or for any Germans to have access to him". Menzies made himself clear.
"Understood, Sir". Smithers replied. "I shall add him to my prayers".
"That is most wise, Smithers. But we will need a lot more than prayer if it fails…".
Leaning back down onto the banister, Menzies took another long look out over the crowd. The officer that they would be blackmailing was sat down, enjoying the relatively meagre offering of food he'd picked up. Perfectly in position for the Lieutenant Colonel to get to work. But his mind was not on that man, his mind was on James Maguire and the threat of him falling into German hands.
"If Adolf Hitler gets his hands on James, the impact could change everything…".
Often the base of operations for anything that would occur between family and friends, the Quinn house was once again brimming with people. Not the first time that it had happened, after church on Sunday they all gathered around the Quinn's house. It was decided at the last minute, following a conversation between Deirdre, Mary and Geraldine, which ended with the decision to all combine their rations into a big meal for the family at the Quinn's. A tight squeeze as it always was, there was plenty of fun to be had on what was an otherwise miserable day. Lashing wind and rain greeted them all from the moment they woke up, which did nothing for the moods of any one of them. Erin was in a particularly poor mood, like she'd been the Autumn before, though nobody voiced their opinion of her seasonal moaning, despite them all thinking it.
Michelle and Clare were upstairs, in Anna's bedroom of all places, though the younger Quinn sister was not present. She had been minutes before, wanting to show the two of them some of the work she'd done at school that week. Her schoolwork impressed the pair, who were quite jealous of her clear academic ability that definitely outshone theirs at her age. She could even write quality poetry too, which they were more than ready to tease Erin about when she wasn't being quite as moody. Unfortunately for Clare though, as soon as Anna left, Michelle decided to bring up a topic she'd done well to avoid for some time. Her Da appeared to have backed off finding her a date after the trouble she'd had previously, but Michelle appeared to have thought that enough was enough.
"NO MICHELLE!" She shouted back at her.
"Alright calm yerself Clare!". She fought back. "Why do ye always get so defensive about this shit?"
Clare could not answer that question. Not immediately anyway. The real reason for why she was so defensive was buried too deeply within her to be let out so easily, despite Michelle's words cutting so close to it. She did not want to think about it at all, because it would always upset her to know that she could not have the life that she wanted.
"I... I don't!"
"Yer literally being defensive right now!" Michelle countered. "What's yer problem with dating fella's Clare? They aren't all monsters or just out for a shag, ye might find someone that ye really like!"
She would never find a fella that she would really like but Michelle could not know that. Michelle would never be able to know that, for if she knew the truth, the truth would not stay between them for long. The rest of Derry, and most likely the rest of the world, would know of her secret. It would finish her at home if the truth were to come out, her father almost certainly never forgiving her. When it came to matters of sexuality, Sean Devlin would not be a forgiving man.
"I… I… j-just…".
"Right, exactly! We're findin' you a fella!"
Michelle's insistence was scaring her deeply. Unable to construct an adequate defence without having to reveal the reason why, Clare suddenly found nothing to say that could ever skirt around the issue. She'd found excuses in the past, and now suddenly she was out of them. There was no one present to even deflect the attentions away to, with it being a straight fight between herself and Michelle. There was no escape this time. Unexpectedly, Clare was faced with a choice of stick or twist.
"How about that fella who works with Erin's Da… Niall?" Michelle suggested.
"Mi-". Clare tried to shut her up, but was interrupted.
"Or what about that fella who used to sit right at the back of church. Ye know the one, bulky lad with the glass eye. Sure, I wouldn't ride him, but he'd be alright for you".
Even though she wasn't interested in fella's remotely, Clare took offence at the comment from Michelle. It didn't matter what her persuasion was, Michelle believing her to be some sort of repugnant beast horrified her. The look of fury on the young Devlin's face caught her dark-haired friend partially off guard, surprised to find Clare appearing to be so offended by something which she thought was obvious. She was no Erin, who believed herself to be the best-looking woman in all of Ireland, but Michelle wasn't short on good looks. She certainly held a good body, Clare thinking so too though she could not allow those thoughts to linger, not on her friend…
"I thought you said he liked to ride his dog!"
"Think of yerself as his saviour then". Michelle reasoned. "Ye'll date him to stop him from ridin' his wee dog".
A malicious lie, Michelle did not know the fella well enough to even say if he had a dog. She could only get away with it because the young lad came from out in the countryside, no one in the city actually knowing him. Continuing to be offended, Clare crossed her arms, huffing incredibly loudly to get Michelle to understand how much she'd annoyed her. It did not seem to stop her friend though, as she continued to keep digging away at a subject that was already forcing Clare's eyes to well up a little. Michelle Mallon did not know when to let sleeping dogs lie. She would never stop until she was forced to.
"Look Clare, I'm not tryin' to find ye the best ride in the world here. Christ, ye don't even have to do anythin' with the fella, but ye need to have a date to practice for when the right fella does come along".
"I'm not sure that there will ever be a right fella…".
Against her nature, she tempted her friend with the truth. Michelle could be perceptive when she wanted to be, like Orla could be too, though what she was trying to gain from it, Clare did not know. Oblivious to the true meaning behind what she'd said, Michelle instead took a typically bullish stance with her friend.
"Catch yourself on! Of course the right fella will come along!" She shouted.
"How can ye be so sure!" Clare replied with a fiery resolve. "I don't have yer confidence or Erin's luck! There's no fella like James comin' for me, is there!?"
"Yes there is! Ye just have to wait!"
Michelle was running out of ways to point out to her friend just how simple it was, with the patience of a saint already being nowhere near enough. For her, finding fellas was not hard at all but it was understandably more difficult for Clare. She was not as open about flaunting her image as Michelle, with the latter knowing that the same techniques she used would not work with her friend. Clare held so little confidence in herself, Michelle assumed, that she would not open her eyes to see the bigger picture.
"I tell ye what, I'll cut ye a deal".
Wary of making any form of deal with Michelle, Clare hesitated. She did not want to be led down a road that she could not escape from or that would lead to her being forced to be with a fella. She could not do it, she knew, as the fella would realise very quickly that she was not interested. Keeping her cover was vital though, and as she'd proven, she was completely out of reasons for not going on a date with a fella. She'd just about gotten round Michelle in the end, but it would be nowhere near as easy to escape her Da's scorn if he were to ask. Sean's questioning would be far more severe than Michelle's, as would be the punishment…
"O…Okay…".
"Friday night. I'll pick the lads, you meet me at mine".
"Michelle!" Clare shouted. "I am not doing… that!"
Groaning, Michelle put her head in her hands. She knew the exact thought that Clare jumped to, quite a dirty one for Clare Devlin. Admittedly, upon quick reflection before she spoke again, she'd not clarified herself particularly well.
"No! No Shaggin' Clare. I meant we go on a double date, like. A wee bit of dancin', a wee bit of drinkin'… we'll have a cracker time!"
"I don't know about that Michelle…". The deliberately defeatist Clare responded in a sigh.
"Look, Clare, I'm not doing this to be nasty to ye, I'm tryin' to help! If ye don't enjoy it, then we won't do it again, I promise".
Once again at a crossroads, Clare was facing another decision. In many ways, her conscience told her, it was now or never to tell Michelle. If she was going to tell her, it would ruin the afternoon at the Quinn house and potentially ruin their friendship, but it would finally be out in the open. One less person to hide from when the net closed in. The only problem was one she'd thought of previously, that when Michelle's mouth opened, the net would close quicker. Her friend would not do it maliciously, she knew, yet do it she still would. There was nothing worse for a young woman to be best friends with another who liked women over men, for it would guarantee immediate suspicion that they thought the same way. Even for a young woman like Michelle who most knew slept around, it would not stop the accusations.
"Alright".
Out of options, out of rope and out of luck, Clare Devlin was going to have to go on a date with a fella. A double date would at least leave her more people to distract herself upon, but knowing Michelle, the young Mallon would make the evening a discussion about her instead. It was obvious that Michelle wanted her to find someone to be with, which was a sweet thought she supposed, but her friend was looking to the wrong people if she wanted to make Clare happy.
"Grand! Ach we'll have so much fun, so we will Clare!"
"But not too much drinkin' Michelle!" Clare warned. "I am not draggin' ye all the way back home!"
"Fine!"
Holding up her hands in surrender, Michelle chuckled. She'd won, like she knew she would, and now had a plan to get the right fella for Clare. There were a lot to choose from despite many going off to fight, with her considerable influence guaranteeing at least two young lads would be enticed. Whichever the uglier one was, she'd bin off to Clare, though doing so without giving the hint to her friend that it was her plan all along.
The two of them soon exited Anna's bedroom where they'd been debating Clare's lack of enthusiasm for dating a fella. Walking downstairs, they walked into one of the more legendary sights and sounds of the Quinn house; an argument between Joe and Gerry.
Whilst Michelle and Clare were upstairs, some of the family were already starting their lunch. Mary and Deirdre settled in to prepare with Geraldine on standby to provide assistance as well as making the drinks for everyone else. The first to sit down and eat were Joe, Martin, Anna and Orla, with Marie nearby already fed by her Mammy. Gerry joined them too after a couple of minutes, which for once was not the cause of the argument. Joe wasn't particularly bothered that his son-in law decided to sit down with the rest of the family to eat, as even he would need to have something. What bothered him was when he turned around to answer a question of Mary's. When he returned to his plate, a rasher of bacon was missing. His suspicions immediately went to Gerry.
"It was you, don't ye lie!"
"Now why would I steal a rasher of bacon from you, Joe". Gerry responded, frustration evident. "I do value my own life, ye know".
"Ye've married a liar, Mary, that's all I'm sayin'".
From behind her father, Mary crossed her arms. There never seemed to be a day when the two supposedly patriarchal figures of their family would argue in the way that they were. It was embarrassing when they would do it in front of their friends, although the rest of them were that used to it that it no longer annoyed them. Accustomed to Joe's dislike and distrust of Gerry, there was nothing that could be said that would truly upset any of them.
"Is it true, Gerry? Did ye pinch that rasher?"
"What! No!" An incredulous Gerry replied furiously.
"OI!" Joe roared. "Don't you speak to my Mary like that!"
Gerry could have put his fist through their table if he hadn't stopped himself. He was seething that Mary would think for one second that he would be stupid enough to steal a rasher of bacon from Joe, as if the past twenty years of their marriage hadn't taught him that he could not win when it came to her father. It must have been one of the others, but he'd looked away at the same time too, focusing on Erin who was sat alone behind them. In one of her particularly foul moods, the rest of the family were mostly avoiding her. Sean wasn't eating, but he wasn't standing around trying to make conversation with her either, instead admiring the vase in the Quinn's hallway. Napoleon was with Erin though, the dog curled up at her feet as she gently stroked him. He was behaving well despite the amount of people that were crowded around the house, the stroking his reward for the behaviour. Gerry didn't like to see Erin the way she was but did not get the chance to speak to her as Joe began to make his accusations.
"I'm not even that hungry, Joe". He tried to dig himself out of the hole he found himself in.
"What!?" Mary reared up before her father could speak. "What are ye sayin' love, is my cookin' not good enough!"
Just about the most frustrated human being on the planet, which was no mean feat when the world was at war, Gerry could have added a scream to the fist that could have gone through the table. Taking offence at a comment that was not in anyway directed at her culinary skills, Mary only furthered Joe's cause, nodding his head in agreement with his daughter, putting to bed any hopes for Gerry that he would be able to convince Joe that he hadn't taken his rasher. Which he truly had not, the culprit being one of the other members of the family sat around the table.
"Never in all my years, have I been so offended Gerry Quinn!" She chastised, her voice laced thick with emotion. "Ye know, I… I'm not sure if I'll cook again!"
With tears suddenly present in her eyes, Mary stormed out of the kitchen crying. Gerry was yet again struck with disbelief, wondering just how they'd managed to go from a peaceful family get together to Mary running out of the kitchen crying. Deirdre's icy gaze fell upon him too, Geraldine's arms crossed in anger at him. They were all ganging up on him, with Joe staring at him so intently that his eyes looked fit to burst. He would have a lot of apologising to do, he realised, not that he'd really done anything wrong in the first place. In any normal household, nothing would have come of any of it, but they did not live in such a house.
"Ye proud of yerself?". Joe sneered. "Typical Free State behaviour, upsetting a woman like that! No respect you's have, no respect!"
Replying with anything to Joe's insult would have only made it worse, Gerry deciding that the only feasible course of action was to get up from the table to pursue Mary. His course of action did not sit well with Joe, who wanted to make sure that the Southerner did not get to sweet talk his way out of the situation. There was no way Gerry could be allowed to get off lightly by using his vocabulary skills to convince Mary to forgive him. No, he would pay for it this time, Joe concluded.
"You wait up there ye massive eejit!"
The two charged out of the kitchen at pace, leaving behind a stark silence. Orla soon decided to break that silence by striking up a conversation with Deirdre and Geraldine, returning the room to its natural balance. It left Anna and Martin at the table, one of the two being the culprit of the theft of Joe's rasher of bacon.
Anna was the thief.
She'd managed to pick the right moment where no one appeared to have seen her, snatching the rasher from the plate next to hers, gobbling it up quickly before any of them noticed. Orla was far too busy fussing over little Marie to see the theft and with Gerry distracted by the melancholic looking Erin in the living room, only Martin could have seen her do it. He'd not spoke up to drop her in it when he could have done, no doubt putting an end to the argument, so she assumed he hadn't.
"It was you, I saw ye".
Chuckling, Martin in fact confirmed the opposite. He had seen Anna take the bacon from her Granda's plate. For a brief few seconds she froze, very much aware that she'd been incredibly naughty in setting off an argument that made her Mammy cry. Michelle's Da wasn't her Da, so he did not have any authority over her, but she knew that her parents would allow him to shout at her for committing the theft, should he decide to do so.
Once again though, Martin had other ideas.
"Good girl".
Leaning over, he ruffled her hair affectionately. An argument between Joe and Gerry was absolute gold in his eyes. Combined with Mary's completely out of proportion reaction too, it made for quite the merriment for him. Anna's smarts were not unknown to him, as Gerry would often delightfully inform him of her academic prowess. In the kitchen, she'd proven there was a level of craftiness too, which would serve her well in the future. Erin could not have performed such a raid on Joe's plate as she had, her mouth running away with her too much to keep her success quiet.
Narrowly avoiding Gerry and Joe's charging pursuit out of the kitchen, Michelle and Clare joined Erin in the living room whilst Martin revealed his knowledge of the theft to Anna. There was some reluctance on both of their parts to do so, as Erin's sharp tongue had already accosted them both at church that morning. Clare for being in her way on the walk up to the pews, whereas Michelle swearing in the house of God seemed to push her over the edge. They'd remembered the extended poor moods from last Autumn, thinking that it was because of her missing James but when they began happening again a year on, the two were not convinced. Asking Erin any questions was out of the question though, as it would only threaten to worsen her already poor mood.
"Alright, Erin". Michelle chirped as she came to sit next to her.
"Aye".
The response from the young Quinn was solemn at best. She'd not moved as Michelle sat down, nor when Clare took a seat to the dark-haired girl's other side. With Napoleon still at her feet, she stared out to the left, looking out of the window. The long stare out to nothing was enough to re-convince Michelle instantly that it was due to her missing James, rather than it being from anything else. It wasn't enough to convince Clare, but she was still trying to process the fact that she was going on a double date with Michelle and two fellas. Her mind was on fire…
"He isn't coming back any quicker with you starin'…".
Michelle's comment shook Erin from her thoughts, which did have her English fella in them. Her brave James, out in the Med fighting the Italians to keep them safe. She knew what he'd been up to in the past few weeks, a few trips out to escort troops to certain islands as well gunnery exercises outside the port. Charlene was not told of Taranto, neither young woman aware of what James would be doing the very next day. Menzies and Smithers could not allow her to have that information, a risk too far in their opinions. Without knowledge of him leading one of the most daring aerial attacks that the world had ever seen, she wondered whether he could be allowed to return home. After all, just escorting troop convoys could be done by somebody else. She desperately needed to see him, to hold him and talk to him about certain things she'd wanted to for some time. The chance would never seem to come though…
"Yeah… yeah I know".
Putting an arm around her friend, Michelle held her as Erin began to sink back into her grip. Clare's arms came around them too, listening in to the strained reply and clearing her own head when she could hear how torn Erin's was.
The only member of the family who was not in the house was Sarah, who'd gone out to see a friend of hers after church. That soon changed however, as the door was flung open, a wringing wet Sarah rushing into the Quinn house to see them all.
"Ach Mammy, yer all wet!" Orla called out from the kitchen.
"Aye, I know love, but I have some craic for you's so I do".
Taking off her jacket, Sarah hung it up on the peg in the hallway, too concerned with spilling the news she'd discovered from her friend. It certainly wasn't news that she expected to hear, especially as nothing had been said at church, where news of its kind would usually be discovered. Sean joined the rest of them in the living room, waiting for Sarah who walked on through a moment later. The girls were all left staring at her drowned figure, looking to see what she might have to say. Her breathing was still heavy, having ran from her friend's house, through the lashing rain all the way home.
"That weather is mingin'". Michelle commented.
"Wouldn't catch me out in it…". Sean muttered.
His mutter caught Geraldine's attention, glaring at her husband to not be so rude in the presence of their friends. He noted her look, deciding not to make another sound unless he was spoken to.
"What's the craic then Mammy?" Orla enquired.
Continuing to regain her breath, Sarah put her hands onto her knees. She'd not run that fast in years, surprising herself that she was still able to reach such speeds after so long. Rainwater dripped from the bridge of her nose, soaking the carpet next to where Napoleon was lying down at Erin's feet. The rest of the family, minus Mary, Joe and Gerry who were still somewhere upstairs arguing, waited in anticipation of what she was going to say. None of them had any idea of what it would be, though the fears began to stir within Erin that it could be to do with James.
"Eddie Walsh has been found all dead like this morning".
Mouths were soon hanging open at the news. Eddie Walsh was hardly a friend to any of them, although to one of them there was history, but he was not unliked either. Like most of the city, there was a feeling of sympathy for him when his wife ran off to the continent to leave him with the responsibility of their children. It was one of the most bizarre stories they'd heard, and in Derry there was no shortage of oddities that were part of the public knowledge. His relationship with Norah appeared to have broken down, not that they were expecting anything to come of it. They'd both moved on from each other, aware that it would not work.
"How did it happen?" Sean asked here.
"He shot himself in the head, the poor fella".
Suicide was the conclusion they'd all come to, Sarah simply confirming that it was the case. Recovering from Lyla's departure must have been too difficult, they assumed. Nobody was saying anything after she confirmed it, trying to process the thought of the poor fella feeling the need to end his life. To admit to his frailties would have been defeat in the eyes of society. A world that was at war was not forgiving of how people would deal with mental trauma, a culture where those with the strongest minds would be the ones to survive and thrive. There was simply no time for weakness.
"Poor Fella…". Geraldine muttered.
A chorus of agreement rang through the room, which was back to conversations after a few moments of silence. Clare joined her parents in the kitchen, leaving Erin to deal with the shellshocked Michelle. The young Mallon might have only held a one-night stand with the man, but at heart, she was a caring soul. Devasted to hear that he'd killed himself, she could feel the tears in her eyes. Tears that she refused to shed in front of everyone else, terrified of admitting what took place between them. Her parents were not aware of it, and she was not going to let that change just because Eddie had gone and killed himself.
"Are ye… alright Michelle?" Erin quietly asked.
Pulled from her own mood, Erin's concerns rose for Michelle. She wasn't completely stupid; she knew that her friend would be upset by his death. Michelle would sometimes show her caring side in the strangest of ways but there was nothing odd about the way she was showing her care for Eddie Walsh. She was very clearly distressed.
"F-Fine…". She stuttered in reply. "Just… well I… I wasn't expecting that".
"I know. I don't think anyone was". Erin replied.
"No. I suppose someone will have to tell Lyla".
Wherever she was, Michelle thought, the news would have to reach her one way or the other. In Germany or Switzerland or wherever it was, she needed to know. Being able to return to her children was out of the question with the war, but she would at least be allowed to grieve without having to find out about it when she could return home.
What it would do to her, was anyone's guess…
Out off of the coast of Malta, the British Mediterranean Fleet were ready to strike. Twenty four hours later they would be much closer to the coast of Italy, to launch the daring attack on Taranto that was years in the making. The Italians were sat in the port of Taranto blissfully unaware of the hell that was to be unleashed upon them and their own fleet. Reconnaissance flights over the harbour by other units went undetected by the Italians. Their lack of radar was a massive disadvantage too, as they would not be able to track any targets properly until they could see them, when it was potentially too late.
Onboard the Illustrious, the hangar deck was brimming with Swordfish. The Fulmar's and Skua's were flown off to Malta for the raid, not needed to provide any fighter cover. That was a decision that Admiral Cunningham made in agreement with the young Captain who would lead the raid, agreeing that the potential loss of important fighters to enemy anti-aircraft fire was not worth it. Instead, twenty-four Swordfish were being readied for the attack, of which at least twelve were expected to not return. The casualty rate would be unacceptable in the majority of other operations that would be undertaken by any branch of the military, but for Taranto, the parameters were different. There were Swordfish in reserve at home, that could be transported out to the Med to replace those lost in the raid. Pilot losses would be the worry, as the 815 squadron alone were one of the most highly regarded in Britain. Above all though, and for multiple reasons, Britain could not afford to lose the young man who would lead the attack.
In the couple of weeks leading up to that evening, James spent less time with the men. Keeping the details from them, other than David who knew everything, became increasingly difficult, as the thought of losing them began to play on his mind. The men were not just names on a piece of paper that he was asked to command; they were his men, his loyal squadron that were above all, his friends. The more time he spent with them, the more it dawned on him that he would be responsible for their deaths when they came, as a large part of the planning for the raid came from him. It would be his ideas that would be put into action, his plan of attack to be followed. If they were killed following them, then they would die because of his thoughts. David sensed the withdrawal after a couple of days, the two discussing the matter when he confronted his friend. Although he was willing to admit the reason, the Englishman refused to do anything about it. Keeping a stiff upper lip, he continued on with his duties, whilst leaving the majority of the interaction with the men to Lieutenant Barnes.
The majority of the time where he had no choice but to spend time with them, were on the gunnery exercises that the Navy crew completed aboard the carrier. During them, the airmen would play their own part in manning any guns that they could. They were not the most exciting of exercises to complete, as many men would be left without anything to do as there were only so many guns aboard the ship. The senior officers were hopeful that the heavy guns of the battleships and carriers would not be required during the raid, but no chances could be taken. The Fleet needed to be ready for anything that the Italians could throw at them. There was also the potential of drawing them to battle if the Italian Fleet tried to escape, the Mediterranean Fleet waiting off the coast to rake the Italian capital ships with devastating broadsides.
Admiral Cunningham was settled aboard the HMS Warspite. Responsible for directing the Fleet before the attack, and managing the attack itself, he was contented that he'd done everything in his power to make it a success. No stone was left unturned in the planning of the operation, which underwent some modifications closer to the day itself. One such modification was down to what was a standard piece of reconnaissance over the harbour. That day, the aircraft was detected by the Italians, who began to pummel it with anti-aircraft fire. The pilot was experienced though, avoiding it as well as the fighters sent up to find him. By the time they were airborne the British plane was gone, but not before discovering that the Italians had added a further line of defence in the harbour. Barrage balloons were present when they were not during recon that was done in September. They were eyesores in the sky and for attacking pilots, they were a nightmare. The cables that dangled beneath them could easily be collided with, sending an aircraft to its fate if the pilot did not pull away in time. It would have made for a rude awakening had they not found them in advance.
As he was settled back on the flagship of the Fleet, the responsibility of explaining the attack to the men of the Swordfish squadrons fell to the man who would be up there with them. In his cabin, James fiddled with the buttons on his uniform as the nerves crept upon on him. Glancing at the clock did not help matters, time ticking away until they would be over the skies of Taranto, ready to do their duty. He'd found time to write his letter to Erin the night before, the only time he'd had since the day he'd made David write his to Orla. If it was to be his time, which he dearly hoped it was not, then everything he needed to say to her was within the letter. Although there would always be some words that were better in person than on paper. He would not think about it though, as he'd also received added incentive in order to stay alive.
After Taranto, he would be going home.
During one of their meetings, Admiral Cunningham noted that the Captain was yet to return home to Derry since joining at the start of the war. When most of the men at his command had already returned to see their family at least once, the Admiral would not allow the Captain to go any longer without doing so. A small convoy would be heading back that Friday, stopping off at Gibraltar on its return to home waters. Having already spoken to the man who would be in command of the convoy, James's place was secured onboard one of the destroyers that would make a special stop in Derry just for him. No other man would get such an honour, as they would have to disembark wherever it was commanded that they do so, but for a hero such as James, exceptions could be made in the Admiral's eyes. He would be excused until the start of the new year, a lengthy break away from the front lines of the conflict. It would mean Christmas with Erin, just as they'd planned the year before until the call of duty prevented it. He would finally get to ask her to marry him.
There was just the small matter off attacking a harbour that was almost impenetrable, with ancient biplanes that did not belong in a modern theatre of war, standing in his way.
He was not alone with his thoughts for long though, as a knock on the cabin door revealed the presence of one of his officers. Lieutenant Lamb was present, with Barnes out in the corridor behind him waiting for the commanding officer to accompany them to the briefing room on the Illustrious. The briefing room was shared between the Navy and Air Arm contingent, but it was full of the latter that evening. Sharp-minded, the men of all of the squadrons involved were already suspicious that they were going to be taking part in a large operation. No man, other than David, confronted James on why he'd become so distant, but the thoughts passed between men were that he was distracted by the details of whatever operation they would be taking part in. None of the navy men appeared to know what was going on when questions regarding what was coming were put to them, which also told the aircrews that they would be the main focus of whatever it was. The officers did nothing to stop them though, as it was only as late as that morning that men such as Barnes and Lamb were made aware of what they were going to do.
"Are you ready, Sir?" Lamb asked.
"I am Charles". James confirmed with a smile. "Let us proceed".
Holding the door open for the Captain, Lamb flashed an appreciative smile to the Captain, with Barnes completing the same action from out in the hallway. The stress that was placed upon the man that was younger than both of them was evident. At twenty years old, no man would normally be expected to take command of an attack such as Taranto. It would be the job of older men, men who'd seen plenty of combat before to lead the line, not a youthful bank manager who resided in Northern Ireland.
After a short walk, they reached the briefing room. There was no time for any deep breaths or reflections. Eyeing the men from the doorway, James could see the anticipation in their eyes and would not delay telling them about the raid any longer. David was sat towards the back, well out of the way. He was the only man in the room that had known about it for any length of time, hiding it brilliantly. There was never a doubt that he could be trusted for James, but it was rewarding to know that his friend did not suffer from it. From what David told him only an hour or so earlier, when the men were told to meet in the briefing room for nine o'clock, they still did not suspect a thing about Taranto despite the previously held sentiments that a large operation would be mounted.
The men all stood to attention to receive the Captain. They were not just men from James' own 815 squadron; the 819, 813 and 824 squadrons were also present, the latter two having transferred over from HMS Eagle. The Eagle out of commission for the raid still, Illustrious would have to fly off every single Swordfish, just as James and Admiral Cunningham thought. For some, it was their first experience of an active mission with the young commanding officer, though his glowing reputation throughout the Fleet Air Arm was well known.
"Sit down, Gentlemen". He commanded.
A board was setup at the front of the room. It was blank, with nothing to tell the men of what they were about to be informed of. However, underneath the table to the side were maps. One map was of the whole of the Mediterranean, illustrated onto a brown canvas backing. The same design present for the second map, one that contained just the layout of Taranto harbour and the potential places where ships could be moored within. There were other targets that were marked too, storage depots and a seaplane base that were a little out of the way of the harbour, but well within the range of the Swordfish. Stood with him for the briefing, Lieutenant's Barnes and Lamb were present alongside Lieutenant Commander Hale of the 819, the official second in command for the operation. He'd been made aware of the raid only a week or so earlier, Admiral Cunningham ensuring that he would have full operational details should anything happen to James.
Retrieving the map of the Med from beneath the table, James pinned it onto the board with assistance from Barnes. He allowed the men to murmur for a moment, hoping to pick up a feel for the atmosphere of the briefing room before he started. His own men were mostly silent, trusting their commanding officer in whatever he was going to ask them to do. The majority of the whispers came from those men who'd served on the Eagle. Sweat was beginning to trickle off of his brow in the stuffy interior of the Illustrious, combining with his worries for the mission and the men's reaction for having to complete it.
"Thank you all for arriving on time…". James started. "… I apologise in keeping you from your beds at this hour, but I would hope that you would all appreciate why in a couple of moments".
Throwing out an icebreaker, there was a muted reaction around the room. Glancing around the men, his nerves continued to grow as none of them seemed to react in either a positive or negative way. The worst possible reaction, for him, was for them to not react at all. He could not understand their mood if they would not show any emotion, not until his saviour came in the form of a familiar Irishman. Giving him a friendly wink, in the middle of the Med they did exist, David gave James the encouragement that he needed to finally tell the men that they were about to go where no men had been before.
Turning to the map, James pointed to a spot just off the coast of Malta.
"This is where we currently are with the rest of the Fleet, holding our position that we have been for the past few hours".
Pausing once more, he took the briefest glance to the men, who still remained unmoved. What he was about to say would surely change that, he hoped.
"In the afternoon, we will move into a position here off the coast of Italy.". James pointed to the spot on the map that he'd agreed with Admiral Cunningham. "This is because, Gentleman, tomorrow night, our twenty four aircraft will attack the Italian Fleet in the harbour at Taranto, here".
Instantly, the atmosphere changed just as he'd expected it to. Eyes were wide across the room from men who would often be calm about any orders that they were given. What they were being given by the Captain was not an order however; it was a sentence for their own deaths. Enemy ports were hardly studied by the pilots, but every single pilot and crewman knew of Taranto. It was where the Italians kept their capital ships, the pride of their Fleet. They were all starting to think that the Captain was crazy.
James looked over to his Lieutenant's, who shared his concerned looks. They expected a barrage of questions to follow his statement, but the continued lack of them, unnerved both Barnes and Lamb. Lieutenant Commander Hale frowned back at him, his own indication of struggling to understand the thought process of the rest of the men.
Eventually, one of the men decided to break the silence, much to James' delight.
"With the greatest of respect, Sir…". Young Pilot Officer Parkin, uncharacteristically, spoke up first. "How are we going to do that in the dark?"
His question was a fair one, the one that James expected from one of the men. Any sane man would question the validity of committing an aerial assault at night, in clunky biplanes against the might of the Italian Fleet and the port defences that surrounded it. There were not many officers who would even consider asking their men to undertake such a task, but James was not one of those men. Taranto needed to be assaulted, the balance of power in the whole theatre required to swing to the British side rather than stay neutral. It was never going to be easy in doing so, but it was down to him to explain to men like Parkin that there was a way. At least a way they could succeed with some casualties. Not that he'd been telling them that half of them wouldn't be coming home…
The maps were changed over, the map of Taranto taking the place of the full one of the Med. Before explaining it to Parkin and the rest of them, he looked over to David. The Irishman was mostly silent as the men spoke to each other around him. When James went through the plan with him originally, he didn't quite know what to think of it himself. He would trust his best friend to keep them safe during the raid, but even he knew it would be a tall order to pull it off successfully. James might have been the best pilot in Britain, but he was not inhuman. There were so many factors that were out of the Englishman's hands, controllables that simply could not be controlled.
Positioning himself in front of the map, James made eye-contact with the men before explaining the intricacies of the plan.
"We will split into two groups. I will command the first wave and Lieutenant Commander Hale will command the second. Our main targets are the battleships that are out in the main part of the harbour, here. Aerial reconnaissance shows what we believe to be the battleships Littorio, Vittorio Veneto and Conte Di Cavour in the harbour, as well as several other cruisers and destroyers. We need to sink as many of these as we possibly can".
"Sir". One pilot called out from the back.
"Yes Forde". He replied.
"How are we to distinguish which one is which?"
The dark would be a massive problem for the Swordfish pilots. Their radars could guide them in, but with the Italians ships clustered so closely together, they would be of no further use when they were much closer. In James' opinion, the Italians would most likely panic upon seeing British aircraft within their harbour, forgetting to use the searchlights until much later. He was gambling on that being the case still, as they may not be as ill-disciplined as he assumed the presumably panicked men would be when confronted by the attacking Swordfish. That would leave them another source of light short, another element of the raid that would go against them. To distinguish the battleships, a more basic technique would have to be used.
"Use your head, Forde. If you see a bloody big ship, put a torpedo in it!"
A round of rapturous laughter filled the room, finally breaking the tension within it. Laughter proved to be the best medicine for the shellshocked men, who were brought back to earth by the wise comment made by the Captain. David found it particularly amusing too, shooting James a thumbs up to tell his friend that he'd hit the spot perfectly. A good chuckle was exactly what the men were looking for, after being told that they were almost being ordered to commit suicide. There would of course be flare droppers sent ahead too, their presence expected to be noted by the Italians but with flares dropped, it would make no difference anyway.
"That being said, gentlemen, we will not be restricting ourselves to torpedoes only. Each wave will have aircraft carrying regular bombs as well. If we can confuse the Italians enough with the bombs, then it will give those carrying the torpedoes more of a chance to release at the right time".
Splitting them up between those who would be carrying torpedoes and those who would be carrying bombs was already complete. For his and David's swordfish, two torpedoes would be strapped in place on the fuselage of the Swordfish. Leading from the front as usual, he left the bombing element of his wave to Lieutenant Lamb.
"The Italians will almost certainly have torpedo netting in place…". He started again. "… however, we have intercepted reports that they may be leaving the harbour the day after tomorrow and the netting should be partially removed. Either way, those of you dropping the torpedoes will need to ensure that you are close to the ships when you drop them, to avoid them being caught in the nets. For the spotters, you must keep your pilots aware of the distances to each ship. The radar may not be of use within the harbour, so you will have to use your judgement to measure the distances".
"We require a higher carrot ration to be able to see in the dark, Sir". One of the 813's crewmen piped up, to some sniggers.
"I cannot speak for all of you, but I know that my men in the 815 have trained extensively for such scenarios. Visual distancing is not impossible at night, especially when you should be able to see the flashes of the enemy guns firing at you".
Quickly quietening, the man pretended that he hadn't said anything. The ships themselves would of course be firing at the aircraft flying against them, their guns acting as involuntary spotters to the British pilots. Just as in Benghazi though, the Italian anti-aircraft crews would face a problem. A problem which James was more than happy to gleefully announce to his men, the goosebumps on his skin replaced with giddy excitement in his mind.
"Of course, as those of us who went to Benghazi are aware, the Italian guns cannot depress enough to hit us if we fly low enough. As long as those of you who have torpedoes stick to the waterline, you will be almost impossible to shoot down from the decks of the ships without them risking firing on their comrades".
"Should we attempt to add submarine to the Stringbag's adaptability range, Sir". One pilot called out.
Humouring each other appeared to be working in order to stabilise the room. Every single man present would be in the air the following evening, all of them worried by the thought of attacking a well defended harbour in their fabric covered biplanes. There was little in the way of hope that could be found when they were not in one of the modern bombers, though the Swordfish's ability to withstand damage was quite incredible at times. Under such intense strain though, it too was vulnerable.
"Perhaps on another evening we can try".
With the basic brief of the mission complete, James allowed the room to settle. It would not do so immediately, as the men wished to talk to each other about what they were being asked to do. He allowed it, knowing that they would wish to express their concerns to each other before going to him. His officers all spoke with each other too, but he deliberately avoided the conversation to be able to analyse the body language of his men. Watching them, a quiet confidence began to bubble inside him. He could hear that they worried, and they had every right to be, but they were not huffing about the order that was explained to them. No man was slouched, all of them alert, actively participating in discussions with each other. It was exactly what he wanted to see, the passion that he knew that his men could conjure at a moment's notice.
He still needed to make one more statement though, something to leave the men inspired by when they headed off to sleep that night. The mark of a brilliant commander was their ability to motivate the men who fought for them. He'd done so with great conviction in the past, but the question that was being asked of them when it came to Taranto, required James to be at his very best. The James Maguire that captured Erin Quinn's heart was needed.
"Gentlemen, we are going to be going where no men have ever been before. No one has ever attempted an attack like this… no one has ever even considered trying to eliminate a fleet in such circumstances. We can be history makers, men remembered forever as the brave British pilots that gave their country the power in the Med for good! We can be heroes! British Heroes!".
The passion in his voice caused it to bellow around the room. If they weren't aware before, all of them now knew how important destroying the Italian Fleet was.
Heroes they would be. To even think that it was possible was the most daring of dreams but to James there was some reality to it. The men before him were not failures. They were men who succeeded at every task they were asked to do, already damaging the Italians immensely in their short spell in the Mediterranean. The chance to eliminate the Italian Fleet's threat was in their hands, a place in the books of history guaranteed should they pull it off. There was also no other commander in the Fleet Air Arm better suited to the task than Captain James Maguire. No man held the same level of ability at the controls of an aircraft, whilst simultaneously keeping his men motivated and disciplined. Such an unconventional attack required his unconventional nature to accompany his individual brilliance. Most of the world's air forces would not stand any hope at all of even making it into the harbour. Britain could hope for much more.
"THREE CHEERS FOR THE CAPTAIN!"
David suddenly stood up from where he'd been sat quietly, contended to watch proceedings without saying much to anyone. His best friend was about to take the whole nation somewhere that man was yet to go before though, and the rest of the men needed to know what an inspiration James truly was. For a long time, he'd been more than just a friend to David, a hero already in the eyes of the Irishman. Every single man in the room soon made it clear that they shared the same thoughts.
"HIP HIP!"
"HURRAH!"
"HIP HIP!"
"HURRAH!"
"HIP HIP!"
"HURRAH!"
Cheers rang out throughout the room for the Captain. Unable to hide his delight, James joined in as men shook hands and embraced. It was a strange atmosphere, stranger than the tense one that had worried him earlier on that evening. A raucous briefing room was something rarely seen, but to the men of the Swordfish squadrons, they could not care what anyone else thought. They were being given a chance to become legendary figures in the history of a kingdom that contained so many already. They would be making the Charge of the Light Brigade look like a schoolyard exercise. All they had to do was survive.
But amidst the chaotic scenes, the cheering and jubilation, their commanding officer's mind would not let go of one particular thought. For all the confidence in the room, Taranto still remained one of the most well defended harbours in the world.
The briefing room would not be full when it came time to debrief.
The question was who wouldn't make the return journey…