Chapter 38: Taranto 11th November 1940
The dark grey lining of the roof of his cabin was the first sight that James would wake up to every morning. A dull scene when his eyes would first open, it offered a lifeless visual canvas for him to ease himself into every day aboard the Illustrious. Except that morning was not just any other day on the aircraft carrier. It was a day that he woke to in the hope that when he was back in his bed again, he would do so having pulled off the outrageous. The unthinkable task of crippling the Italian Fleet whilst it sat moored in the harbour of Taranto. The tallest of tall orders awaited him; it would never be a normal morning.
The first half hour of the day would be the only time he would spend alone. Waking later than usual at nine o'clock, he would be joining the men for breakfast at half past before a day of being with others, whether it be the Admiral, David or his own officers. To be able to have time to himself, time to think, was particularly important in the hectic days of the prior months. There was rarely any part of the day where he was not busying himself with something. The higher up the ranks he went, the more the level of depth was required in the paperwork he appeared to have to produce. Reports only got more detailed as he became Captain, having to report back on everything from missions to the amount of rations remaining in their stores. Conducting checks upon food, ammunition and the cleanliness of the men were all daily tasks that he had to fit in around any missions that he would play an active part in. The opening half hour of each day was often his favourite.
Silence was also welcome, silence which could only be found in his cabin. An aircraft carrier out at sea was a noisy beast, the crew constantly rushing around their stations whether they were engaged or not. Men would laugh merrily in the corridors when it was quiet and shout instructions to each other when it was not. It was only when the cabin door shut that any peace could truly be found. There was no radio for him to listen to any music on, nor was there any other form of entertainment other than a few of his own books. He'd already read all of them though and James was not a man who made a habit of revisiting work that he'd previously read. Unless it was Erin's. For Erin, he would read it over and over to marvel in the work's brilliance, that sadly only he believed in.
Inevitably, it was her that was on his mind from the moment he woke up. Erin was the last thing on his mind when he went to sleep the night before, making it logical that she would be there again when he woke. He would be seeing her again after Taranto, finally able to have her where he wanted; in his arms. The two of them would have weeks to pick up where they left off, hopefully becoming married in that time. She would not decline, his belief in her loyalty to him being almost certain, which would allow for a winter wedding that would have no expense spared. He would be able to afford anything that he wanted, not that he knew, for the wealth of James Maguire was almost unlimited. Almost.
What he could not predict, was whether he would survive to see her. There was added motivation to do so, knowing that being able to see her again was so close afterwards, but it did not distract from the raw truth that was the attack on Taranto. It was a suicidal attack that was to be made by men who were the most mentally strong in the whole theatre to even consider agreeing to what they were being asked. It was a debate that was held between the men; who was crazier, their commanders for suggesting such an attack or them for agreeing to do it. There was no good conclusion to the question, ones being drawn individually instead but them all coming to the realisation that whatever they thought, attacking Taranto was crazy. It wouldn't have been a problem if they'd gotten into the air before they found out, as they would only be slightly consciously aware of what they were going to be doing. Finding out well in advance only made it dwell on their minds more.
James could allow himself to dream. Dream that he would survive to return home later that week, to kiss Erin again when his lips were already far too dry from the lack of her taste. The missing piece of his heart would be returned to where it belonged. A man had to dream that he would survive to see the woman he loved again for if a man was not able to dream, then there was little to hold onto in a time of war. Shifting over in his bed, James reached into the pocket of the uniform that he would soon be donning, to hold onto something of his own. The photograph continued to fade around the edges, but Erin still shone brightly on it. He would soon be holding her like he was in the picture, protecting her closely as he wanted to for the rest of his life. Discovering the love of one's life was not always a given thing to do in a world where matchmaking was still very much present alongside finding genuine love. Erin was a match made in a special heaven for the Englishman though, a heaven which she ruled over as his Queen.
Placing a chaste kiss to the photograph, he held his lips over her photo as a lone tear streaked a path down his trembling cheek.
"I love you".
In his mind, the dark thoughts of what would happen if he did not make it back alive played out in his head. She would be devasted, crying for weeks upon weeks, his deviant mind told him, unable to forgive him for leaving her alone in the world. Isolating herself away from the rest of their family and friends, she would grow frailer until she could no longer move, dying as a thin, emotionally drained young woman broken in the best years of her life. Broken because he could not survive the attack on which he himself planned. The great mastermind of the raid on Taranto would be the mastermind of the demise of Erin Quinn. He could not allow himself to die… he would not allow himself. One way or another, he would see her again.
After a couple of minutes, two soulless minutes where the highest ranking officer of the Fleet Air Arm in the Med, cried over the woman that he loved, James raised himself from his bed. He would need to be in proper condition, meeting with Admiral Cunningham one final time later that morning before the Fleet moved into position. A shave came first, the light hairs that were around his chin and cheeks needing to be removed before he could set foot outside of the cabin. They were all trained to shave quickly, the job being done in a couple of minutes for the young Captain. In immaculate condition, he dressed himself just as rapidly into his full uniform. ready to sit down to breakfast with the men. They would all be out of their full uniform until afterwards, but to set the tone for his squadron, James would always wear his best whenever they ate together, something which he insisted his Lieutenant's did too. The manuals he'd studied so hard on with Bentley at Hendon were being put into action.
His usual morning routine was interrupted, however, by a knock on the door of his cabin. Frowning, he wondered who it might be as no man would normally disturb him before breakfast. The advantage of having breakfast with the men was that he could learn of their concerns as a group, dealing with them over breakfast rather than at any other point of the day. His cabin was always there to be knocked though, a point he'd stressed to them on many occasions and it appeared that finally one of them broke the normality.
"Come in". He called out.
One of the rare times he was not expecting him, it was David that knocked on the cabin door. The Irishman was dressed down as he'd thought the men would be, grinning away at his best friend's continued decision to wear a full uniform to breakfast. The men couldn't understand why, as if he spilt anything on it then it would have to be washed, which was hardly ideal. James was James though, as unconventional as ever.
"Yer lookin' well". David chuckled to him.
"An officer and a Gentleman, Leading Airman Donnelly". He replied in the poshest accent he could imagine.
"Why yes, fine Sir".
Bowing theatrically to him, David made the most of the situation to continue to mock his friend. James rolled his eyes at the theatrical nature of the movement, although he conceded in his own head that his answer inspired it. Their back and forth relaxed the mood of the cabin immediately, one which still held the shed tears of the man who slept in it.
"I was not expecting to see you". James said to him as he re-did a button on his shirt.
"Well I figured ye wouldn't get much time away today like and… well… I…".
"I know".
David's stuttered answer told the Englishman all that he needed to know. There was nothing wrong with his friend coming to him because of it… that was exactly what he wanted him to do. In thinking it there was no shame either, the thoughts being similar to the ones that he'd had that morning. The women that the two cherished, as well as the daughter that the Irishman loved dearly, would always be on their minds ahead of any mission. James might have been the best pilot in Britain, but he could not protect them against everything. There was always the danger of death no matter what they did in the Med. In attacking Taranto, that danger rose to unprecedented levels which in turn led to unprecedented thoughts of home.
"I… I just love her… Marie too…". David, whispering, took a seat at the end of James' bed.
"I love Erin too". James admitted, his lips curving up. "She's almost all that I have been thinking of aside of the mission".
Erin could not rule his mind entirely, but the majority of his focus was on her. A part of him had to not think of her though, his duties to the kingdom outweighing those of his duty to her. The commander of one of the most daring raids ever thought of could not afford to be distracted by the beautiful blonde that he loved dearly. Not completely anyway. However, the raid on Taranto could never replace her in his thoughts because time and time again, the thought of her would come back. That was love. It was the same for David too, Orla and Marie constantly fighting visions of what they would be doing that evening in his head.
"They'll be dead proud of us ye know, James". David began. "Orls would love to know that I'd played my part in somethin' like this, right in the thick of the action".
"She should be proud. You are brilliant at what you do".
Praise from James was not unknown to him, the sincerity always surprising him. James would argue to death that David was the best spotter come gunner that he could ask for, whether he was his best friend or not. The trust that existed between the two of them would have been just as strong had they not known each other before the war, each man understanding and appreciating the other's skillset. Without that trust, they would have never been able to achieve what they'd achieved in the Med, not even half as much. Many men were considered to be good pilots but lacked a crewman that they could trust behind them. That's what made the two of them the deadliest duo in Britain. Pure trust.
"She thinks we're cracker doin' what we do in the air".
"I suppose we are cracker".
Snorting at James using vocabulary that two years before he would have been thoroughly confused by, David smiled at his friend. James was as adaptable as the Swordfish when it came to learning the local customs of Derry. He'd fitted in seamlessly, being accepted cautiously by most even though he shouldn't have been, because he was English. It was just another string to the bow of the legend that was James Maguire.
"My Marie will grow up knowing that her Daddy was there too…". David grinned as his thoughts turned to his little girl. "She'll always think I'm a hero".
"You are a hero, David. To me, to Orla, to Erin, to everyone but no one more than Marie when she finds out. You can inspire her whole life by what we do tonight". James told him.
"I just hope I'm there to see her whole life".
Reflecting grimly on the evening, there was nothing to stop the melancholic outlook from entering either of their consciences. They were not men who would ignore the obvious dangers that the mission brought with it, and for David, there was a lot to lose. Many men were having to abandon their children to be able to fight for their country, the Irishman being another of those men. He'd not spent nearly enough time with her if it was to be his time, a regret that he would not be able to live down. He'd decided to return to James' side after all, though Orla played her part in convincing him. Missing a large part of Marie's early development already, he hoped for the end of the war as soon as it was feasible, not wishing to miss too much more of her life. Doing a brilliant job without him, Orla was the most beautiful and dependable wife that he could ask for, but she could not do it all alone forever. His family needed him. So did Britain though and above all, so did James.
"David, I promise you again, I will do everything that I can…".
"I know ye will James". He cut him off. "But ye can't help it if our luck changes or this feckin' harbour is even more defended than we thought. This time really could be our last…".
"Should I know the outcome already, I would tell you". James huffed quietly. "But you are right, my friend. There is a chance that we could die tonight… but we might not too. It might be our finest hour".
They'd had many good hours in the air for the Fleet Air Arm, but Taranto would be the crowning glory if they could return to the Illustrious having pulled it off. Putting the Italians on the backfoot, even if it did not destroy all of their capital ships, would be a success far beyond the wildest dreams of the Admiral or those back in London. Their very finest hour it would be, one of the finest that the kingdom would ever see. They just had to do it and live to tell the tale.
"I cried earlier".
James' admission came out of the blue for both men. Admitting to David that he'd been forced into tears wasn't his plan, but as his best friend began to be lost in fear, it was only right that the Englishman shared his own.
"Ye did?" David nervously enquired to see if he'd heard correctly.
"Yes. I cried because I too have thought of not being there for Erin. We have had so little time together, but I want to spend the rest of my life with her. Yet here I am the unfortunate man who may only have a few hours of that life left and she is not in them".
David should have known that he would too. He chastised himself in his head, clouded by his own worries for Orla and Marie, that he'd overlooked that James would be concerned when it came to Erin. Erin was not as strong as Orla mentally, David knew, despite on paper Erin being far superior when it came to academia. Mental resilience was another matter, one where the blonde cousin would lose out, frigid and fragile in comparison.
"She'd be proud of ye too, ye know, probably more than Orla is of me". David attempted to cheer him up in return.
"I doubt that". James laughed.
"I don't!" The Irishman stoutly stood his ground. "She cares so much about you James, Christ I've told ye as much from when I've been back home. I thought people were devoted to God, like, but I tell ye James, Erin is devoted to ye, so she is. I don't think there is, and ever will be, a prouder woman in all of Ireland than her".
Out of natural instinct, or fear or whatever energy that the two would care to name it, they came together in an embrace. Men of honour and duty, men who were willing to risk everything, were still gentle beings. Emotions were still held by those who were having to kill during wartime, quieter moments allowing them to reflect on the lives they'd taken and the ones that they were to take. To have another man there to listen to them was not something every man could count on, especially for an officer of James' rank. He was not meant to show any emotion whatsoever, for if he could not remain composed then his men stood no chance. His upper lip was stiffer than the landing deck of the carrier; it had to be. But with David, the lower lip could be allowed to shake, the upper one relaxing as the emotional overload poured out. The pair of them were crying once more as they continued to hug, neither wishing to let go of the other.
Eventually, the need for them to make it to breakfast took over. Pulling away from each other, they shared a knowing look of thanks for the gesture that was shared between them. Both took turns by James' mirror to clear their eyes. It would be improper of James to leave any sign of emotion in his eyes before he went to the men and David would endure severe ribbing if any of them saw he'd been crying. Although unbeknownst to the two of them, a lot of the men had cried throughout the night. Whilst they were outwardly confident when up and around each other, in the dark spaces of the Illustrious their worries would be overwhelming.
"Ye know, in a way I hope we don't survive…".
David's odd comment prompted James to freeze, his hand stopped above his cap which he was about to pick up and place upon his head.
"Why is that?" He queried.
"Well, I do worry that if we make the papers, Erin's goin' to make a poem or somethin' out of our work and by Christ that would devalue our achievements, so it would".
A casualty of many a moment that would require humour, James could only sigh loudly when David decided to mention his love's poetry. The poetry that made him smile but everyone else boke, it at least lifted David's spirits when his friend pointed out his opinions on it. To James though, there would no greater honour than to have Erin write a poem about what they would achieve, should they do so. She would find perfect words that would fill his ears with joy, words that he could become lost to as they grew old together, a family of their own having been created. It all came down to one thing.
The ability to survive.
"Always the poetry…".
"What James?" David sniggered. "Ye might be a brilliant pilot but yer a terrible judge of poetry, so you are".
"Or the rest of you are?" James defended her.
"Are you sayin' that yer Michelle is wrong? Now that's more suicidal than what we're doin' later…".
Shaking his head in disbelief, James could only bring himself to laugh. Questioning Michelle's opinions was not a battle that he would engage in lightly. It was a battle that he could not win, unlike Taranto which he could. David's influence on his mood was evident again, the two stepping out into the hallway of the cabin far more refreshed than when either of them woke. The young Captain enjoyed his last moments of freedom with his best friend as they stood, aware that beyond the hallway that they were in, the most important event of their lives was waiting. The corridor was somehow incomprehensibly shorter than it usually was in the minds of the two brave young men.
"This is it. Taranto". James spoke first.
"Aye". David responded, scratching the back of his neck. "The most feckin' crazy plan any Brit has ever come up with, to be commanded by the best Brit of the lot".
Modest as ever, James could feel himself blushing at the compliment. He knew he was good, he'd proven it time and time again, but the best Brit of all he was not. That honour fell to others within the country.
"But one that might just work…".
Relentless optimism was the only way forward. For the rest of the day, they would follow a strict plan, mostly preparing and conducting a final briefing before that evening. The Fleet moved into position as the day went on, coming away from where they were sat off of the coast of Malta, towards the agreed co-ordinates off of the coast of Italy. Every mealtime was regimental, times adhered to strictly to avoid them falling behind at any moment. The exact level of detail that the two men who'd finalised the raid, James and Admiral Cunningham, planned out weeks before. Nothing was spared when it came to the time, as it was critical to strike Taranto at the correct moment, somewhere around eleven o'clock that evening.
The balance of power in the Mediterranean was about to be put to the test. In one unexpected blow, Britain was throwing the best pilot it possessed at the Italian Fleet, sat comfortably in the port of Taranto, to attempt to swing it in their favour.
One of the most important evenings of the war was about to start…
On the deck of the HMS Illustrious, there were a flurry of activities taking place. The time was just before nine o'clock, the darkness around them only illuminated by the lights on the deck. The Fleet Air Arm's daring attack on Taranto was already underway, the first couple of Swordfish having taken off successfully. They were the Flare droppers, the men that would illuminate the harbour the best that they could before the attacking waves got underway. The flare droppers carried bombs too, to be dropped on the oil storage depots and sea plane hangars that were out of the way of the main harbour. It gave the rest of them a chance if they could see just the outlines of the capital ships that they were being asked to sink.
Admiral Cunningham watched on from the HMS Warspite, his eyes fixed on the aircraft that were moving around the deck in a carousel-like way. Not all of the aircraft could be out on the landing deck at one time, with those in the later wave still waiting their turn on the hangar deck below. The pilots were all up on the landing deck though, waiting with their spotter for the aircraft that would take them to the raid. As ever for the British Mediterranean Fleet, the final few hours before taking off were not straightforward. Two of the Swordfish that came from Eagle were discovered to have contaminated fuel tanks, putting them out of the raid to leave the number of attacking aircraft at twenty two. It was another setback but not the costliest to the Fleet Air Arm when compared to the loss of Eagle in the operation. Four men's lives would be safe when they were previously not, which would only be a positive in the long term.
The third aircraft ready to depart that evening was the most important one of them all. The Stringbag that belonged to the young twenty year old Captain, thrust into the responsibility of leading the daring attack. Captain James Maguire and Leading Airman David Donnelly were sat strapped in place, waiting for the signal from further up the deck to allow them to depart. The navy men were doing a brilliant job of making sure that the take offs were done smoothly, as well as the taxiing. Their directions were key to ensuring that there were no accidents, as well as picking the right moments when the wind was favourable. Although it did not matter whether there was wind or not when it came to the Swordfish, it would make it easier for the pilots if there was. Luckily, the wind was more than favourable for their nocturnal assault.
The man with the lights towards the opposite end of the landing deck signalled for James to begin. Bolting as quickly as he could, the navy crewman made way to give James the full length and space of the landing deck to take off. He would not always need the full length, being skilful enough to get the biplane off the deck well before the drop into the Med. There was a distinct chill in the air that night, which would make for an uninviting swim should any of them fail to become airborne in that time. James managed it easily enough though, soon climbing up towards the cloud line. The clouds were thin that night, the two of them soon up into the lower echelons of it. They would fly on their agreed course, but at a slower speed so that the rest of the squadron could join up in formation.
For the next thirty five minutes, there was silence in the cockpit as James listened to the reports of successful take offs on the radio. David knew not to disturb him, as there was far too much going on for them to settle into their usual banterous back and forth. That time evaporated the moment they'd left James' cabin that morning, with the Irishman not seeing his best friend for some time after breakfast. A meeting on Warspite with Admiral Cunningham was where the Englishman headed to after they'd all finished eating, which lasted until after midday. Once he was back aboard the Illustrious, James went for a quick lunch alone as the rest of the men ate theirs. It was not much of a meal, rationing being what it was, but it was enough for all of them. The two did not see each other again until mid-afternoon when David joined his commanding officer for a final check of their own aircraft. They'd not spoken then either, other than with words that were required to complete the checks. Concentrating, James did not have the time then to discuss Erin, Orla or Marie, nor did he have the time to show his emotions. Taranto was the only thought running through the Englishman's head, the closer that it got to take off.
Once again, problems were encountered. Unforeseen problems appeared to be slighting the carefully laid plans at every turn. Despite the taxiing being marshalled expertly by the Navy men, there was an incident as one Swordfish took off, clipping the wing of another that happened to be taxiing at the time on the way past. Repairs were required according to the radio report, though the damage was not extensive enough to keep the Swordfish from participating in the raid directly. It would mean one less man on time for the raid, but crucially the aircraft would still make it to the Port of Taranto at some point that night. All of the men of the first wave were in the air, the last of them finally joining up with their commanding officer as the coast of Italy began to loom on the horizon. A horizon which they could see little of in the dark Mediterranean sky.
"This is Squadron leader to all units, confirm position held, over". James called out on the radio.
"Red One to Squadron leader, confirmed, over!". Barnes replied first.
"Blue One to Squadron leader, confirmed, over!" Lamb second.
"Red Two…".
One by one, the men of the first wave confirmed whether they were in position or not. There were twelve aircraft, including their own, in the first wave. Ahead of them the flare droppers were only around a few minutes in front, but it would be a very long time for the two aircraft dropping the flares. The likelihood of them being able to slip into the harbour undetected was low, the advantage eliminated when the flares would be dropped anyway. Two aircraft were at a disadvantage against the anti-aircraft fire in comparison to twelve. The twelve could dodge and weave their way through the flak, whereas the two would have to take every evasive manoeuvre they'd ever learned to be able to counter the relentless pounding.
But just as with everything else during the leadup to the raid, another element went against the young Captain. One of the aircraft, one of the latter ones to take off from the first wave, became lost in the thin soupy clouds over the Med that night. The pilot, a man by the name of Swayne, answered the radio call in a very confused tone. Unable to understand how he was so far off course, he couldn't explain it to the commanding officer. A frustrated James did not show it openly, instead advising the man to slow down when he quickly realised where he was upon giving co-ordinates. He was far too close to the Italian coast already, only a couple of miles out from being in range of the Italian anti-aircraft batteries along the coastline to the west of Taranto.
The closer they got to the Italian coastline, the more that the nerves of each man began to waver slightly. Confidence was key to the success of the attack but there was precious little of it that could be honestly held when they knew what lay ahead of them. Back onboard the ship there was always the thought that it might be cancelled at the last minute or the Italians might have moved their Fleet already so that it was out in the open water, away from the masses of anti-aircraft batteries around Taranto. As soon as they were all in the air though, every man knew that there was no escape. They would be attacking Taranto that night without question. James requested little chatter on the radio, but even without the order, there would have been hardly any. Outside of reporting in any difficulties or any enemy activity, no man could think of anything to say. All they needed to do was survive, though both men of the lead aircraft knew that half of them would most likely not. Splitting into their separate waves, those with bombs in one pack and those with torpedoes in another, final orders were handed out down the radio.
"Squadron leader to all units…".
Pausing for ten seconds, James found the composure to be able to say what he'd planned to when they'd gotten to the position that they were in. Words that he wished Erin could have been there to write, as she would have done better than him. A final shot of inspiration before the reckless but beautiful attack would commence.
"Gentleman, I can only wish you good luck and godspeed. Remember, the history books are waiting to be written about this day, make sure our names are in them!"
The rapturous cheering that occurred in the briefing room of the Illustrious would not be repeated, but sufficient inspiration rang through the ears of each pilot. His speech was that loud that all of the crewmen in the rear positions heard it too. Spurred on by their commanding officer, the confidence returned again. Taranto was playing havoc with the emotions of the Swordfish crews, from confidence to fear and back again within the space of a couple of hours. The clouds were thinning out even more and the odd stray light could be seen in the distance. The lights of the harbour of Taranto. Most were out but into the dark night the candles still burned brightly. Descending through the clouds, the Swordfish were soon coming towards their optimal height for an attack. A height which would see them enter as low as the waterline to pounce upon their targets.
"Feckin' hell, it's cold!"
David called out down the radio, for the first-time that night breaking formalities. They were only minutes away from Taranto now, ready in position to deliver the knockout blow which the chain of command wished to strike. For a man who complained about the heat of Alexandria, it was the crisp night temperature of the skies over the Taranto Gulf that troubled him. With no protection from the cold in the metal tubed, open-top biplanes, they were exposed to the harsh night. Wrapped up in a couple of layers of coats, it still made little difference to the teeth chattering freezing sensation that crept over them.
"I thought you'd have enjoyed it that way". James chuckled in return.
"I don't mind it being colder, but by Christ, that is too much!"
"It'll be warm enough soon, my friend". The Englishman observed. "The heat of those AA shells flying past you will warm you up".
"I'm sure they will!"
If the Anti-Aircraft fire got that close, he'd be sweating out of fear too. The pair of them were not unused to seeing shells fly past them, some even striking the fabric covered biplane. Over France they'd even been faced by tank shells, which were even scarier than the Anti-Aircraft guns when rifled out from their guns. Sweating he already was though, David's nerves still not quite settled despite James's magnificent words. His mind turned to Orla and Marie again, the very final time it could do so before they were in the harbour. The plan would see them in there for no more than ten or fifteen minutes, two torpedo runs seeing one torpedo released on each run. James had already notified him that they would be focusing on the capital ships; leading from the front, the commander wished to sink the finest that the Italians would offer. Orla would love to see it herself, he knew, as she'd find all of the action fascinating in her wonderfully different mind.
He was not the only one. The whole raid was dependent upon him, but even the man in charge of executing it could allow himself a moment of thought. Whatever she was up to, he hoped that Erin was settled somewhere comfortably, not thinking too much about him. The details of Taranto would not be known to her of course, but he still hoped that she was able to find solace in something other than the thought of him. Especially when he knew he may not return from conducting the attack. She would have to learn to live without him if that were the case, but he desperately hoped that it would not be so. He was not the master of luck though, reliant upon luck falling his way rather than it running out.
Up ahead, the flares were about to be dropped. The two flare droppers were no longer five minutes ahead but less than two. They'd slowed down, worried that they were too far ahead for the attack to be a success once the flares were dropped. Approaching on a course from the south-eastern side of the harbour, they were not directly over it, instead flying low over the houses around it rather than going in across the waterline. For the flares to be dropped successfully where they need to be, it was not ideal for them to approach across the water, instead needing to be at higher elevation slightly inland to make it work. The Italians first spotted them a little way out from the city itself. Manning their guns immediately, it appeared that the Italians were learning after the terrible defence of Benghazi. They would not be able stop the Swordfish from getting into the harbour, but their accuracy ensured that it would not be pleasant for the crews. The two Stringbags were raked with fire, exposed as a pairing, though it did not stop their flare droppers from completing their job. With the flares dropped, they would be off to focus on the alternative targets of the oil depot and sea plane base.
The Italians continued to pound the two aircraft, but the crews that went to their anti-aircraft guns aboard the capital ships soon found another threat. The greatest threat to their lives was streaking in over the waterline to attack them, the best pilot that Britain could throw at the Italian Fleet in order to destroy it.
Captain James Maguire was once again approaching an Italian-held harbour with the intentions to sink their ships. The first wave's torpedo bombers spread out across the wide harbour to try to draw the fire from the guns into smaller clusters. The Italians followed them in doing exactly that, however the improved accuracy made the action favour them just as much. He led the wave in, anticipating the anti-aircraft to hit them almost straightaway, leaving little time for anything to be said. Timing it to perfection though, David made sure he got his word in before it would be drowned out by the sound of guns firing.
"Jesus Christ! That is some fuckin' light show!"
Initial fears of a lack of visibility when they entered the harbour were gone. The bright lights of the firing guns lit the whole harbour up, making it appear as if there were guns every few metres along the piers that were trying to bring them down. The truth was not that far off, there were indeed hundreds of guns blazing back at them which made for quite the extravagant show of light. Unlike in Benghazi, where a smattering of guns provided only light resistance, heavy resistance was being shown from the defenders of Taranto. They would not get caught out like the men on the opposite side of the Med had been.
The first shots from the Anti-Aircraft fire were amongst the most accurate the two had ever seen. Some of the shells whizzed past them, the Irishman feeling the heat of one almost burning a hole in the side of his cheek. It crept through the metal struts, narrowly missing making contact with him. The shell got close but some of the others even hit them. Even the best pilot in Britain couldn't avoid every shell and the fabric structure of the Swordfish was being tested once again when it came to absorption. The crews of the first ship that they were close to were responsible for the opening shots that were lodged into the side of their aircraft. The ship was a destroyer, similar to the Borea that they'd sank in the Benghazi harbour albeit with a far better crew who could utilise the anti-aircraft guns properly. As good as they were though, they were never going to shoot down Britain's deadliest weapon.
Wheeling around to the side of the destroyer, the ships guns fell silent as the crews realised what would happen if they fired again. They would almost likely hit the deck of their own ship, doing the job that the Swordfish were sent in to do for them. It took skill to attempt the move, with another capital ship laying only a few hundred metres away, in close to the harbour wall. Luckily, James had the skill to be able to do so, though it meant the left side of the aircraft remained exposed against the coastal batteries. Slamming into the Swordfish's side, the shells ripped into the fabric covering, one shot clanging against one of the metal struts without it exploding.
"CHRIST!" David shouted as he tried to keep himself as far to the right of the aircraft as he could.
"We're fine, David!" James called back.
A questionable statement in the eyes of the Irishman, his best friend from England was more than content with their position following the first salvos from the Italians. They'd not been hit too heavily considering the full force of the harbour defences were firing upon them. His men were also receiving fire from the batteries, many of their aircraft suffering similar damage to his. None of them were being hit enough to be brought down, their low height from sitting on the waterline enabling that to be the case, but were being damaged enough to frighten the men at the controls. James was undeterred though, providing another masterclass of aviation as he suddenly changed course. The capital ship Conte Di Cavour was lined up ahead of him, but he did not wish to launch his torpedo at the bow. He wanted to put the torpedo into the side of the battleship, to strike right at the heart of the superstructure.
The new course that he was setting them on was one which made David jump out of his skin. Between the destroyer that fired upon them first, Fulmine and another destroyer alongside it, Lampo, there was a gap. The gap was not a tiny one, but it was one which no sane man would attempt to send a biplane down when attacking an entire fleet. James was a sane man who would not normally take such risks, yet on a night for heroes, he was abandoning his principles. Not many other men could have made the decision with even fewer likely able to pull if off. When it came to him though, there was no doubt that he could. It still did not go down well with his spotter though…
"JAMES!" David warned.
"Relax David!" He called down the radio. "They can't fire at us, because if they miss, they'll shoot each other!"
Calming himself down, David suddenly realised the genius of his best friend's plan. The Italian anti-aircraft gunners would have them in their sights, but should those sights be off, they ran the risk of killing their own men on the ship opposite. As they descended through the gap, James's theory paid off. The guns of Fulmine and Lampo fell silent for a few seconds to allow the Swordfish through. It did not travel at any speed at all compared to the fighters that the Italian crews were used to dealing with. It should have made them a far easier target to hit but the initial bafflement for the anti-aircraft crews was enough to ensure that none of them were able to land a tangible blow as the Swordfish exited the path of their guns.
"How the f…".
"Concentrate, David!" James reminded him strongly. "I need you to guide me in!"
Snapping back at his friend's words, the Irishman's focus returned instantly. Before they could line up again on the Conte Di Cavour, there was the small matter of turning to face its port side. To do so, James banked hard to the left, though not too hard to avoid catching his wingtip on the water. They were that low that any sudden banking could cause the wingtip to strike the waterline, which would pitch their plane over into the shallow harbour without any chance for him to retrieve it. The turn was conducted so soon to avoid the barrage balloons that the later reconnaissance detected. In the heat of the battle, it was fortunate that they knew of the obstacles that would be in their way when having to turn so sharply. The turn was done brilliantly, leaving them directly in the path of the Conte Di Cavour, with only the fire from Lampo to be concerned about with them being just out of the reach of the onshore batteries.
On the starboard side of the Italian battleship, one of the other pilots was approaching. The Conte Di Cavour's gunners were divided; some were firing off to the starboard side whilst the others were beginning to pour fire onto the port side aircraft that contained James and David. The pilot was confident on the port side but was badly unnerved by the consistent fire coming from the battleship. Machine guns began to join in as he got closer, which was the final straw for the man undone by the wall of bullets and explosives that he faced. Releasing his torpedo far too early, he watched as nothing appeared to happen. His spotter could not see any tracks, though the lack of a consistent light source did not make it an easy task to start with. The reality was that the torpedo became caught in the nets around the battleship, preventing it from reaching its target. It would have to be unpicked at a later date, not exploding at all when contact was made with the nets. The pilot was quick enough to pull away though, banking hard to the right to put him on course with the Fulmine, whose crews began to fire upon the new target. Wherever the Swordfish pilots would turn their aircraft, they would be met with a hail of gunfire and explosions.
The men aboard the Conte Di Cavour had witnessed the failure of one Swordfish but were about to be faced with the nightmare of the second challenger. A nightmare which none of them knew that they were in, just like the crew of the Borea a couple of months before them. The Swordfish that they were facing was piloted by a young man that held such a coveted reputation on his side, that no commander in Britain could guarantee the loyalty of the men at their command as much as he could. A twenty year old with the responsibility of a man over twice of his age, but with an amazing brain and incredible ability at the controls of an aircraft. Behind him was his spotter, the best that he could ever ask for. The deadly duo of Maguire and Donnelly were facing up to an Italian ship again. There was only ever going to be one winner.
Over a thousand metres separated them from the guns of the Conte Di Cavour. However, James made sure that they held the advantage. David could have reached out and touched the water they were so low, the Italian Anti-Aircraft guns unable to depress low enough to score any hits on the Swordfish. The torpedo could be thrown into the sea by David should the mechanism fail, as there was plenty of time to release it. The Lampo's crews were firing at them from their western side but they were failing in their accuracy, missing wildly as they advanced upon the battleship. The guns inland still could not find the aircraft at their range, to the attackers' advantage. Defending the Conte Di Cavour would be down to the men onboard, who could not fire back either. It was a sitting duck against Britain's obsolete torpedo bomber.
"Yer lookin' good James!" David radioed him from the rear seat. "Just keep her on track and we'll release a few hundred metres from the Conte".
With his friend's instructions in his ears, James kept the Swordfish steady. The Lampo's wild shooting was a distraction that he refused to allow into his mind, where only the calculations of the probability of the torpedo striking the battleship were allowed to roam. Chances high, all he needed to do was follow David's instructions and the Italian ship was done for.
"Nine hundred metres, keep her steady". David instructed again.
As steady as he could keep the aircraft, James could feel sweat rushing out from all over his body. It might have been a bitterly cold night over the coast of southern Italy but he was warmer than he'd been for a long time as the distance to the Conte Di Cavour minimised. The machine guns began to open up from the battleship as he passed through eight hundred metres, clanging off the metal struts as the first bullets began to strike the aircraft. In the dark though, the aiming was awful, with only some material damage to the Swordfish where the potential for them both to be hit by the bullets should have been high. The crew of the Conte Di Cavour were beginning to panic as everything that they threw at the old biplane was seemingly not enough.
"Seven hundred metres!"
David's voice was the only sound that filled James' ears. It was the exact same as the attack on the Panzer division in France, every other sound being drowned out as David's voice took over. Achieving a focus that no other man could ever dream of attaining, the outcome was already decided before he'd released the torpedo. The Conte Di Cavour was going to be sinking in the shallow harbour that evening.
"Six hundred metres!"
James's thumb came to rest over the button that would release their payload into the sea. His eyes were fixed forward at the Conte Di Cavour as calculations ran through his head. He would have to climb rapidly to clear the battleship, with only a few hundred metres to do so. It would leave them exposed to the heavy anti-aircraft guns as well as the machine guns, though not for long. A second attack run would then be possible once they were away, their other torpedo ready to be launched at whichever the second unlucky battleship would be.
"Release!"
David gave the order for once, James following it. His thumb pressed down on the button, with the Irishman watching over the side as the torpedo came away from where it was held in place, entering the water below them. As soon as the torpedo was unleashed, James began to pull the aircraft up. Immediately the pair of them were exposed to the hail of fire that the patient gunners on the Conte Di Cavour had been waiting for, training all of their guns on the lone Swordfish attacking from the port side.
Listening for the sound of an explosion from beneath them, having cleared the battleship with ease, the two were instead greeted with another sound. There was deafening noise all across the harbour, a further explosion in the distance signalling a successful hit. The ship in question, the Littorio, was another battleship of the Italian Fleet. It was set upon by two Swordfish, both of them hitting the Italian ship, torpedo's striking the bow and stern. It was never going to survive unharmed when the first torpedo struck the bow, but the second in the stern finished the job off. A third torpedo came to settle too, once again in the bow, leaving the ship to begin the slow process of sinking into the shallow seabed. The two men could not hear the triumph, hearing a sound which was one that the pilot did not want to hear. James heard it as the anti aircraft fire struck the rear left side of the Swordfish, sending it jolting to the right, completely in the wrong direction to where he wanted to go.
"David, are we hit badly?" He asked.
There was no response from his best friend. Not after one second or after ten. The Irishman was silent behind him. Fighting with the controls of the aircraft just to keep them airborne, he could only turn far enough to assess the damage they'd received. The whole left side of the aircraft was obliterated, the metal struts bent in on themselves from where the heavy shot landed. There was no explosion as such from it, the shell passing straight through the aircraft without doing so. Machine guns holes were visible in the scant light over the harbour, the Englishman noting how the fabric was completely covered in them. What he could not see was David. He couldn't hear him either, the sound of the guns masking the sound of his friend, he assumed. Except David wasn't making a noise at all. He'd not made a reply on the radio despite being asked to. James could not turn round fully to see if he was alright either, his focusing having to be on the small panels that allowed him to calculate how they could make it back to the Illustrious with such damage.
Before he could finalise the equation, David finally radioed in.
"W-w… we're h-hit…" He choked out. "I-I'm h-hit b-… hit b-badly too".
A worst nightmare revealed itself. Abandoning the controls of the aircraft for a brief second, James turned round to see what the damage really was. Not to the aircraft, it was repairable, but to his best friend. David was not a machine that could simply be repaired with spare parts whilst spending a few months away from active service. He was a man, and above all, his best friend. Confirming that the despicable sounds that the young Englishman could hear from behind him were in part ones that struck him, David's voice appeared to have already been drained of all of its usual energetic verve. The very essence of life that made him stand out from the crowd to be the great man that he was, the husband that Orla found herself lucky to have, evaporated.
The wheel of fate was a cruel mistress.
The mistress span in the direction of the Irishman that night, in the skies overlooking a scene of triumph and chaos. Fate that showed itself by the haunting flashes of blood that the Englishman could make out as the sky around them lit up with fire. The blood was seeping out from all across the chest of his best friend, though he could see none of it. He could not afford to investigate the wounds either, as the need to regain control of the aircraft outweighed his concern for David.
"GOOD LORD!" He shouted. "HANG ON DAVID!".
Cursing himself for letting go for even a few seconds, the young pilot was thrown straight into a battle that he could not win with the Swordfish. The jolt to the right was beginning to be turned into a full turn to the right, which was the opposite direction in which he wanted to go. The plan was to go for one of the other battleships in the harbour, perhaps even delivering the final coup de grâce to the Littorio as the ship made its way to the bottom of the harbour. Instead, he was wrestling his Stringbag with every fibre of muscle in his body, asking it to obey him again. The aircraft could not be controlled like an enlisted man however, especially when the whole left-hand side was a shredded mess of twisted metal and burnt fabric, covered with the blood of David Donnelly. The anti-aircraft guns inland, that were silent whilst they were out of range, began to open up as they drifted closer to the shore. An unfriendly addition to contend with made for an even more difficult task for the man considered Britain's best.
BOOM!
Relegated to an afterthought, the explosion that they'd waited for, sounded behind the stricken aircraft. The Conte Di Cavour's crew knew there was no escape when they spotted the torpedo streaking towards them. The Captain of the ship still tried to steer them clear to the best of his ability, but his ability was no match for the two men responsible for launching the weapon at his ship. Under the waterline, the torpedo blew a hole in the side of the ship, shaking it to the core as it lurched from the power of the explosion. Thankfully for the Italians, none of their men were killed but another one of their prize battleships was in trouble. The Conte Di Cavour was only going to end up in one place; the seabed alongside the Littorio. The Captain of the battleship was soon on the radio to request assistance, but the terrified commanders were reluctant to do so. The Swordfish of the Fleet Air Arm were wreaking merry hell across the water front, tearing into the mighty Italian Fleet without fear or remorse.
The successful attack that was planned for was being executed to perfection, but to the man that helped to plan it, it was an attack too far. The Swordfish of Captain Maguire was back under the control of the pilot, but out of his control was the loss of blood that his best friend was facing behind him. David could utter no further words after confirming that he was hit, slumping down into the rear seat with no energy remaining to keep him upright. In the dark night where the frost did bite, the machine guns crunched down harder. Very much conscious despite the wounds, the Irishman did not want to guess how many times he'd been hit. When the whole of the left side was caved in beside him, he hadn't quite realised at first that he'd not been spared from it either. A synchronised targeting by the anti-aircraft crews and machine gunners became his undoing. Whilst the anti-aircraft guns dealt with the structure of the aircraft, it was the Breda machine guns used by the Regia Marina's crew aboard the now sinking Conte Di Cavour that ripped into David's chest. The two layers of coats were not enough against the eight millimetre rounds fired from the deck of the battleship.
Whilst the Irishman lay almost lifeless in the rear seat, James carried enough energy for them both in the cockpit. Fighting against the Swordfish's controls still, the Englishman was coming up against a new feeling that he'd never allowed to creep up on him before.
Loss.
He was losing.
"COME ON!" He roared into the dark.
As the shells from the anti-aircraft batteries inland exploded all around them to make the most picturesque firework show in the Italian sky that night, James discovered a monumental failure that even he could not correct. The damage to the left side was preventing him from steering the Swordfish in the same direction, which only left the options of going straight on to face the heart of the port's defences, or to the right where the houses of the city lay in his view. All he could confirm in his own mind as he battled the aircraft, was that they wouldn't be returning to the Illustrious that night with the rest of the airmen. No revelry from the great victory they'd taken would occur for either of them. The pair of them were almost certainly going to die, one way or another.
"Squadron leader to Red One, over!"
Attempting to radio Lieutenant Barnes, there was no reply from the man. Desperately, James tried again, but once more he could not hear anything but the feint cutting noises of an attempted reply. His Lieutenant could have been dead in the harbour himself for all he knew, a loss that he regretted for the brief second that it came into his head. It was not a thought that the Captain could dwell upon though; he had to try get them away from the water safely. There was no way that they would be in safe hands that night, but capture would be better than a watery death in the chilly Mediterranean Sea.
"David!" He called out to his friend down the radio.
"Ug… ughhhh… J… James…".
Just about able to muster a reply, David's breathing was irregular and raspy. Safety was slipping away from them but so too was his life. He did not dare look down at the mess that his chest was in, sickly ruby blotches scrunched up in layers of torn fabric from his coats where the machine gun bullets entered. Where the blood seeped out of him, he pictured Orla's head resting there instead. Happier times when they were together, the valentine's day where they made love in the peace and harmony of the empty Donnelly house. She'd rested her head on his chest that evening as he stroked her bareback, the two cuddled in closely together after showing each other just how love they shared. Her lean body was a beautiful image to contrast against the unpleasant backdrop that surrounded him on all sides.
"We are going to be alright, David". James tried to reassure him. "Just fine my friend".
Lying through his teeth was never something that the Englishman enjoyed, but he was completely stripped off all other viable options. He'd glanced around again to notice the blood all over his best friend, knowing that he was facing a race against time to save his life. If he could get the Swordfish to safety, then he could remove David from the aircraft where he could see his wounds better. With there being no medical equipment within the fabric covered plane, it would be down to the Englishman to stop the bleeding once they were out. If he could stop it, then a doctor could be summoned upon their capture. Providing that the doctor was not a sadist, then he would do everything that he could to save David's life, James knew. He would at least be spared from a prisoner of war camp for months whilst he covered, though it would almost certainly see them being separated, perhaps forever. Another sacrifice was being made by James, but it was done easily because if he knew that David would one day be with Orla and Marie again, then he would face whatever was to come for him with part of his heart still intact.
To the right, the flash of the firing anti-aircraft guns illuminated an open field just beyond where the houses shrank away from the seafront. Fields would often be mined in wartime, but the Italians were not expecting an invasion on their mainland at all. A split-second judgement was made by the Englishman. Chancing that they would be as careless as they'd been with the torpedo nets in the harbour, he angled further to the right to line himself up with where the field appeared to be. There was no guarantee that it was even clear of objects other than mines that could halt them, but it was worth the risk. Everything was worth the risk; there were no alternatives, not anymore. The best pilot in Britain could not pull off another miracle, when one was needed more than any other he'd pulled off before.
Incapacitated, David could not help to guide him in, leaving James to make the landing attempt alone from his own vision. In the pitch black, ironically being aided only by the men that were shooting at him, James held his position heading towards the open field that he could see through the flashes of gunfire. Remembering the conversation he'd had with Admiral Cunningham weeks earlier, he predicted that the Italians would not attempt to use their searchlights to pick out the attacking Swordfish. To his own misfortune, he was proven to be correct. Panicked by the ancient biplanes that were ravaging their precious fleet, the Italian soldiers stationed around the city decided not to use the lights to help them and in turn, help James. Erin was on his mind again too, though he was far too busy with thinking of how he was going to land the aircraft safely than to submit to the thoughts of her. In his most desperate hour, the woman that he loved would have to be pushed aside.
The most immediate danger was the final row of houses that separated him from the field that he was targeting. High rise buildings not too dissimilar to those in Alexandria, they would have to be cleared whilst the aircraft was still descending to line up with the empty field. Running the risk of clipping the roofs of the buildings as he descended, his aching brain moved to calculate the right angle that he would be able to clear them at, leaving him with enough time to land s…
BOOM!
"AGGGGHHH!"
The Italian gunners were beginning to grow in confidence, with one finely placed shot making the Captain's task even harder. An anti-aircraft shell exploded right in front of the right wing, the shrapnel splintering the wooden wings, which in turn created their own shrapnel. Charred wood was thrown into the cockpit, some of it striking the side of the Englishman's face. Blood was drawn from his right cheek, though from merely a flesh wound compared to the severe wounds that his friend was facing behind him. Whether David was hit or not was something he would have to find out for himself. The pale faced Irishman was no longer responding at all, his ropey breathing being the only indication that he was still alive.
Flapping in the wind, the damaged wing condemned the skilful pilot to his last resort. The only control he still held over the aircraft was enough to keep it straight and on course, but unable to risk banking to one side or the other. Banking to the left was impossible anyway, banking to the right being suicidal should the splintered wing be in worse condition than he could make out in the dark. Before he knew it, James was over the house, scraping the roofs with his wheels. No cruelty was added to the already awful scenario that he found himself in, the Swordfish not pitching over or crumpling from the contact of the wheels on the tops of the large buildings. A further stroke of luck came his way too thanks to a final flash of a gun firing almost underneath him. One final illumination of the field gave him the briefest chance to adjust the Swordfish's path, clearing it for a run at the field before him. He was going to get them to land safely.
Dropping ever further, the aircraft would soon be on Italian soil, where it did not belong. The smell of burning, the distinct reek when wood would meet flame, entered his nostrils in the final metres before touching down. Looking to the right, the previously splintered wing was now ablaze. It saved him the job of trying to destroy his machine before the Italians captured them, the fire doing it for him when it would pick up intensity. The intensity would not come before they'd landed though as the wheels were within inches of making contact with the slick wet grass below.
OOF!
"AGHHHH COME ONNNNNNNNNNNN!"
Bellowing again, James ignored the pain from the violent touchdown to concentrate on steering the Swordfish along the slippery turf. It must have rained in the hours before they'd reached Taranto, he presumed, as the top surface still contained moisture that was yet to sink into the soil. It hadn't rained miles out at sea, but clearly the Italian coast was not quite as lucky when it came to the weather. Although that evening, those in the port of Taranto would not be bemoaning their bad luck from the weather. They would be counting the cost of the Fleet Air Arm pulling off the most daring attack any Italian military personnel in the area had ever seen. Their only consolation was they were going to capture the young man responsible for planning and executing it.
Unlike when they'd crash landed at Hendon without an engine, James did not need the whole length of the field to come to a stop. There were large trees at the other end of the field, illuminated thanks to the fire that was now spreading down the right wing towards him, ones which would have destroyed the aircraft if struck. Not stopping to think about what might have been, he unfastened himself from his own seat, immediately clambering over into the back of the aircraft to finally assess the damage to his best friend.
It was not a pretty sight at all.
Reaching into his inside pocket, navigating his way around the wooden spoon that faithfully travelled with him as always, he pulled out a small torch. Not many were afforded the luxury of the torches, but his rank allowed him the privilege of having one, provided for by Admiral Cunningham himself. Shining it towards David, he could not bear to count the amount of entry wounds that sat along his friend's crimson chest. There were certainly over ten, which made it quite hard to believe that David was still able to breathe when his chest must have been on fire. A more immediate danger to the pair of them was the fire, which was dangerously close to engulfing the main fuselage of the torpedo bomber. He was going to save David, he told himself, therefore prioritising removing himself and his friend from the burning aircraft.
"J… J…". David struggled.
"No David!" James told him sharply. "Save your energy, I am getting you out of here".
Nodding his head to the best of his ability, David followed his best friend's words of advice. Being moved would cause him to suffer from excruciating agony, he knew, but defenceless against the natural power of the flames, it would be better to feel as if his chest was being ripped out. Had he looked down, which he still dared not to, he would have noticed that the machine guns bullets had already completed that task. His chest was little more than bloody rags held together by the few bones not shattered by the force of the bullets.
Placing his hands tightly onto his friend, James paused to take a couple of deep breaths. He could not pause for long, the combination of the advancing fire and worry that the adrenaline flowing around him would stop, ensuring that his pause would be over within seconds. Counting to three in his own head, he summoned all of the power he held within his muscular body into lifting the almost dead weight of his best friend, whose eyes were beginning to flutter menacingly. He ignored them though, wishing to disregard the truth that was staring him rather bluntly in the face.
"ARRRGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"
The muscular body that Erin Quinn enjoyed running her fingers over in the bedroom of their cottage, was more powerful than even the man who owned it gave himself credit for. With ease, he'd lifted David from the rear seat of the Swordfish, grasping him tightly as he carefully stepped backwards out of the aircraft. Stepping out from the top of the aircraft, his foot was planted firmly in the ground, the powerhouse thighs that he nurtured keeping them steady so that they were not forced to fall to the ground. His uniform was covered in the blood of his best friend, who whined lightly once they were on the ground, feeling the force of James planting his feet into it, on his chest. Carrying David over his shoulder was not an option, as it would only injure his battered friend's body even more.
David would have to be dragged to safety.
James' muscles were working overtime after grabbing David by the lapels of his overcoat. Avoiding touching any delicate wounds that the bullets inflicted upon his best friend, the Englishman was almost running with him as he dragged him along to a safe distance away from the Swordfish. He'd gotten him out at exactly the right time as the fire engulfed the fuselage only a few seconds after he'd removed them from it. It would not be long until it spread to the fuel tanks, a process sped up with the addition of the special long range full tank that replaced the potential for a third crewman, not that they'd ever flown as a three anyway.
Not long at all…
BOOM!
Stopped on the grass at a safe distance away, James and the just conscious David watched as the machine that had seen them to many victories, including the one that night, went up in a ball of flames. It was perhaps the right way to go for such a heroic aircraft, being lost in battle where against all the odds, it proved it belonged. Summing it up perfectly as they stared at the burning wreckage, it was David who rasped out the word.
"Shite…".
If their situation was not so critical then James would have burst out laughing. He could not turn to humour when he could see his friend's chest though, what little was actually left of it. Having already subconsciously accepted the truth, for the first time James allowed himself to think it aloud in his head. He was not going to be able to save the day this time, not when it came to the devasting injuries that riddled David's chest. He was going to lose him.
"Not long now David…". He spoke softly, masking the rising emotion within him. "… we are going to be prisoners, but we will live. We will be back in Derry before long, with the war won!"
Relentless optimism countered the realism within James' head. The same brain was in scintillating pain, spinechilling sensations that he'd never felt before. There was always a way out, always, yet his head was now forced to adapt to knowing that this time there would be no miracle. No plan would get them out of the captivity that the Italians would presumably place them into once they made their arrival in the field. It was a field that appeared to be unmined as he hoped, with the aircraft not striking any as James landed them, nor were there any present when he dragged David across the field to safety. Oddly, a mine would be their only way out, standing on one to ensure a passage to the next life rather than spend time in an Italian prisoner of war camp during the current one.
"J… James…". David tried to address him.
"Hush David, Hush…". He told him again. "Save your strength, remember".
"N…n-no James…. I… I'm not…".
"No!"
Appearing to have accepted his fate, David was more willing to acknowledge the obvious than James was. The thought may have crossed his mind that David was going to die but there was still the foolish twenty year old that was cosseted from the harsh realities of the world, that said that everything would work out just fine. That they would find a way back to the girls to restart their lives in peace again, without any lasting damage on them. The war within James' conscience raged on as the real war that they were living in was offering another casualty close to the young man's heart. The closest one yet. Only losing Erin or his mother would have devasted him more, the Englishman thought to himself.
"James… I'm… I… m'not makin'… it…".
"Yes! Yes you are!" James cried in return, tears filling in the corners of his eyes.
"S… Sh…. Sssh-ut up J… James…".
David coughed out a laugh which made his chest feel like it had been stabbed viciously with the bluntest of knives. It was hardly the wisest thing to do, but his best friend needed to be persuaded to accept the truth. James was a stubborn young man that would be difficult to break down, though the Irishman would make sure he would see it, even if it did turn out to be the last action he ever took. Which it probably would be.
"Orls…. a-and… M-Marie….". David wheezed again.
"They love you a lot". James replied, tears starting to fall down his cheeks.
"Ye… ye look after them… y-ye hear me…".
"You'll be able to look after them yourself". James said to him, smiling his way through the lies he knew he was telling. "The two of us, Orla, Marie and Erin, we… we'll all be together again when this war is over, living together happily!"
"Wis… wise up, ye daft eejit".
James could not help but laugh at the description. The tears fell alongside the laughter too, as the dams that held them were well and truly burst. It was the moment that he finally accepted the truth, knowing that any further reluctance to vocalise it would only be because he was a gentleman that he wanted to be remembered as until the very end for his friend.
"I promise you David. I will watch over them". He stated solemnly.
"T-thank you, J-James. M… m…".
Coughing violently, David jerked forward, prompting James to cradle his failing body in his arms. One friend always hoped that they would never have to hold the other as they slipped away, but the realities of war settled on them. Nobody was safe from the devastation that the war would bring, whether they were the most highly regarded of young men or not.
"M-make… E-… E-Erin happy… m-marry her…".
"That's the plan!" James confirmed through the tears. "You'll be there by my side at the wedding, where you belong!"
"I… I'll be there alright….".
Temporarily ignoring the vicious pain that ran through him, David lifted his right arm up to cup James' cheek. A last act of friendship for a man that had been fortunate to consider himself the best friend of James Maguire, the greatest pilot Britain had ever seen. They'd gone a long way together, through the happier times before the war and the unsettled ones during it. But it was the end of the road, the path having stopped abruptly on the sodden Italian soil that night.
"I… love ye… mate…".
James winced from the declaration, opening his eyes in time to watch his best friend slip away from him. He was powerless to stop it, his miraculous capabilities not extending to the divine.
With a final choked breath, eyes wide open, David Donnelly died in his arms.
"D… David…. DAVID!?"
Shaking him lightly, James was faced with the toughest reality in all of his life. A life that had been mostly protected from the harsh truths that he was coming across on a regular basis in the Med. The latest was having to accept that his best friend was dead in his arms that night, the wounds being too much for him to survive. He'd been crying already, but a look down at the now deceased Irishman, broke him. His hand balled up in a fist in his friend's hair, James let out all of the emotion that bubbled within him, a poisonous broth of fear and devastation. The promise he'd made to keep them safe was broken; he'd gone and gotten David killed.
Tears were mixed in with blood, still pouring intermittently from the wound on the Englishman's right cheek. Placing himself over his deceased friend's hair, James placed a kiss onto the top of his head. He'd loved the greatest man he'd ever met too, a friendship that was legendary in his eyes. Every day for the rest of his life he would wake up knowing that David would not be there to joke with him or ease the burden on him when responsibility became too much for him. When David left for Ireland, James received a taste of what it would be like without him for just a few weeks. They were some of the worst weeks of his life. Now he had to face the rest of his life without David at all. Adding to the blood and tears, the rain that must have fallen earlier in the evening, returned to Taranto to soak anyone who was out in it.
And James was not the only one.
"Attenzione! Attenzione!"
("Attention! Attention!")
The Italians were finally responding to the crashed aircraft in the fields behind their guns, rushing around to find that one man was still alive. Now stood up, James took a couple of steps forward with his arms raised, having mentally accepted in the second and a half it took to get up that he would be facing a spell in captivity. He would not die though, and one day when the war was over, he would return to Erin. To them all, to keep his promise to David.
That was what he thought.
The overly excitable eighteen year old Italian pointing his Beretta at the Englishman thought differently. Spooked by James moving towards him and the rest of his unit, the young man opened fire wildly upon the surrendering pilot. There was no time for James to avoid the bullets that raked him in the following seconds. The first found its way into his left leg, just above the knee where blood exploded out upon the impact. His right leg was hit too, cracking into his shin where bullet broke bone instantly. A third and final bullet went higher, travelling towards its head before changing trajectory to nestle in his left shoulder.
Stunned by the impact of being shot, James staggered backwards. Losing control like never before, his legs gave way, sending his body crumpling to the ground as blood and life drained away. He was barely conscious, suddenly assaulted with the thoughts of Erin as the excruciating pain took over. He wasn't going to be in captivity at all, waiting to return to her; he was going to die alongside David, without ever seeing her again. Despite his best efforts, he'd allowed himself to die.
Berated by his fellow soldiers, the young Italian who served as executioner did not accompany them as they hesitantly moved forward to confirm that the man the boy shot was dead.
His final moments playing out before him, James could do nothing. Just as he'd been helpless in the fight to keep David alive, he was helpless in his own efforts to stay in the mortal realm. Moving his arm as the dark night became inexplicably darker, he placed his hand into David's next to him. David's brothers died in the same fashion in Norway months before.
Yet again, allied brothers were dying for the cause.
The last lights of life went out for the Captain of the Fleet Air Arm, Britain's Mediterranean hero. As they did, Admiral Cunningham was receiving the first reports from the other crews that their Captain had been shot down. Reports that would soon find their way back to home shores where the impact would be devastating for a multitude of reasons with a whole variety of people affected. Britain had suffered a loss greater than it would ever know that night, even though Taranto was an incredible success, inflicting an embarrassing defeat on the Italian Fleet.
It was sadly insignificant.
Britain's hero was gone, his best friend along with him.
And for some that meant heartbreak…