Flight of the Skimming Bird E-Book

alastair macleod

• Herausgeber: BookRix
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2016

Beschreibung

In 1917 Ronald Copeland is one of the first pilots to fly a seaplane out of the Royal Navy base in Scapa Flow, spotting for enemy submarines. There are many islands; he becomes confused in the fog and finds himself on one that doesn't seem to fit, and it begins to hold him in its magic grasp.

Leseprobe

Alastair Macleod

Flight of the Skimming Bird

To the islands and the birdsBookRix GmbH & Co. KG81371 Munich

Flight of the Skimming Bird

Scapa Flow Orkney 1917

An hour before dawn Pilot officer Ronnie Copeland rose and shook the shoulder of his observer Arnold Hanley. Using torches so as not to disturb the others still deeply asleep, they quickly dressed and left the hut.

Outside a steady breeze was blowing. They made their way first to the meteorological hut.  Hunched over a chart table was Paddy Keely.

“What have you got for us today then?” Asked Ronnie.

Paddy, who looked as if he had been up all night, answered slowly,

“Wind Force three, sea state three, wave height three, a little calmer here in the bay.”

He was referring to Houton Bay, a sheltered bay on the north side of Scapa Flow, now a new seaplane base for the Royal Navy.

“And the outlook?” said Ronnie.

“Wind speed increasing to 4 or 5 by 12 o’clock, wave height likewise 4 or 5 but crucially, before that, say up to 11.30 you have a window.”

The current version of the Shorts 184 only had enough fuel for less than 3 hours flight; this was their window. And they needed to meet a friendly sea when they returned to be able to land the seaplane.

Muttering thanks, Pilot and Observer made their way to the mess hut.

It was still dark at 5.45am. The air was moist, cool, with a tang of salt.

Down in the hangar several lights were on. The mechanics were making final checks.

Pushing open the mess hut door they were met by a warm front of air. Several other officers were sitting at rough board tables.

All were young, in their early and late twenties.

“Well Copeland, will you find us a kill today?” said Erskine from behind his plate of ham and eggs.

Ronald paused to give the steward his order.

“Scrambled eggs on toast with a little bacon, well done.”

The steward turned to Hanley, who just muttered,

“Porridge.”

“It’s not easy you know,” said Copeland. “The U-boats only surface at dawn to check their compasses and get fresh air. By the time we get out to the Fair Isle Channel we only have a few minutes to stooge around, then we need to come back to refuel.”

“Tell Barrington the new CO. He’ll be here tomorrow,” said Erskine,

“Well,” said Copeland, “I’ve put it all in writing.”

Hanley looked up.

“What we need is a longer range tank and a more powerful engine so we can get a little higher,” he said between mouthfuls of porridge.

“At the moment we are running into gannets and gulls at our flying height.”

This was very close to the truth and was no exaggeration. The others knew it and the point was made.

To find and see the enemy in such a short time window they needed a little more height, and luck.

Their plane, the Shorts 184, was a two-seat reconnaissance, bombing and torpedo carrying folding-wing seaplane. A wood and wire job, she was a slow light biplane, constructed of a wood and metal frame covered with stretched canvas and braced by wire ailerons. Her power unit was a single propeller 260 horse power Sunbeam engine set on her nose with a distinctively large square radiator mounted above the engine. The pilot and observer sat in tandem, with the pilot in the rear position. She was only lightly armed with a Lewis machine gun but could carry nine 65 lb bombs stowed vertically within the fuselage; or alternatively, she could carry one small 14 inch torpedo slung between the floats; although with the torpedo on board the observer had to be left behind for weight reasons. She took 8 minutes and 35 seconds to climb to 2000 feet. Her endurance was only two and three quarters hours flying.

As they crossed down to the hangar which lay near the shore, the moon briefly made an appearance, glinting on the concrete surface of the ramp which led from the hangar to the sea. The sea surface was slightly rippled.

He could see a few marker buoys, dark, like seal’s heads on the surface, and away to the right, small tenders, black shapes tied up at the short Houton naval jetty. If the aircraft tipped over it was one of these that would fish them out.

Yes, it was precarious business, flying these “crates”, but they, Ronald and Arnold both loved it; the risk was part of the excitement. Each time they took off seemed a miracle. Skimming the surface of the sea, then the lift away, banking onto their course.

He turned his attention to the hangar. The mechanics had wheeled the plane out to the entrance.