The Time Pirate (20 page)

“Yer own little Blitzkrieg, sounds like.”

“Blitzkrieg?”

“What the Nazis did in Poland. Means ‘lightning war' in English.”

“I like that word. Maybe that could be my code name. Blitz. Lightning.”

“Awright, then, Cap'n Blitz, come with me. I'm going to show you something that might come in handy in this oneman war of yours.”

They stood at the edge of the airstrip overlooking the bright blue sea. Gunner handed Nick a pair of powerful binoculars and showed him where to look.

“Brilliant!” Nick said, looking at Gunner's surprise, “absolutely brilliant!”

“So you know what it's for?”

“Of course. Practice. With my Vickers machine guns. Lovely idea, actually.”

“Thank you, M'lord.”

Gunner had been worried about how to get Nick comfortable with the twin machine guns mounted just forward of the cockpit. His brainstorm had come during the middle of the night and caused him to sit straight up in bed. All he needed, he figured, was a small boat, a bunch of red balloons, and a canister of helium gas. He towed the little dory out off Hawke Point behind his old fishing boat and anchored the dory. Then he climbed down into the boat and filled a dozen or so big and small balloons, letting out a couple of hundred feet of string for each one and securing them at different locations around the boat. After that, he chugged back into Hawke Lagoon and went to the barn to fetch Nick.

Nick now had a dozen fresh targets to practice his twin Vickers machine guns on.

“How'd you figure this out?” Nick asked.

“Simple. Gunners need practice. Practice takes targets. You aim to try to hit a moving target up in the air, ain't much better target to do that with than a balloon blowing in the wind, is there?”

“Brilliant.”

Gunner frowned, “I ain't brilliant. I'm a gunnery officer. Two things to remember. It ain't like firing a gun at a stationary target, both standing on solid ground. You're firing at a moving target from a moving platform traveling a hundred or so miles an hour. The balloons are just to give you a feel. Your target's not a sitting duck, either. If you're shooting at aeroplanes, they'll be moving three times as fast as you are.”

Nick realized the enormity of what his friend was saying and said quietly, “Anything else?”

“Aye. You're flying at night. You acquire night vision after a while. Your pupils dilate and you take in a lot more light. Which is good. But the second you open up with those machine guns, the muzzle flashes will blind you. You won't be able to see a thing except the color red.”

“Just red?”

“Right. The eye will still pick up red. That's why all instruments on aircraft and ships are red, y'know.”

“I didn't know that.”

“Still a lot to learn, boy.”

“It's beginning to sound a bit more difficult.”

“Nick, what you're doing is brave and worthwhile for your country. If any boy can pull it off, it's you. But it's also very dangerous. Your father has allowed this, and it ain't my place to second-guess anybody. Your mother, I doubt she knows a
thing about this, and that's probably for the best. But you do something stupid, let your mind wander for one instant, you're going to wind up dead. I don't want you to forget that for a second.”

“I'll be careful, Gunner. I promise you that.”

Nick turned and started racing back to HQ.

“Let's go flying!” he cried.

“Boy thinks he's going to live forever,” Gunner grumbled to himself.
I remember the feeling.

As Gunner had warned him, firing the twin Vickers machine guns at swirling red balloons dancing, bobbing, and weaving some two hundred feet above the ocean was considerably more difficult than shooting ducks in a pond.

A lot more difficult. The noise, for one thing, was deafening when Nick pulled both triggers simultaneously. The side-by-side guns were belt-fed, one ammo belt to either side, and the rate of fire was amazing. Still, he'd made five or six diving passes, getting the balloons dead in his sights, and he'd yet to score a single hit. The gusting wind was causing the balloons to dip and dive and swing so wildly on their tethers, he was beginning to think hitting one was impossible.

He did a tight turn and came in for another pass.

“Blitz, this is HQ. Do you read?” He heard Gunner's voice crackle in his earphones.

“Loud and clear, HQ. Over.”

“How many kills on that last pass, Blitz?” Gunner asked. He was in the barn on the radio and couldn't watch the practice session through his binoculars.

“Zero, HQ. Haven't scored a single hit yet. This is a lot harder than I thought it would be. Over.”

“Are you shootin' at 'em?”

“Of course I'm shootin' at 'em. What do you think? Over.”

“Stop shooting at them or you'll never hit one. Your bullets will all arrive at where the target
used
to be. Not where it
is
. Over.”

“Understood. So what do I shoot at? Over.”

“You shoot where you think the target is
going
to be. Over.”

“And how do I know that?”

“You don't. You estimate. You guess. Based on what you've seen a target do before. How it moves and why. Where you think it's headed. You lead the target and fire where you think it will be when your rounds arrive. Watch the wind direction. See which way the balloons are moving. Up, down, sideways. And then shoot there. Where are they going to be? Shoot there before they move there.”

There was a long moment of radio silence as Nick thought that one over for a few seconds. “Roger, HQ. I think I know what you mean. I'm going to climb up and circle at about a thousand feet, watch the targets' movements from above. Then I'll make a dive right through the middle of them, see how many I can take out on one pass.”

“Best of British, as they say.”

“Roger, HQ. Here I go!”

Gunner heard the powerful Bentley roar over the speaker and knew Nick had gone into a steep climb. He smiled to himself. Before the sun set that day, Nick would know how to fire a pair of Vickers machine guns. Not expertly, no. But at least enough to defend himself if he had to.

Gunner picked up the magnifying glass again and studied the Nazi fortifications and the Messerschmitts out on the tarmac at the aerodrome. If all went well and according to plan, the boy could deal the enemy a serious blow and escape
with his life. However, military missions, in Gunner's experience anyway, seldom went according to plan.

The bombing mission was two days away, at 0400 hours in the morning. He had all of tomorrow to practice his gunnery.

If all did not go well, Gunner knew he would never forgive himself.

T
wo days later, Nick McIver walked into the barn at 0330 hours, his leather flying helmet and goggles in one hand, a half-eaten apple in the other. His long white silk scarf was draped round his neck.

Gunner was beside the Sopwith, standing atop the step-ladder, loading the second basket of “apples” into the cockpit. Nick would have exactly twenty handmade bombs when he arrived over the Saint Peter Port aerodrome one hour from now. He looked over at Nick, saw him take a bite out of his apple, and smiled.

If he had expected the boy to look nervous, or frightened, or even excited about tonight's mission, he'd have been wrong. Nick looked like an aviator preparing to go into battle. Calm, confident, even cheerful. He seemed, to Gunner anyway, a warrior. A very young warrior, but a warrior all the same. Lord knows he'd proven himself to be one in that sea battle against Billy Blood. He had the fire in his blood, he did, that's all there was to it.

The old U-boat searchlight was trained on the Camel, and she looked splendid, Nick thought. Gunner had clearly been working on her through the night while Nick grabbed a few
hours sleep before slipping quietly out of the lighthouse in the pre-dawn hours.

He'd left a note for his parents on the kitchen table, explaining that he couldn't sleep and was headed to the barn to work with Gunner on the Camel. He'd spend the night at Gunner's inn if it got too late and see them sometime tomorrow.

“She looks good,” Nick said, staring at his beloved plane. “Beautiful, in fact.”

“She's in apple-pie trim,” Gunner replied. “Engine sweet as a nut as well.”

The old seaman climbed down from the ladder and turned to face the boy.

“I guess this is it, then, isn't it?” Nick said, running his hand lovingly over the glossy red paint on the cockpit's side.

“It is, lad.”

“How many bombs have I got again?”

“Twenty. Two baskets of ten, each apple carefully packed in cotton.”

“Vickers guns fully reloaded?”

“As many ammo belts as she'll carry. You've got enough lead to shoot down half the Luftwaffe, should you be unlucky enough to run across them.”

“Fuel? Oil?”

“Both topped off.”

“Radio?”

“Working like a charm. Good old Hobbes.”

“I'll do a radio check when I get out over the channel.”

“Sounds good. I'll be here. Wasn't planning to go anywhere this evening until you're home safe.”

“Weather looks really good,” Nick said, casting a glance out the opened barn doors. “Enough cloud cover to hide the moon periodically.”

“And little wind, which is good. Chance of fog rolling in, of course. I put the RDF right under your seat.”

“Thanks,” Nick replied, smiling as he mounted the ladder and dropped down into the cockpit. His island was named after the famous pea-soupers called greybeards. Even in good weather, these thick sea-fogs could appear out of nowhere, reducing visibility to a few yards and making sailing, and certainly flying, very dangerous. But at least he had the comfort of knowing Hobbes's Radio Direction Finder was stowed in the cockpit.

“Best of luck, then, Nicholas,” Gunner said, raising his big hand up so Nick could shake it. He'd wanted to hug the boy badly but felt a good, firm handshake would benefit Nick more.

“Thanks,” Nick said, eyes roving over his instrument panel.

“Wish it were me going, instead of you.”

“But since you don't know how to fly, I'm probably our best bet.”

“Oh, I can fly an aeroplane all right, Nick.”

“You cannot. Don't be silly. You were a gunnery officer in the Royal Navy.”

“Before that, I was a cadet in the Royal Flying Corps. In France with the 306th.”

“What? All these years and you've never told me that? I always wondered how you knew so much about these things. What happened, Gunner?”

“A story for another time, lad, another time,” Gunner said with a sad smile, and Nick let it go.

Gunner walked to the front of the plane and took hold of one of the wooden propeller's two broad, angled blades, varnished to gleaming perfection.

“Magnetos?” Gunner cried.

“Magnetos, check!” Nick replied.