That’s an interesting shot.
It was a nice twist on the classic ‘bombs away’ image he’d seen in countless World War Two documentaries. The only world visible through the frame of the bomb bay was the sea floor. It was what Chris considered a concept shot; it summed things up nicely.
‘Mind your eyes.’ He took a couple more pictures.
They pressed on, making slow progress between the racks as their equipment frequently snagged and scraped on the metal spars. Mark looked anxiously at the racks. This kind of environment could trap a diver easily, especially with reduced visibility. He decided to reduce the dive time by five minutes to allow them some additional contingency. If they overran for whatever reason and had to come back through these racks in a hurry it would be inviting trouble, especially with Chris being so inexperienced at wreck diving and so easily disorientated, as the other night’s episode in the cockpit had clearly demonstrated.
Disorientated? Scared shitless more like.
Mark had been involved with a team of marine archaeologists who had discovered a U-boat off the coast of Gibraltar. It had attracted a lot of experienced divers with a passion for World War Two wrecks, and he’d been on site as a safety watchdog. One father-and-son team had pushed deeper into the sub than they should have and not allowed themselves a safety margin of air. They’d managed to kick up a lot of debris and lost their way in a blizzard of sediment and flakes of rust. The more they panicked the worse it had got. Mark pulled them out several hours later, quite dead. He had found them with the father’s regulator still in the boy’s mouth. The boy’s air must have run out first and the father had sacrificed his life to buy the lad a few more minutes.
On the far side, the plane opened up again and they came across the waist-gun ports.
Mark shone his torch down at the cabin floor. ‘Jesus, look at that.’
Mottled green cylinders the size of cotton reels littered the floor.
‘Spent shell cases. You see how many there are? This plane saw some pretty heavy action on the way over.’
‘The plot thickens, eh?’ said Mark.
‘Yup. Eyes.’
Mark closed his eyes as Chris’s flash popped with the succession of half a dozen shots. He stopped for a moment and looked up at Mark. ‘Here’s a question for you. Who was this plane fighting on the way over?’
‘Americans?’ ventured Mark.
‘Or Germans?’
‘Germans?’
‘Yeah. Maybe there was some rocket scientist looking to come over to join you guys and the Nazis didn’t want you to have him. How’s that for a story?’
‘I think you’re reaching.’
‘Okay, so I’m just getting a little excited here.’
‘Shall we continue, Chris? I give us nine minutes, and we’ll have to squeeze back through those racks again on the way out.’
‘Yup, let’s go on.’
Both men began to head further down the plane when they picked out a second body on the floor of the cabin. It was completely buried by the silt, but the recognisable contour of a prone body was unmistakable. Chris swam closer and gently brushed some of the sediment away exposing another skeletal face.
‘Well?’
Chris looked up. ‘He’s dead.’
‘Very funny.’
He waited for the cloud of mud to settle before brushing away some more to expose the body’s clothes. Chris saw the faded yellow oak leaves on the collar.
He aimed his camera. ‘Another Luftwaffe guy. Eyes.’ The flash popped several times. Mark pulled himself over to look at the body.
‘Two guys only so far. I thought these big planes had big crews?’
‘Well, they did, about nine or ten I think. But you could get somewhere with just two, a pilot and a navigator.’
‘You think there were any more? Maybe some escaped from the plane when it ditched.’
‘Possibly,’ Chris answered, recalling McGuire’s story about the body on the beach.
Mark checked his watch. ‘We should quickly check the rest of the plane then start heading back out.’
Chris nodded. ‘Fine, let’s do it.’
They glided up to the tail-end of the bomber, briefly investigating the belly-gun hatch and the tail-gun. There appeared to be no other bodies aboard the plane.
Mark announced they had to start heading out, and Chris was happy to agree. He patted his camera, convinced that there was a big story sitting comfortably on the roll of film nestled inside it. What exactly the story was he had no idea. It looked like it was going to take some unravelling, and he wondered whether one place to start would be with this young lad and his father who supposedly vanished after the discovery of that body on the beach.
Chapter 9
Chris had done this kind of thing once before, nearly fifteen years ago: attempting to track down the location of a young man, still a kid really, only fifteen, for his mother. The boy and a dozen or so other men, old and young, had been rounded up in a village in southern Bosnia by a small unit of armed Serbian militia and whisked away, never to be heard from again.
With hindsight, many years later, it was obvious that they, like many others who had disappeared, had met with a grisly end. But, at the time, Chris was willing to believe that the boy and his companions were either being drafted or taken to some hastily assembled prisoner-of-war camp, and that they could be tracked down. His efforts, of course, had led him nowhere.
This was hopefully going to be a little easier.
He had a name, two names, Sean and Tom Grady, and that was all. The first thing Chris thought to do would be to establish that the old man, McGuire, for lack of another name, had in fact been telling the truth, and that there had been a Sean Grady and his father living in Port Lawrence during the Second World War.
He left Mark to his own devices once more, tinkering with the diving equipment, while he headed out in the morning to visit the local church, perched on a small hill overlooking Port Lawrence. The preacher he managed to speak to there was only in his thirties and although very helpful and friendly couldn’t assist Chris at all when he mentioned the names. He suggested the Fishermen’s Social Club as possibly being of some use. If Tom Grady had worked on one of the fishing boats then he almost certainly would have been a member of the club. And, the man added, back then that was pretty much all they had for work round here, fishing, so it was more than likely that he would find this man’s name in their member register.
Chris thanked the young man and headed back into town, down towards the jetty end of Devenster Street, where he eventually tracked down the old weathered barn that still functioned as the Fishermen’s Social Club, as well as being used as a community centre.
He let himself in through a small door at the front. Inside, he found himself standing in a modest hall, dimly lit by several strip lights that shone coldly down onto a tired and scarred linoleum floor, and a low wooden stage upon which were stacked dozens of orange bucket seats. At the far end of the hall, he saw a small bar, which, surprisingly at this time in the morning, was open.
If it was anything like the working men’s clubs his dad had taken him into when he was just about old enough to shave, Chris imagined there were no formal opening times for the bar; it just opened when any member of the Fishermen’s Social Club decided it was about time for a drink.
Perched on one stool was a young man in his twenties, staring languidly at a small TV on a counter behind
