Catfantastic II

for target. But it wasn't. Confused by the weather and over-eager for combat, they mistook the cruiser Sheffield for the Bismarck .

'God, what a bloody-balls-up,' groaned Feathers as he scrambled out of his cockpit onto the rain-swept deck. Patterson followed quickly so that the airedales could hustle the plane onto the lift and below decks before the next Swordfish made its approach. 'They send us out and what do we do? Nearly sink one of our own ships!'

'I don't know what those other blokes were about,' said Patterson. 'We've used the Sheffield for all our dummy practice runs. As soon as I saw that superstructure, I knew it was the old Sheffield I told you to hold the torpedo. Was right, wasn't I?'

'I imagine the War Office has lost all faith in the Stringbags and they won't give us a second chance,' said Feathers gloomily.

'Boyo, they don't have a choice. We don't have anything else to throw at the bugger.' With that cheerful observation, Patterson shoved open the tower hatchway and held it for Feathers. 'You'll feel better when you've got some grub in you. I have an itch that the old man is going to give us a chance to redeem ourselves.'

'If the Sheffield isn't sunk,' said Feathers. He trooped along with the others into the canteen and ate as much as he could hold, though the food might have been sawdust for all he cared. He was slightly cheered when news came that Sheffield had managed to maneuver so deftly that none of the torpedoes had hit her. He perked up even more when the captain announced that a second wave of Swordfish would depart the Ark Royal at 6:30 p.m. for one more crack at the Bismarck .

After the meal, Feathers was tempted to go immediately to the briefing room and then down to the hangar below to check his plane. But he remembered Bomber, still locked in his cabin. He hadn't left the cat any water. Feeling guilty, he made his way down to his quarters and opened the door. Bomber was still there, nosing about the corners of the room. Feathers patted him roughly, then fetched him water in the empty mackerel tin. As he did so, he talked to the cat, telling him what a mess the attack had been.

'If you could just do your trick again and let me get aboard Bismarck , I'd have a better chance of wrecking her than I have flying that firecracker-carrying chicken coop.'

Bomber drew back his ears and narrowed his eyes. For an instant Feathers hoped that he had understood after all. The pilot was ready to grab his sidearm and dive through the moment that Bomber created a passageway between the Ark Royal and the Bismarck. But instead, the cat sprang away from Feathers, out the cabin door, and down the hallway.

'Where the devil are you going,' Feathers shouted out the door as a gray tail disappeared around a corner. 'I don't have time to chase a cat about. Dammit, come back!'

But Bomber was gone.

Perhaps he had decided to tackle the Bismarck on his own. Feathers could just imagine Bomber waging his own sort of guerrilla war with the enemy. He could almost hear the harsh Prussian voices scream in bad World War One movie dialogue about 'eine verdammt geschpritzen-katzen!'

Feathers Geoffrey-Faucett shrugged. Bomber had gone off on some mission, now Feathers had to attend to his own. He jammed his cap back on his head and made his way to the briefing room, where the aircrews were already assembling.

The plan was essentially the same as before, except this time, presumably, they would attack the right ship. A subflight of three Swordfish would approach in a steep dive behind the quarry. As the planes pulled out of the dive, they would fan out and approach the enemy in line abreast. At ninety feet, flying a flat course, they would drop their torpedoes into the sea and sheer away from the barrage of flak from enemy anti-aircraft guns.

The trick was getting close enough before dropping the torpedo. The optimum distance was 900 yards, but Feathers doubted that Bismarck would let anything get within that range before blowing it out of the air. He felt his hands begin to sweat. Sheffield had held her fire from the attacking planes. Bismarck would give it all she had.

They would have to fly low and hope for luck.

Bad weather had dogged the first attempt and threatened to scuttle the second. The rain squalls that gusted fitfully around the carrier became a full gale. Feathers pulled his leather flying cap down over his head, pulled his jacket collar up around his neck and braved the pelting rain. The sky, already dimmed by twilight, was darkened almost to blackness by the storm. The deck crews could only work by floodlights.

As he approached his Swordfish, a sweating crewman in a grime-streaked slicker was rolling a torpedo on a dolly toward the plane's undercarriage. Between the rain, the glaring lights and the seesawing deck, the airedale was having a struggle to get the torpedo in place. Feathers hastened his steps to help the airedale, fearing that man, dolly, and torpedo might be swept over the side by the rush of white water spilling over the carrier's bow and sluicing down the deck.

Before he could reach the dolly, he saw a little four-footed shape gallop from the shadows toward the torpedo. With a yell, the airedale shouted and flailed, driving the animal off. What the hell was Bomber doing out on the flight deck, Feathers wondered, but he had no time to go after the cat. He overtook both airedale and dolly, adding his strength to the crewman's. Together they wrestled the torpedo back toward the airplane, raised it and secured it in the rack between the Swordfish's wheels.

'Thanks, sir,' panted the crewman. 'Might have lost 'er over the side if you 'adn't 'elped. Rum thing, that cat running out from nowheres. Gave me a start, it did.'

Feathers squinted against the rain and the glaring floodlights but saw no sign of Bomber. He spotted the shapes of Patterson, his gunner, and Crockett, his forward observer. With a few last words to the two about the attack plans, he boosted them into their cockpits, then took one futile look about for Bomber.

Before he knew it, a lithe shape launched itself from somewhere behind the Swordfish's tail, bounded across a stream of seawater, scrambled up his trousers, and tunneled beneath his jacket. Feathers swore in a mixture of delight and annoyance. He was glad the cat hadn't been swept overboard, but what the hell was he going to do with him? There wasn't time. The other Swordfish crews were in their planes and one was starting the tracking run down the deck line. As the biplane skittered and wobbled, Feathers wondered how it would ever make it through the curtain of heavy spray and crashing waves from the ship's bow.

Somehow the carrier's deck lifted at the critical moment, giving the plane an additional boost into the air. Feathers saw it wallow unsteadily, on the edge of a stall, then gathered speed, circling away from the carrier. He prayed that he would be that lucky.

Bomber, tucked away beneath the pilot's jacket, had sunk his claws into Feathers' shirt in a way that suggested it would be difficult and time-consuming to remove him. And even if he did pry the cat loose, the airedales had their hands too full to bother with a cat. 'All right, you're going,' said Feathers to the furry lump underneath his jacket. 'I just hope you know what you're letting yourself in for.'

'What are you standing there talkin' to yourself for?' yelled Patterson. 'Sayin' your prayers?'

'Might need 'em,' said Feathers as he swung into the center cockpit behind the pilot's windscreen.

Now, you blessed old Stringbag, he thought to his airplane, as he revved the engine and the airedales took away the chocks, let's not decide to go for a swim.

Just as he began the takeoff run, Ark Royal hit a deep trough that tilted her bow down until her deck was like the steep side of a hill. Feathers could see whitecaps on the sea below as he hurtled right downhill toward it. It took all his willpower not to pull back on the stick before the plane had attained flying speed. At the last instant, when he was sure he was going in the drink, the bow started to lift, tossing him in the air.

Bathed in sweat, he pushed the throttle to full power, feeling the plane begin to mush at the edge of a stall. A short dive let the Swordfish pick up speed and stability. With a surge of excitement, Feathers pulled back on the stick, starting a slow climb to attack altitude. The Stringbag might be old, slow and outmoded, but by God there was no other plane that could have gotten off a carrier in weather like this.

As he circled, climbing, he saw the rest of the torpedo-laden Swordfish leave the deck of the carrier. All fifteen made it safely.

Bomber squirmed inside Feathers' jacket. With the plane trimmed for a climb, he could spare a moment for the cat. He let the stowaway slide out from the bottom of the jacket and stuffed the cat between his knees and the edge of the seat.