Catfantastic II

The uproar grew, Prussian bellowing mixed with British caterwauling, until the officer lunged, seized Bomber by the scruff, and hurled him against the wall.

Wild-eyed, he embattled wheelman seized control once again, hauling the wheel sharply to port as his captain had ordered, but it suddenly jammed at a rudder position of twelve degrees and wouldn't budge. The torpedo had done its work.

But what about Bomber? Ignoring Patterson's banging on the fuselage and demands to fly the bloody plane straight, Feathers stared down at the scene below him, searching for the cat. He spotted Bomber on the floor, looking up at him with something near desperation in the gold eyes. But Feathers himself couldn't fit through the gap. It was too small. He grabbed wildly at a coil of rope in the cockpit, hoping to throw a line down for the cat to snag. But before he could even find the rope end, the interstice shivered and popped shut.

For a second, Feathers could only stare numbly at the now-solid floor of the cockpit. There was nothing he could do to rescue Bomber short of trying to land his Swordfish on the Bismarck 's decks. And that would be sheer suicide.

'Would you tell me what is so interesting between your bloody knees?' Patterson roared again. 'Get your head up and this crate home!'

Feathers pulled himself together. Bomber would have to rescue himself as best he could.

The Swordfish's forward observer, who had been completely forgotten during the wild ride, turned a pale but smiling face to the pilot and handed him a slip of paper.

It read 'Hit confirmed. Bismarck circling to port. Rudder looks stuck.'

Feathers gave him a thumbs up and headed the plane for home. As soon as he was beyond range of the warship's anti-aircraft fire, he started a climb to cruise altitude. Again he looked down over the side and was heartened by the sight of the Bismarck making a wide confused circle in the rough sea.

All the way back to the Ark Royal, the Swordfish rang with cheers and snatches of song. Feathers joined in, but his enthusiasm was tempered by the thought of Bomber lying on the deck of the enemy ship. The helmsman had thrown the cat hard enough to break his back, Feathers thought. But there wasn't anything he could do about it. And he had to get his plane and crew back to Ark Royal.

The carrier's stern was still bucking in fifty-foot heaves when the Swordfish began their fly-on. Feathers concentrated everything he had on getting down in one piece. He was given additional motivation when the plane ahead of him touched the deck during the upward surge, smashing the craft's undercarriage and sending it skidding along on its belly, shedding pieces. The crew scrambled out and the airedales pushed the wreck over the side before it could burst into flame.

'When Feathers' turn came, the deck dropped away just as he was starting to settle and he had to make another go-round. But on the second try he landed.

He heaved himself out of the cockpit as the airedales rolled his Swordfish toward the lift.

'That was some of the damned craziest flying I've ever been through in my life,' said Patterson to him. 'I was beginning to wonder if you'd forgot how to pilot.'

Feathers just ducked his head and walked through the driving rain. He knew there was no way he could explain to Patterson what had happened there up in the sky. The gunner hadn't even known that Bomber was aboard.

Shepherd was among those down below, welcoming the aircrews aboard. The news had spread quickly throughout the ship that two Swordfish of the second subflight, coming in on the Bismarck 's starboard quarter had got in one torpedo hit amidships and one aft. And the aft strike might have crippled her.

'That was your flight,' Shepherd said excitedly to Feathers, amidst the general hubbub. 'Which was your shot?'

'He kicked her right in the bum!' howled Patterson over his shoulder. 'You should have seen it!'

'How the hell did you do it? And where's Bomber got to? I haven't seen him since you took off.'

Feathers took Shepherd aside from the throng of rejoicing men. 'Jack, he went with me. And he didn't come back. Come on. I'll tell you the whole story, if you'll believe it.'

In Feathers' cabin, he and Shepherd shared what was left of the rum while the pilot told his friend the entire tale.

'You must think I've gone crackers. But I swear, that's the way it happened.' Feathers ran his hand through his sandy hair. 'Jack, you've read more scientific stuff than I have. Do you think it's possible to make a 'hole' between two different places the way Bomber did?'

Shepherd rubbed the stubble on his chin. 'I don't know,' he said thoughtfully. 'The fellows at Farnborough play around with all sorts of queer ideas. But one thing I do know, Feathers. You're not given to fantasies. If it happened the way you said, I believe you.'

'I feel terrible about leaving the little chap behind. But there was just nothing I could do.'

'Well, look at it this way. You saved his life when you pulled him in from the sea. I think he just wanted to square the deal.'

Feathers sighed, then looked at Shepherd with a wan smile. 'Thanks. That helps a bit.' He hung his head, his hands between his knees. 'You know, I'm really beginning to miss him. I wonder if he really was just a cat. Seemed more like a guardian angel. Aah, I'm going all soppy on you, Jack.'

'Well he definitely was a cat as far as one thing was concerned.' Shepherd said, with a grin.

'I wish I had him back again,' said Feathers.

'Even if he were to… ah… continue asserting himself?'

'Even if he did,' said Feathers.

'Well, if it helps any, I'd suggest we give him an award, in memory of services rendered to king and country and all that,' said Shepherd. 'I'll get the tin snips from the repair shop. We can cut out a little Victoria Cross from the bottom of that mackerel tin and we'll have a proper posthumous presentation ceremony. How's that?'

Feathers agreed that such an award would be the best thing. He and Shepherd embarked on its construction, during the intervals when he wasn't being debriefed about the mission. In the confusion of the attack, no one could definitely assign which torpedo hit to which pilot. Only Patterson stoutly insisted that the aft hit was theirs, but the other aircrew also claimed it. Feathers took no part in the argument, since he had decided not to reveal Bomber's story to anyone except Shepherd.

Several hours into the evening, new reports came over the wireless. The torpedo hit had indeed done critical damage. After making two aimless circles in the North Atlantic, Bismarck was now heading northwest, in a wobbling course that indicated that she no longer had rudder control. She was backtracking helplessly, right into the guns of the oncoming Home Fleet.

Both Swordfish aircrews were decorated by the ship's captain and praised for their part in the battle. After the presentation, Feathers took his ribbon below, put it in a drawer and went back to Bomber's Victoria Cross. Ignoring the cuts on his hands from the jagged metal of the mackerel tin, he worked determinedly.

Shepherd came in just as Feathers was laying the finished piece in a little leather case that had once held someone's cufflinks. He pronounced it a beautiful piece of work given the contrariness of the mackerel can and the awkwardness of making fine cuts with tin snips.

'I think Bomber would approve,' Shepherd said softly, laying a hand on the pilot's shoulder. 'The news of that hit has gone right up to the Admiralty, to Sir John himself. They're all saying that it was a miracle, a hundred- thousand-to-one chance. It proves to me that your story must be true.' He paused. ' Bismarck is surrounded now. She hasn't got a prayer. And the Germans will fly their colors to the end, so we have to sink her. They're so sure of the end now that some bloke on the BBC has gone and written a bloody song about it.'

Feathers looked down at the homemade Victoria Cross.

'I'd give him the proper words to write, I would,' he growled.

'If Bomber's alive and still on board,' Shepherd said, 'he hasn't got much time. Maybe we'd better think about holding that ceremony.'

'Just hold off another few hours, Jack. Maybe the little beggar can somehow piss his way home.'

Shepherd gave the pilot a light pat on the shoulder and started to leave the cabin.

Abruptly an unholy racket broke forth from the direction of the galley. It sounded like a war was being fought