Lifeboat! (10 page)

The wind whistled across the saltmarshes as Jack Hansard parked his landrover and hunched his collar around his ears and began his search on foot. Away from his landrover he could not keep in touch with the lifeboat and his search was the loneliest.

Aboard the
Mary Martha Clamp
the crew prepared themselves for an all-night vigil. At Macready's request Tony Douglas, the signalman, fired a white flare every fifteen minutes. This illuminated the area of the sea all around the lifeboat and the crew scanned the surface of the water for the few seconds that the flare lit up the sea. Then they waited and watched for an answering red flare, but nothing was to be seen.

Macready kept glancing at the echo sounder as he guided the lifeboat through the Freeman Channel and turned northeastwards into the St Botolphs Deeps.

The last thing they needed at a busy August Bank Holiday weekend, he was thinking, was a hoaxer on the loose.

‘Oy, Mel. Will yer look at this bloody great posh car an' boat parked on this driveway?'

At that moment the front door of the house opened and voices drifted into the night air.

‘Eh, watch out, Vin,' Mel hissed. ‘There's someone coming.'

The two youngsters ducked down behind the wall and waited, listening.

‘Well, just how far is it to the nightclub?'

‘Not far. Half a mile,' a girl's voice answered.

‘Half a mile! Good Lord, and you expect me to walk!'

‘Oh Howard, it's not far. Besides, you'll never find a parking-space.'

‘Don't tell me this place we're going to doesn't even have a car park!'

‘Of course it has a car park, but at this time of the year the town is packed.'

‘Oh well, come on. I suppose we'll have to walk.' His laughter drifted through the night air. ‘At least you might let me put my arm round you if we walk there.'

They moved on up the road together, the girl's high-heeled sandals tapping along the pavement.

‘Come on—they've gone. Right toff, ain't he?' Vin mimicked Howard's refined tones. ‘I say, don't tell me this here place h'ain't even got hay car park! Stuck-up git!' He made a rude gesture into the darkness after the couple, though they could no longer be seen. ‘Come on, Mel, let's' see if Little Lord Fauntleroy has any flares hidden in this posh boat of his. Keep a look out, will you?'

Nimbly, Vin vaulted on to the trailer and over the side of the
Nerissa
and scrabbled in the lockers in the bows of the boat. ‘ I'm beginning to know where to look in these 'ere boats now, Mel. Ah, here we are, all neatly stacked away, all ship-shape.' Triumphantly the boy jumped down from the boat. ‘Look what I've got, Mel, more pretty lights! Won't his nibs get a shock next time 'ee goes sailing and wants rescuin'? There'll be no bloody flares!'

They leant against each other laughing, then the boy stuffed the flares into the front of his leather jacket and zipped it up. ‘Come on, let's get the scooter and go back to the marsh.'

Jack Hansard blew into his hands. It might be August and a Bank Holiday too—but at one o'clock in the morning out here on the marshes it was still damned cold!

He thrust his hands deep into the pockets of his great-coat and turned to go back to his landrover parked near the bridge over the River Dolan about half a mile inland from where the river ran into the sea. As he approached the vehicle he heard the steady high-pitched noise of a scooter coming along the narrow road towards the bridge that led to Dolan's Sands and Haven Flats. The engine noise slowed as the scooter negotiated the bridge and the sharp left hand turn in the road immediately after it.

‘Now who is this at this time of night?' Jack Hansard murmured to himself.

The light from the scooter's headlamp swung in a wide arc across the flat marsh, illuminating for a brief moment the scurrying night animals, the swooping owl, the rippling grass. The light swung and came full upon Jack Hansard's dark-coated figure standing beside his landrover. The machine pulled up, paused, turned, the engine whining as the rider opened the throttle, the back wheel skidding in his haste, and Jack's shout of ‘Hey, wait a minute!' was drowned as the scooter bounced back over the bridge and sped away back along the coast road towards the town.

‘I bet a pound to a penny that's our mysterious flare,' Jack muttered and reached inside the cab of his vehicle for the radio microphone.

Listening to the coastguard's message, Macready said, ‘I think you could well be right, but we'll stay here a wee while longer. We'll go right down as far as Roger Sand and then make our way back up the Deeps and anchor off the Flats until first light. We'll take another look around then. Over and out.'

The disco music in the Nite-Lite Club was loud, the lights flashing, the small dance floor crowded with gyrating bodies.

‘Not exactly Annabel's is it?' Howard murmured.

‘What did you say, Howard?' Julie shouted above the noise.

‘I said, “ Shall we dance?” '

Julie nodded and they squeezed on to the edge of the dance floor. In the semi-darkness, in the weird, intermittent lighting, Julie could not see the supercilious expression on Howard's face.

Anchored in the St Botolphs Deeps, east of the Haven Flats, there were few lights to be seen in the velvety blackness of the night and the only sound was the gentle slapping of the waves and the lulling motion of the boat.

Macready and Fred Douglas stayed on deck whilst the other members of the crew snatched an hour or two of sleep under the covered cockpit in the bows.

‘What d'you reckon, Mac?' Fred Douglas asked.

Macready's eyes scanned the dark water towards the marshes. ‘Since Jack's last message, I think it is a hoaxer, but we'd better stay a while now we are here and be sure.'

Dawn found the crew of the lifeboat stiff and cramped and chilled after what seemed a long night of being able to do very little.

At first light they were pleased to be on the move again.

Still there was nothing and Macready took the lifeboat north-eastwards around the Outer Dog's Head sandbank and towards Saltershaven.

At 0700 hours Breymouth, the coastguard and Macready agreed to call off the search and return to station. The call went out to the launchers for the recovery and the
Mary Martha Clamp
beached a little after a quarter to eight. Pete Donaldson arrived home a little after ten-thirty.

‘Angie,' he called as he opened the back door, then he remembered. It was Sunday. She might still be in bed. At that thought, his tiredness fell away and light-footed he sprinted up the stairs and opened the bedroom door and tiptoed in.

The bed was neatly made and turned down, and there was a note pinned to his pillow.

‘
Sorry, darling. Mum and Dad need help at the café today. It looks like being very busy. See you tonight. Love A
.'

Pete groaned and then grinned ruefully. This Bank Holiday wasn't going at all the way he and his lovely bride had planned it.

The tiredness washed over him again. He would shower, he decided, have a bite to eat and then a good sleep ready for when Angie came home tonight …

Mike Harland cycled out to the airfield at 09.30 on the Sunday morning in great spirits. The weather today was perfect for an attempt at diamond height, which had to be a height gain of approximately five thousand metres, over fifteen thousand feet, during his flight. The local meteorological office had confirmed that the forecast was for moderate conditions with a southwesterly wind of twelve to fifteen knots with a warning that cumulo-nimbus and storms were expected in the afternoon but the air would be unstable only to about thirty thousand feet. Perfect for cloud-flying. The extra lift a storm-cloud would provide was just what he needed.

Mike had completed the three tests for his Gold C in May of this year. Now he was moving on to the diamond class. There would be a distance flight of 500 kilometres, a pre-declared course flight of 300 kilometres; but first Mike wanted the height.

Although he had only had some three hundred hours flying experience he was ambitious. The drive and single-mindedness he applied to his studies overflowed into his leisure time. He approached his gliding with that same dedication—he wanted to be the best. It was as simple as that.

Mike grinned to himself as he leaned his bike against the wall of the hanger and went inside to help bring out the club's gliders for the day's flying.

‘Morning, Mike,' Toby Wingate greeted him. ‘You on winch duty today?'

‘Not likely! I was on it an hour yesterday. I'm going for my diamond today,' Mike replied, not pausing to talk but making a bee-line for his own personal preference amongst the club's gliders. This was a Blanik, a silver-and-red Czechoslovakian-built glider, a two-seater with instruments in both the front and rear cockpits. It was used often by the instructors for training, but Mike preferred it to any other sailplane and he wanted it today.

‘Could you lend me your barograph again, Toby mate?' he shouted from the back of the huge box-like trailer housing the Blanik.

‘I suppose so,' Toby agreed reluctantly. Mike was accepted by the other club members and admired by them, though perhaps a little grudgingly, for the awards he earned and the subsequent kudos for their club, but they resented his unwillingness to take his turn at the less interesting ground jobs.

‘It's a perfect day for cloud-flying.' Mike's enthusiasm was infectious and Toby could not help responding.

‘It forecasts thunderstorms, you know.'

Mike shrugged. ‘All the better.'

Toby capitulated. ‘I'll stay by the radio for you if you like, but keep in touch, mind.'

Mike grinned and Toby was won over completely, almost as keen now for him to get the coveted diamond height as Mike was himself. Two more club members, one a girl, joined Toby and Mike to help rig the Blanik and then they hooked the glider on to Toby's car and he towed it across the grass to the east side of the airfield, whilst Mike and the girl walked one at the end of each wing to keep the sailplane level. As on the previous day they were launching from north-east to south-west into the wind.

Twenty minutes later, Mike was completing the daily inspection of the glider as it stood tipped sideways into the wind, one wing resting on the grass and weighted down.

Mike checked that all the pins were in place, he looked over the seat-belts, the cushions and the seat in the cockpit for tears or splits and then he ran his hand the full length of the fuselage and around the outer edge of both wings checking that there was no damage to the metal skin of the glider. He checked the controls and lastly synchronised his own wrist-watch with the clock in the glider. Then he went towards the ‘box' to make the necessary arrangements for his flight. The office was where every flight must be recorded and certain badge attempts declared before take-off, and logs completed; where visiting members must complete a form and pay their fees; where even the club members must pay a launching fee each time. From here, too, Toby would keep in contact with Mike by radio.

The blackboard listing the order of flights for the day had been set up and Toby was writing up the names. Mike Harland was listed as having the third launch of the day in the Blanik. He glanced at his watch. Good, with a bit of luck he'd be airborne before eleven.

Toby set and sealed the barograph, which after Mike's flight would have to be returned to Toby unopened for him to verify whether Mike had succeeded or failed. But possible failure did not even enter Mike Harland's mind as he eased his unusually rotund form into the cockpit to begin the more detailed cockpit check. He was wearing two thick sweaters—for with the height came the cold—and the parachute, a must for cloud flying, strapped to his shoulders weighed about twenty pounds.

With Toby's help Mike carried out the cockpit check. He paused a moment bringing to mind the aide mémoire CB SIFT CB.

‘Controls,' he said, for the first C. ‘Full and free movement and working in the correct sense.'

‘Check,' responded Toby.

‘Ballast—yes, I'm within the limits for the Blanik. Straps,' he wriggled to ensure that he was securely fastened in, so solidly that he almost felt as if he became part of the sailplane.

‘Instruments—no broken glass and all working correctly and all clearly visible.' With particular care Mike checked the turn-and-slip indicator which was essential for cloud-flying.

‘Flaps—set for take off. Trim, yes, operating correctly and set for take off.'

‘Check,' came Toby's voice.

‘Canopy closed and locked,' Mike murmured, but he opened the small window at the left-hand side. ‘Brakes,' he pumped the brakes a couple of times, ‘working—closed and locked.'

Through the small open square of perspex Mike shouted, ‘Right, cable on, please, Toby.'

Toby now stood at the tip of the port wing, supporting it and holding the glider in a level position. He shouted to someone behind him. ‘Nev, can you check Mike's launching hook, please?'

‘Sure.'

The mechanism for back release and release under tension duly checked Mike waited for clearance from the ‘box.'

As they waited, Toby said, ‘I say, Mike, don't do what old Bob did yesterday.' He was grinning.

‘Why, what was that?' Mike shouted.

‘Landed up at a military airfield in Yorkshire somewhere and was clapped in the guardhouse.'

‘Good Lord, whatever for?'

Toby shrugged. ‘ Standard procedure. Lock you up first and ask questions after.'

‘What happened?'

‘Oh, it was okay when he explained it all. They were very nice, gave him a cup of tea and all that—afterwards. But it gave him a bit of a jolt at first.'

‘I bet!'

Mike felt the familiar twinge of excitement as he waited for the moment of takeoff. Mentally he went over his preparations once more. The barograph was stowed behind the empty rear cockpit out of Mike's reach during flight. The 750-litre oxygen system had recently been charged and was unused. Close at hand were a pair of thick gloves, a map and a stop-watch which he would need for dead-reckoning navigation.