June 27, Vicinity of Rockall
Irish Sunderland RD-202 "E", 750 m altitude, 145 knots airspeed
Weather report: Force Six, clouds at angels 2
Captaen John O'Reilly knew he couldn't actually predict the turbulence, but his stomach always seemed to tense up right before his plane encountered some. Like... now. The big Irish Sunderland twitched then - WHUMP! - as the bottom momentarily fell out of the sky and dropped the flying boat a few dozen meters of altitude.
"Uff!" his copilot muttered.
"We're just about out of it, kid," O'Reilly replied. "The Brits said the Jerries are still operating west of the storm line, about sixty kilos west, so we should be out of this muck soon. How's the temperature on the number three Pegasus?"
"High, but not as high as it was," the copilot replied. "Seems to be within safety margins still."
"It's getting old, like me," O'Reilly commented. "I keep telling the Squadron Boss that-"
"Hey skipper!" the waist gunner interrupted on the intercom. "I saw a wake, bearing... lost it in the muck, sir, but it was bearing four o'clock."
O'Reilly glanced over at his copilot before toggling his microphone. "Confirm that for me, Bill. You saw a wake bearing four o'clock?"
"I did, skipper. Saw it for a few moments. Might have just been a fisherman - really brief glimpse."
"Think we should go take a look?" the copilot asked.
"Might as well. It's probably just some fisherman out for a pleasure-cruise in cod-infested waters," O'Reilly replied. "But we'll give it a go." He advanced the four throttles and adjusted the flaps, then slid the Sunderland into a gentle turn, marred only by one spot of light turbulence.
"Should be coming up on the starboard side..."
The copilot pointed. "There. Right there, trawler at one o'clock. Little fellow, looks to be about two hundred, two fifty tons max."
O'Reilly sat up straighter in his seat to get a good look, and jumped when a streak of light erupted from the trawler's bridge and rose towards the Sunderland, crossing slowly in front of their nose and nearly hitting the plane.
"Jaysus!" O'Reilly barked. "He needs to be more careful with those distress flares, he almost hit us. Okay, I'm taking us around for another run - low and slow. He's signalling distress, so let's look for what's up." He glanced at the copilot. "Pay attention, kid; keep talking to me."
"Sorry sir. Second time out. He looked to have a mess on his deck - a lot of nets."
"Right. There he is again..."
"Signal lamp," the nose gunner reported. "P, A, N, P, A... he's signalling a pan-pan medico, skipper."
"Lovely," O'Reilly said, setting the Sunderland in a slow-and-low orbit around the trawler. "Eoin, break out your lamp and see what he's got to say."
Four wide circles later, the co-pilot presented his notes to O'Reilly. "Signal says the ship's got three men with multiple broken bones; there are two uninjured men aboard - the helmsman and chief engineer. Looks like we're talking with the helmsman, sir. His deck's all a mess, and it looks like part of his mast came down. Ship's Nordish-flagged out of Reykjavik; he's making passable English, but not outstanding. He requests medical help, and says he has no radio."
"Cheapskate trawlermen. What's he doing on the Atlantic with no bloody radio?" O'Reilly replied peevishly, eying the fuel gauges. "We've got enough juice for another two or three hours before we need to head back to Foynes."
"Will we need to set down and help him?" the copilot asked.
"Sea condition is rough enough that I don't want to try that unless it's a mayday emergency. Better to get a ship to respond to this, at least in this weather." O'Reilly considered his options. "All right, I know what we can do. Those German warships are less than a hundred kay-ems west of here, and they've likely got some medical perso-" WHUMP! "Damn turbulence! They've likely got some medical personnel who could be of assistance. Get back to Sparks and get him to repeat the message in the clear; then get back up here and break out your signal lamp."
A half hour later, though, the Sunderland's radio operator poked his head into the cockpit. "Skipper, I've been transmitting this pan-pan can for a half hour now; I've not received any replies."
O'Reilly glanced over his shoulder. "Any reason you can tell, Sparks?"
"Might be atmospherics. I didn't have any issues transmitting when we left Foynes, and the gear all seems to be working okay. But I don't know that anything's going out, and I know I'm not getting anything coming back in."
"Eoin, signal the trawler that we're going to duck out west for a bit," O'Reilly said. "Thanks Sparks - keep trying, and let me know if you get anything."
Once the copilot finished transmitting with the blinker light, O'Reilly leveled out the wings and climbed back to seven hundred meters, adjusting the throttles and flaps for best cruising performance. It only took ten minutes for the weather to break as the aircraft passed through the tail end of the storm front.
"There. Large warship at eleven o'clock," Eoin said. "Large warship at twelve o'clock. Small warships at... wow."
"That is a sight, isn't it," O'Reilly admitted. "Sparks, we can see the German ships; your radio working yet?"
"I'm not sure, sir. I'm still hearing chatter on a channel or two, but I can't seem to talk out on them. No responses to any of my calls."
"Get your blinker light out again, Eoin," O'Reilly instructed. "I'll take us low and slow over the Jerries, and you get the message out."