«As bad as that, Bill?»

«As bad as that, sir. We hadn't a chance. Straight up, we really hadn't. First off, the weather was against us — the jokers in the Met. office were about as right as they usually are.»

«They gave you clear weather?»

«Yeah. Clear weather. It was ten-tenths over the target,» Torrance said bitterly. «We had to go down to fifteen hundred. Not that it made any difference. We would have to have gone down lower than that anyway — about three thousand feet below sea-level, then fly up the way: that cliff overhang shuts the target clean off. Might as well have dropped a shower of leaflets asking them to spike their own bloody guns… . Then they've got every second A.A. gun in the south of Europe concentrated along this narrow 50-degree vector — the only way you can approach the target, or anywhere near the target. Russ and Conroy were belted good and proper on the way in. Didn't even get half-way towards the harbour… They never had a chance.»

«I know, I know.» The commodore, nodded heavily. «We heard. W/T reception was good… . And McIlveen ditched just north of Alex?»

«Yeah. But he'll be all right. The old crate was still awash when we passed over, the big dinghy was out and it was as smooth as a millpond. He'll be all right,» Torrance repeated.

The commodore nodded again, and Jensen touched his sleeve.

«May I have a word with the Squadron Leader?»

«Of course, Captain. You don't have to ask.»

«Thanks.» Jensen looked across at the burly Australian and smiled faintly.