The Glory Boys (14 page)

Spiers stopped on the ladder. “I’ll get a couple of hands to swab the deck when they’ve finished topping up.” He was already gesturing to someone, but looked up again, and his voice was only loud enough to carry above the engines. “We’re going to fight, then?”

He dropped to the deck without waiting for a reply.

Turnbull stepped down from the wheel and waited while the stand-by helmsman repeated the course and speed before handing over.

“Just keep your eyes on
Minden
, my lad. Don’t want to blot our copybook with the brass watching us.” He tapped his arm. “And for God’s sake drop in at the barber’s shop when we get back to base, or they’ll think we’ve got Wrens on board!”

The seaman grinned, while swearing under his breath.

Bloody coxswain. Is that all he can think about?

Turnbull made his way aft. He knew exactly what he thought, what they all thought. Expected …

He watched the sea, creaming astern and spreading out to the thrust of the screws. There was a breeze now, but not enough to kill the stench of petrol. Two hands were already hosing down the deck. Jimmy the One was detailing some others to collect the empty mugs from the gun mountings, which were still manned and ready for any more snooping aircraft.

He looked at the sea far astern. Like a desert. Not like all those other times. He unclenched his fist. Who would know, out here? Who would care?

Spiers was stooping beside a winch, and he knew why: it was where young Irwin had died. He thought of Kearton again. That was the real difference between the skipper and Jimmy the One. Kearton had raised hell to get the dead sailor properly taken care of, and to ensure that burial arrangements were completed, because 992 would be at sea when it was carried out. He had heard Spiers remark, “It happens. Tears won’t bring him back.”

In many ways Spiers was a good officer, one to serve and to respect. But that was not always enough.

Spiers saw him and said sharply, “Nothing to do, Cox’n? I’ll have to change that!”

Turnbull touched his cap and relaxed a little. That was more like it.

“I just want to be sure everyone knows.…” Spiers looked past him. “Ah, there you are, Jay. I’ll want you with me to check the starboard tube.”

“Done it, sir.” He was brushing biscuit crumbs off his chin. “But if you’d like to go through it again?”

Chalk and cheese, Turnbull thought. Laurie Jay was their leading torpedoman, and, next to Dawson, the senior hand on 992’s messdeck. Thin and loose-limbed, he was reliable and hard-working, both in the running of the daily routine and his prime concern, the ‘tin fish’. Like himself, Jay was a regular, and had been a submariner until his boat had been bombed, depth-charged and sunk by German aircraft off the coast of Norway some eighteen months before. He was not an easy man to know. Friendly enough, but very withdrawn. Another survivor.

When a very young seaman had asked him why he had quit the submarine service, Jay had replied, “Too quiet for my taste.” They had left it at that.

Jay came originally from Birmingham, ‘Brum’, as he called it, about as far as you could be from the sea in England. Turnbull sometimes wondered how he had come to put his name down for the Andrew in the first place.

Jay was holding up a pair of pliers now.

“I’ve got to drop into the W/T office, sir. Something needs fixing.” He did not explain. Torpedomen were expected to be able to repair almost anything, from a lethal detonator to a reading-light in the chartroom.

Spiers grunted.

“Report to me when you’ve finished.” He looked at his watch. “And don’t make a meal of it!”

He strode away.

Turnbull said, “He’s got a lot on his plate at the moment.”

Jay smiled coldly. “Tough!”

A figure hurried past an engineroom ventilator, heading for the bridge, and Turnbull was glad of the interruption without knowing why.

“Must be a flap on to make young Sparks shift like that.”

Jay clicked the pliers in his hand.

“Looks like the W/T office’ll have to wait.” He looked over at the nearest M.T.B. “It’s why we’re all here.”

Turnbull recovered his balance as the hull staggered beneath him, and vibrated in protest to a sudden reduction in speed, as if the bows were plunging into a solid wave.

He should have been prepared.
Why we’re here
. The stark brevity of the comment made it worse.

The other boats were also reducing speed, their bows dropping in welters of spray. Not an engine failure, so it had to be a signal. He turned quickly, but Jay had disappeared.

“Cox’n to the bridge!”

Turnbull tugged down the peak of his cap and climbed into the bridge.
No looking back
. And here, there was no escape.

KEARTON STOOD ON
the starboard side of the bridge, his elbow wedged against some voicepipes. Not that he needed any support; apart from a slight swell, the sea was like a millpond. And it was dark, no horizon, the stars faint and scattered. He listened to the engines, throttled down to a steady, regular twelve knots, so that other, insignificant sounds were audible. The creak of the wheel, the rattle of signal halliards from the solitary mast, and always the movement of the bridge machine-guns: to check the sighting, or simply to ease the cramp in a seaman’s legs.

It seemed nothing had changed since they had received the signal, and had altered course in response to its command.

He had watched the two destroyers fading into the distance, as if they and not the three M.T.B.s had altered course. At this moment, they were steering almost southeast, retracing those same lines on Ainslie’s chart. Back into the Strait.
Just us
.

An enemy transport, a lighter of some kind, had been reported heading south, following the Italian coast. It was carrying a full load of mines. Scattered ahead of the expected convoy, that could mean disaster, not only for the convoy but for Malta.

The lighter, if that was an accurate description, had been lying at Naples, but how good was the information?

Minden
had picked up another aircraft on her radar, but none of the lookouts had sighted it. The pilot had either been satisfied with their course and position, or the plan had already been changed.

It reminded Kearton, not for the first time, of something an old hand in Coastal Forces had said, back in those early ‘Channel days’. “Decide what the enemy is preparing to do, and plan your attack accordingly. Then you can be sure the enemy will do precisely the opposite!” But it had not saved
him
.

His mind took him around the hull. Gun crews and lookouts, damage-control party, mechanics, telegraphists. Like Weston, who had brought the signal to the bridge. Recommended for a commission but dropped for some reason, although there was nothing shown against him on his papers. Ainslie liked him, and had said as much.

Kearton peered forward at the two-pounder’s faint outline, its crew huddled out of sight. A useful gun on a power-operated mounting. And the twin Oerlikons abaft the bridge, which could inflict terrible damage with their six hundred rounds a minute per gun.

He pictured the boats astern, but did not turn to look. Any sign of restlessness could be seen as doubt, or lack of confidence.

He heard footsteps: Spiers coming back after checking the depth-charges. Lighters were usually of shallow draught, and torpedoes, even at a minimum setting, would often run beneath them without exploding. An official warning on the subject had been issued by their lordships: cost versus results. It had provoked some outspoken reactions from Coastal Forces. No doubt the situation looked very different when viewed from across a desk.

“All checked and in order, sir.” Spiers stretched both arms and then interlaced his fingers, and cracked the knuckles. “I wonder if it’s still on?”

“We’ll have to stick it out. Otherwise it’ll be back to Malta, and try again later.”

Spiers rubbed his hand along the screen. “This cloak-and-dagger stuff is reliable up to a point, but I’ve known it misfire on a couple of occasions.” He dropped his voice. “I sometimes think they’re still fighting the Battle of Jutland!” Then, surprisingly, his teeth showed in a smile. “But I agree. We should stick it out.”

Kearton said, “I’ll be in the chartroom. Won’t be long. Call me.”

It was hard to think of anything but
here
and
now
. But he knew it was the closest they had been since that first day at the Rock.

The light in the chartroom came on as Kearton clipped the door behind him. He could feel the fan on his face, but after the open bridge the air was stale by comparison.

Ainslie straightened up as he rested both hands on the chart.

Kearton stared at the pencilled figures, times and distances, and had to look away. They seemed to blur, like a warning.

He said quietly, “Finished?” and was surprised by its casualness.

Ainslie tapped the chart with his pencil, a habit he no longer noticed.

“Like you said, Skipper. It’s today. Has to be. If we believe the signal, it’s all a matter of daylight. No captain in his right mind would risk parading a cargo of mines within striking distance of Malta.” When Kearton remained silent he tapped the chart again. “Pantelleria. We’ll be passing immediately south of the main island in an hour, give or take a few minutes.” He attempted to smile, but it eluded him. “I’ve been over it several times, and even allowing—”

He looked at the pencil. He had broken the point.

Kearton said, “Pantelleria has been a thorn in our sides ever
since
Mussolini opted into the war.” He was thinking aloud, seeing it. “Good harbour. Big enough to transfer the mines to faster, smaller craft.” He looked at him steadily. “When it’ll be too late to do anything.”

Ainslie hesitated. “But if I’m wrong?”

Kearton was at the door.

“And if you’re right? We’re steering across the bastard’s path!” He glanced back. “Keep with me, Pilot. Together, right?”

“But—suppose—”

He waited for the light to die and tugged open the door.

“Sarah will be proud of you!”

He sensed Spiers had been waiting for him as he appeared on the bridge, and Turnbull was turning quickly from the wheel, but his face was in darkness. He groped for the R/T handset, his mind closed to everything else.

“
Growler
to all units.” He wanted to shake it; it felt dead in his hand. Hearing another voice, one of the maintenance staff, warning all of them.

This R/T system is entirely new, experimental. Sometimes unreliable
.

He repeated, “
Growler
to all units. Stop your engines. Listening Watch.” Like hearing a stranger. “Prepare for action!”

“Acknowledged, sir.”

He replaced the handset. He felt the engines quiver, then fall silent for the first time.

Turnbull was watching the compass, ticking aimlessly out of control as the hull swayed in the swell. This was not the time for anyone with a weak stomach.

He braced his legs and stared into the darkness, but saw only his reflection in the screen, catching the faint glow from the compass. Now, the waiting game …

He thought of Kearton’s voice on the R/T intercom. Calm, unhurried, leaving no room for doubt or panic. He had sensed the flash of impatience when the transmission had failed. And
why
not? It was his decision, right or wrong, and their lives might depend on it.

He steadied himself against the motionless wheel as the hull pitched steeply again, and spray splashed over the screen. Someone was retching. Even the toughest sailor could only take so much.

“Go to him, Ellis. Fetch a bucket.” He felt his own stomach contract.

Ainslie called, “Do what you can, but don’t be too long about it!”

Turnbull took another deep breath of the salt-laden air. The young lieutenant didn’t sound too good himself.
Roll on my twelve
…

He heard Spiers ask, “Maybe we should get under way, sir? Do another sweep astern?”

Kearton had moved to the forepart of the bridge, his back toward them.

“Not yet. Too soon.” He might have turned, perhaps to look astern for their two consorts. “If we keep together …” He broke off as the bucket clattered on the deck. “If you want to do something, Number One …” He moved to the compass, and said again, “Too soon.”

Right forward from the bridge, Able Seaman Glover twisted round in the two-pounder’s turret and grinned at his companion.

“Bloody boat’s fallin’ apart!” He shook his fist. “If you’re goin’ to spew up, shift yerself right now, chum, not in ’ere!”

He peered across the gunlayer’s sights and saw a solitary star. A touch on the training handle and the power-operated mounting purred into life, the stubby barrel moving instantly. He grinned again. “
Magic!
” But he was alone; he could guess what his Number Two was doing.

He touched the gun again. But not here.
Not bloody likely
.

He stared directly ahead: it was like standing alone in the eyes of the ship. Just the curve of the bows, and then the sea.
Nothing
else. It gave the gun a maximum training ability. There was a safety rail between it and the bridge, in case he got carried away and blew it all to blazes, officers and all. He had often entertained himself with the thought.

He leaned his back against the steel, the safest spot in the whole boat.

He had been in the gunnery branch since he had joined, and he had volunteered, if only to avoid conscription into some dreary regiment with a load of squaddies. He had been working at their local grocer’s shop at the time, as the errand boy, pedalling up and down those dismal rain-swept streets with a fully loaded carrier, two at weekends, because his boss, Nobby Clark, was too mean to buy a van. He could still see his face that day.
The war’ll be over by Christmas
. And,
Don’t expect to find this job still waiting for you when you come running home
. Some hopes. He shook his head.
Some job
.

Mister
Clark, as he liked to be called, expected hard graft for his money, at all hours. There were a few tips, half a crown for an extra heavy load maybe, and a few pints of mild-and-bitter to lay the dust.