The Glory Boys (19 page)

He stood up and stretched. Perhaps they had a tennis court or club in Malta, war or no war. Or was that, too, for senior officers only?

There was a party on tonight aboard 977, Geoff Mostyn’s boat, and there would be some hard drinking, unless there was another air raid …

He looked at his watch. Kearton would send word when he was free to return. In the meantime, all the non-duty hands were ashore on local leave. Despite all the restrictions, Kearton had managed to find time to fix that. They had been cheering about it, until somebody had quelled the noise with threats.

He glanced around the cabin again, and reached for his cap. Like listening to excuses at the defaulters’ table; he had done that often enough.

It was not envy. It was jealousy.

Most of 992’s libertymen got no further than the wet canteen which was within sight of the mooring-place. Sailors were like that, believing in
the devil you know
. It was often safer.

A few stayed alone. Knowing why, but trying to come to terms with it.

Leading Torpedoman Laurie Jay found himself at the far end of the jetty, beyond the pontoons. Deserted now, or merely avoided because of the din being made by the dockyard workers.

Jay had not intended to come here, just as, in his heart, he had known that he would. From the moment they had been guided to these moorings the first time by the pilot boat, he had accepted the inevitable.

There had been a submarine lying alongside, deserted, resting, only her ensign moving. And deadly.

The berth was empty now. The submarine had probably moved over the water to Manoel Island, north of Valletta, where they had their own workshops and headquarters, or maybe she was at sea again. Cruising at periscope-depth in search of a target, a victim. Or running deep, with all hell breaking loose above and around her.

He walked to the water’s edge and looked down at his reflection. Tall and smart in his best tiddley-suit, a pusser’s raincoat over his arm.

He could not get used to it. Accept it. It was like being somebody else, an imposter. Even now, if he passed another sailor with the coveted cap tally,
H.M. Submarines
, he somehow expected to know the face, or to be recognized. He was thirty years old, or would be in a few weeks’ time, and one of the oldest members of the crew, and in the flotilla. He should be over it, or have cracked up by now.

Everything was completely different. Which was why he had requested the transfer from submarines to Coastal Forces and M.T.B.s. Movement, light, noise. Able to breathe. To escape.

And just occasionally it hit back at you. In Gosport after he had completed his transfer, he had come face to face with a chief petty officer outside H.M.S.
Dolphin
, the submarine base.
An
old instructor, or a one-time shipmate. The link was always there.

But the name of his last submarine had been enough. H.M. Submarine
Saturn
. The look of pity, or the look that said,
Why you, and not all those other poor blokes?

And again, recently, when they had altered course and risked their own safety to pick up the sole survivor from a U-Boat. He had gone below to see the survivor for himself. Wrapped in blankets, shivering uncontrollably as Pug Dawson was trying to pour some rum into him.

It had been like looking at himself.

He had heard that the skipper had been in the drink, and saved by the skin of his teeth. That might explain a lot, and why he had acted without hesitation.

He could remember
Saturn
’s commander quite clearly. Saying good-bye to his young wife within a few weeks of the war, which everybody knew was coming. She had been smiling, but dabbing her eyes at the same time. His son, a small child, laughing and trying to salute everybody.

Again, leading the wild cheering after their torpedoes had sent two freighters to the bottom.

And the last time, at the periscope and shouting,
“Dive! Dive! Dive!”
Like a scream. When it was already too late.

Another world. He could still strip or activate a torpedo in the dark, or with his eyes shut if necessary, but it was all so different.

He thought of one of the doctors at the naval hospital, so young that he must have been a medical student before he had put on a uniform. The red cloth between his two wavy stripes had obviously convinced him he was God.

“You’ll have to learn to
adapt
, Jay. Or you’ll go under!” He had not even recognized his own stupid joke.

“You’re a bit off the beaten track, chum! Nothin’ up here but the smell!”

Jay turned, caught unawares, but managed to smile. “Just stretching my legs.”

It was Glover, a tough, experienced seaman, and the gunlayer on their two-pounder. Nicknamed Cock on the messdeck, probably because he was a Londoner and a true Cockney, or maybe for more personal reasons. From some of the yarns Jay had heard around the messdeck table, Glover always enjoyed a run ashore in the fullest sense.

Cap at a rakish angle, and a bright new gunnery badge on his sleeve, Glover was most people’s idea of ‘Jack’.

Glover kicked some gravel into the water and grinned. “Thought you was thinkin’ of doin’ yerself in!”

Jay tensed, and allowed himself to relax.

He said, “Do you fancy a wet?”

Glover looked at him thoughtfully. He half wondered what he was doing here, and why he had caught up with Jay. They lived side by side on the messdeck: in M.T.B.s and most small craft you expected that. Jay was a leading hand, friendly enough when you could drag a few words out of him. But still a stranger.

Jay looked back along the jetty. Men were still working aboard and alongside their boat. Noise, questions that needed answering. The duty hands would deal with those.

He said, “The canteen? I’m not sure. I’ve heard …”

Glover shook his head.

“Nah! Full of bloody pongos and so-called sailors who’ve never been to sea since they joined!” He shrugged. “You’re a regular—you must ’ave bin ashore in Malta in the good old days?”

Jay looked toward the gates and the road.

“I was here a couple of years back. It’s all changed since then. The bombing. Shortages.” He could feel Glover’s eyes on him. Offering something. “If you like, we could take a look. There was one place …” He broke off. He was already out of his depth.

It made him think of that young doctor again, and he found that he was smiling in earnest.

“Might be lousy.”

Glover’s grin widened in anticipation.

“A few jars, maybe some music.” He gestured rudely with his forearm. “Maybe a bit of the other to round things off!”

They walked toward the gates where a regulating petty officer, one of the Jaunty’s little team, was already watching their approach.

Jay said, “We have to be back aboard by twenty-two hundred.”

Glover straightened his cap.

“No problem. On an’ off like a fly, that’s me!”

Jay pulled out his makeshift leave pass, and saw the R.P.O. glance from it to the anchor on his sleeve.

But he could still hear the pompous young doctor.

You’ll have to learn to adapt
.

He wanted to laugh, for the first time since he could remember. But he knew he would be unable to stop.

The location chosen for the meeting with the V.I.P. from London was not what Kearton had expected. He thought of his father: it was more like one of the building sheds back at the boatyard, long and low, with one end just a few feet from the water.

Captain Garrick returned some salutes, and remarked, “You’d think Churchill himself was coming. Maybe he has!”

There were plenty of vehicles, too. Staff cars, and jeeps, and a larger van with scarlet-painted wings: the bomb-disposal squad. Not much evidence here of a fuel shortage.

Kearton glanced over at Garrick, fresh-faced and smartly turned-out, his fine cap at a slight angle. Alert and apparently untroubled. Only once, when a man in civilian clothes who was standing with two redcaps stepped forward to mutter something
about
Kearton’s identification, did he display any irritation.

“He’s with
me
, for God’s sake!” The man vanished.

Inside the building, it was already difficult to move. There seemed to be dozens of officers, blue and khaki, and even a sprinkling of R.A.F. types. Some were quite senior, managing to keep a little apart from the rest. Kearton saw the same loud-mouthed brigadier, but he was quiet this time, almost subdued in the presence of his superiors.

Chairs had been arranged in rows, according to rank, or the relevance of this meeting. Most of the chairs were labelled. Garrick’s was in the second row, and the one beside it was marked with a number.

Garrick waved casually to a couple of uniforms, and nodded to a few others, then he sat down, tapping the other chair. “Hope this doesn’t take all day. The gunners have their mess next door … This crowd would drink the place dry in no time!” He laughed and hung his arm over the chairback. Relaxed but in control: how most people saw him, remembered him.

Kearton looked down. There were still flakes of sawdust on his shoes. He wondered how Spiers was coping with the clutter and the noise, all the reminders of that swift, devastating encounter.

Someone cleared his throat noisily, like a signal, and everybody stood.

Sir Piers Lampton was slightly built, and flanked by the Chief of Staff and a major-general he looked almost frail. Very tanned, a neat military-style moustache white against his skin; voice clipped, incisive. He was well known on the wireless in times of crisis or triumph, and seen in the more popular newspapers, often depicted amongst uniforms of all three services, as well as with civilians at war. A rising star in government circles, it was said, especially by the press.

Kearton had already seen Max Hardy in the room, near the front. Security did not apply to him, apparently.

The Chief of Staff murmured a brief introduction and Lampton stood up. He leaned slightly forward, his knuckles touching but not resting on the prepared lectern.

He had come a long way, from London and, someone had mentioned, Cairo, but his well-cut grey suit was not even creased. He might have just stepped out of his office, or a club in Mayfair.

“Gentlemen.” He smiled. “You may smoke.”

He did not add,
if you must
, although Kearton had heard that on other occasions. Garrick had slipped one hand into his pocket. It stayed there.

Kearton recalled his delight when he had returned the lighter; it had been one of those rare moments.

“God, I thought I’d lost it! She’d never forgive me!”

Who, he wondered? Garrick was not married, although it had been a close thing once or twice, or so he had heard.

The clipped voice was saying, “Here, in the Mediterranean theatre of war, and now, for the first time, we can forget hopes and fears of survival.” He had paused, and his eyes, very pale against the tan, seemed to traverse the room. “
Now
, we can plan progression and attack.” He tapped the table very lightly with his knuckles. “The road to Europe, and victory!”

There was an outburst of clapping, tentative at first, and then deafening. Kearton heard Garrick murmur, “For Christ’s sake get on with it!” although he had seen him initiate the applause.

Lampton continued, and Max Hardy had opened a pad and was scribbling what might have been shorthand.

Lampton touched loosely on the campaign in North Africa, and the vital role of the Eighth Army, holding the Afrika Korps almost at the gates of Cairo before tipping the scales into a retreat. Somehow he managed to include all three services, even the Merchant Navy, when he mentioned the convoys, and Malta’s triumph over overwhelming odds. “There was a time when we believed,
feared
—”

Kearton did not hear the rest; Garrick had tapped his arm and was whispering loudly, “They thought Malta had had it, and would have left ’em to it!”

A colonel with red tabs on his tunic twisted round in his chair and glared.

Garrick muttered, “You, too!”

It was soon over, more applause, and the flash of a camera, although not Hardy’s. The Chief of Staff waited while a few introductions were made. The names were all on a typed list.

Lampton shook Garrick’s hand, looking steadily up at him.

“The First Lord speaks highly of you, Captain Garrick. When I return, I intend to speak with the P.M. at the earliest opportunity …” He smiled as the Chief of Staff murmured something. “Would that I had more time, Captain Garrick. However …”

Garrick said, “I’d like to introduce one of my team, Sir Piers. Lieutenant-Commander Kearton is very experienced in close action.”

Lampton smiled again, dismissing him.

“Another time, perhaps. I am already hard-pressed.” He held out his hand. “Remember,
attack
!”

The Chief of Staff said, “This way, Sir Piers. The Admiral, remember?” He looked quickly at Garrick. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Dick. Big day.”

He turned and steered Lampton past another group of officers.

Garrick picked up his cap angrily.

“Silly bastard! What does he mean,
attack
? What the hell does he imagine we’ve been doing?” The mood passed, and he was outwardly calm again; like a sudden squall, Kearton thought. “I’ll tell Brice to chase up the repair work. In the meantime, you’ll be on call for the new arrivals.” He looked at him sardonically. “And any sudden flap which may arise to disrupt Sir Piers’
vital
visit!”

A lieutenant who had been hovering on the fringe of the V.I.P.s’ reception committee hurried through the departing uniforms.

Garrick recognized him.

“Changed his mind, has he?”

The lieutenant said formally, “The Chief of Staff sends his compliments, sir.”

Garrick gave a little, ironic smile.

“And wants me to join him
and
Sir Piers right away?”

He put on his cap, and adjusted it with care.

“One of these days …” He nodded to the lieutenant. “Be
honoured
!” And winked. “England expects!”

He was halfway to the door when he turned and looked back.