The Glory Boys (25 page)

He shook himself mentally. The constant strain was having its effect.

He said, “I’ll take over, Mark One. South-east, all the way to the rendezvous!”

Warren nodded. “Fingers crossed. Bob Kearton won’t let us down. I’m just damned glad to be out of that place.” He looked astern, but Jethro was on the ladder, blocking his view.

He stood beneath the flag, one foot poised in the air. No anger; he might even have been smiling, but his face was in shadow.

“I think I smell fresh coffee.” Then he looked directly at him. “As you said,
Mister
Warren. It’s your decision!”

They watched him leave the bridge and waited until the hatch slammed behind him.

Warren said in an undertone, “One of these days …” and did not finish it. Then he said, “I’ll be in the chart space.” He gave a mock bow. “
Your
domain, I believe. Call me. Anything—call me, right?”

Ainslie watched him go, pausing on his way to speak to some of the men on deck.

He pulled on his jacket and looked at his wrist for the first time since dawn. The memory was like a hand reaching out, and he thought of his girl and the letter he would write.

He gazed at the horizon, shining now in full daylight, showing the way, and he understood. Toby Warren had nobody, and nothing beyond this moment.

He tugged out his rough logbook and strode to the compass.

And the moment was now
.

“Ring down, full ahead!”

Kearton heard a sudden click and knew it was the chartroom door. Not loud, but he had been expecting it. And, from the first hint of daylight, dreading it.

Everything was visible now: shadows, gun crews and lookouts had become people again, faces and expressions he recognized.

He stared at the sea in the strengthening light, the swell unbroken, lifting occasionally as if it were breathing.

In a few more hours … he stopped the thought. It had been a dangerous risk from the start, from the moment Garrick’s signal had been decoded.

He saw the seaman at the wheel, moving occasionally with the spokes, and the bearded coxswain standing nearby, immobile, as he had stood since they had all been called to their action stations. Ready to take over the helm and, if necessary, the bridge. Outwardly watching and listening, but, like the others, hoping, maybe praying, for another chance. They had trusted him. But there had been no choice.

Lieutenant John Stirling was here now, his eyes everywhere, strained but alert.
His boat. His men
.

“Time to alter course, sir. Make another sweep to the nor’west. I was thinking …”

Kearton looked at him.

“This is all a waste of time? That we’ve risked too much already? Is that what you think, John?”

Stirling shook his head. “We both knew the risk—I guess we all did. Choice never came into it.” He glanced at the sky. “But time is against us, and we’re like sitting ducks out here.”

Kearton moved to the opposite side, and knew one of the lookouts had turned. Waiting. They all were.

Stirling joined him and lowered his voice. “Something must have misfired with
Retriever
. A last-minute change in the pickup, or maybe they had engine trouble—ran out of gas?”

Kearton touched his arm. “Or were captured.” But he knew Stirling had already considered the possibilities, and what it was costing him right now. He glanced up at the flag, scarcely moving in the damp air.
Sitting ducks
.

But instead he saw Ainslie’s face. Young. Determined. Trusting.

He turned abruptly.

“Make a signal, John.
Returning to base
. Give our approximate position, and estimated time of arrival. And let me know when it’s coded up and ready to go.”

“I’ll deal with it myself.” But Stirling did not move. “Nobody will blame us, sir.”

Then he walked to the ladder which led directly to the deck. Cusack, his first lieutenant, had already appeared to take his place. Nothing was said, but the whole boat would know by now. There were very few secrets in ‘the little ships’.

Stirling was feeling it badly. He had wanted to share all the responsibility from the beginning. But only one could carry it.

Kearton walked to the forepart of the bridge and saw the low
bow
wave curling away from the stem, the only visible movement. The sea was empty, shining from horizon to horizon, but without warmth.

Or is it me?

He had his hand in his pocket and could feel his pipe there, the one which had been repaired. Not to impress or gain favour. And folded against it, the same handkerchief, still unused since she had returned it.

Small, unimportant things.

And yet … Like the moment when Garrick’s signal had arrived. Half asleep in the chartroom chair, mind tense but empty. Then suddenly wide awake, as if he were being summoned.

He saw Cusack swing round, and the coxswain pushing himself away from the voicepipes, as if he had shouted at them.

“Call Number One! Belay that signal!”

He heard someone call out from the deck and saw the burly coxswain respond with a thumbs-up.

But nobody spoke. They probably thought their senior officer was having a mental breakdown. Most of them would know of his experience prior to this appointment, and that story would have lost nothing in the telling.

Stirling was here; he must have run all the way from the W/T office.

They faced each other across the bridge.

“Told Sparks to hold fast, sir.”

Kearton stood by the compass. How many times? How many miles? Like hearing a strange voice; but it was his own.

“Stop engines!”

He heard the muffled response from the engineroom, and felt the deck shudder as the shafts spun to a halt. The silence was immediate, the hull swaying, slower to respond, gear and fittings clattering as the way fell off completely.

The coxswain cleared his throat. “All stopped, sur.”

Kearton stood by the screen and stared through the dried salt
stains
, toward the bows. Beyond the two-pounder, its crew on their feet, looking aft toward the bridge. At him, and at the horizon line, etched sharply now, tilting from side to side as if in an attempt to dislodge this small, unmoving and solitary vessel.

The silence was complete, closing over him like the sea.

Stirling was waiting. Maybe thankful that it was all over, or soon would be.

He looked at the opposite horizon, still a fraction darker, or some distorted reflection of the island.

“Should I carry on, sir?” Stirling sounded hoarse, as if he had been holding his breath.

They were all waiting. Down in the engineroom the Chief would be itching to throw the switches, sick of the motion. And of the man who was causing it.

He blinked, but there was nothing. He knew Stirling had spoken again, but that, too, was lost.

He had cupped his hands around his ears and heard the sea slopping against the hull. He stood on one of the gratings, as if to gain a few more inches. It was pointless.

“Very well, John—” and froze, unable to move. Like those long-lost nights with his father, waiting, staring at the sky, for the fireworks at a local regatta.
Just be patient, Bobby
.

His feet hit the deck and he almost fell.

“Tell the Chief to give me all he’s got!” He saw Stirling swinging round toward him. “
Gunfire!
Stand by to alter course!”

He shouted as the engines roared into life. “Make this signal!
Operation Retriever. Enemy north-west. Am attacking!
”

Stirling had gone, and men were standing or crouching at their stations again, as if suddenly brought back to life.

He wedged his elbows against a rail and tried to hold his binoculars steady against the motion as the boat gathered speed, all else drowned by the roar of her engines.

He saw another flash, on a different bearing as they ploughed across their own wash and picked up the new course. It was hidden immediately by the spray bursting over the bows, and sweeping the bridge like tropical rain.

It was enough.
Am attacking
.

Petty Officer Harry Turnbull reached the top of another flight of stone steps and paused to draw breath. It was not far from the moorings to the various official buildings, but he had lost count of the times he had done it, as if he had been walking for miles.
Out of shape
. Common enough when you served your time in Coastal Forces, where there was not enough space to stretch your legs, or a deck you could call your own. It was an excuse, anyway.

He glanced at the steps, worn down over the years. Centuries of feet. Different voices, strange uniforms. It would be good to get back to sea.
For a bit of peace
.

His mouth lifted at the absurdity of the thought.

He looked at the sky, overcast again. It might invite another sneak raid, but they weren’t quite so cheeky now, despite the shortness of the flight from their bases in Sicily. He saw one of the heavily sandbagged pillboxes, guns pointing across the bombed building toward the harbour beyond. There were more fighter planes on the repaired airstrips as well, and he had heard that others had arrived with the convoy.

He loosened his cap.
The convoy
. Like some miracle everyone had been hoping for, but had been afraid to mention. Just in case …

He had been on his feet since its arrival, and earlier, when they had watched the Canadian M.T.B. slipping out past the old fortress with the captured Italian in tow. He thought of all those other times. Ships you had known, faces remembered. You tried to keep it all at a distance, if only for your own sanity. But this was different. It was personal.

The work of unloading was in full swing, the harbour alive with lighters and countless local craft, and the repairs to vessels damaged already under way.

The work on 992 was almost finished, although, as with all dockyard mateys, you had to make sure they weren’t dragging their feet, war or no war. He saw some men lounging by one of the ancient walls: soldiers, sailors, or civilians, it was often hard to tell in the overalls, boiler suits and odds and ends they wore. Pausing for a cigarette, one already puffing at his pipe, at ease, with nobody yelling orders to shatter the moment.

Turnbull walked past them. The rolled stretchers, still bloody, told the true story.

But now all he had to do was round up the last of their working party, who had been clearing space, not for stores from the convoy, but for beds.

He quickened his pace. A petty officer was standing with some of them, and glanced up from his list.

“All yours, Harry. Time for a tot. At last!”

Turnbull was looking past him. There was a van standing between the open gates, the bonnet still shimmering with heat, and a sentry talking to the driver. It was an ambulance.

The other P.O. said, “Some of our lot. The convoy. One of the escorts caught it.”

Turnbull nodded non-committally, ashamed that he felt something like relief.

“Which one, d’you know?”

The ambulance was moving away.

“Destroyer, the
Kinsale
. Tin-fished, then bombed, poor bastards.”

Turnbull pushed open the double-doors. The air was cool, even fresh, so the power was operational again. Someone had said it had been knocked out in the last hit-and-run air raid.

It was wrong, but he hated hospitals. Ever since … He made himself relax, unwind.

So, back to the boat, maybe a tot with Jock Laidlaw. And try to be patient …

Then a woman’s voice.

“I’m not a nurse, but I’ll stay with him.”

Another door swung open and a soldier ran past them. He was wearing a Red Cross armband, and had what appeared to be a loose dressing trailing from his jacket.

Turnbull said, “Here, let me!” His mind was completely clear, conscious of the urgency and of the girl who was crouching beside the only bed that was occupied. She was holding one of the man’s hands, the other resting on his hair or forehead.

“Try to lie still. Help is coming.” A pause, and she glanced up over her shoulder at Turnbull. “It’s going to be all right.”

He was young, very young, and his face was the colour of the crumpled sheet. A sailor’s blue jersey lay on the floor where it had fallen.

Turnbull said, “I’m here.” It was something to say, an offer of reassurance when he knew there was none.

The same dark hair and profile, even the voice he remembered when he had seen her with the Skipper, walking with him on the ramp.

She said, “They’re coming now.” But she was still looking at Turnbull, and her eyes were pleading.

The young sailor gazed up at her, as if seeing her for the first time.

“Sorry—about—this.” He reached out as if to touch her face, but his hand fell against her breast. Then he said, “My first ship,” and his hand dropped.

Turnbull put his arm around her and helped her to her feet. There were blood smears on her breast, and she covered them with her hand.

She said, “He’s off the
Kinsale
,” then she stared at Turnbull with recognition. “I didn’t realize.
You’re back
.”

There were more voices now, the sound of running feet. He wanted to explain, but all he saw was the old-fashioned clock above the door.
The time
… He had thought of little else since the Skipper had left harbour, without him.

“We’ll go somewhere. Where we can talk in peace.”

She did not protest as he walked beside her, holding her arm, but at the door she stopped, and looked back toward the bed.

He saw that her eyes were wet, but her voice was very calm.

“Safe voyage,” she said.

For one of them, it was over.

LIEUTENANT WARREN STOOD
at the rear of the bridge with one arm wrapped around part of the tripod mast in an attempt to train his binoculars. Apart from clambering up to the top, it was the highest point on the boat.

“Same bearing. Port bow. Altered course.” He swore under his breath as the hull dipped steeply in the swell, and he almost lost his balance. “We might give it the slip.”

Ainslie knew it was pointless to try and use his own binoculars. He watched the compass, and the helmsman’s hands easing the wheel this way and that to compensate for speed and rudders.