The Glory Boys (32 page)

He shut it from his mind, and climbed up into the bridge.

Ainslie saluted. “Signal to proceed when ready, sir.”

So formal. Maybe that, too, was just as well.

He saw Turnbull beside the wheel with his extra helmsman, a lookout, and a telegraphist waiting by the signal lamp. The ‘little ships’ did not warrant a bunting-tosser.

The machine-guns were still hooded, unmanned.

He lifted his binoculars, but let them fall again.

She might be out there somewhere. Watching … It would be asking a lot.
From both of us
.

“Warn the Chief.”

“Done, sir.”

“All acknowledged, sir!”

He knew Turnbull was watching him, heard him say, “Like old times, sir.”

He knew
.

He raised his arm and saw Spiers salute.

“Let go, forrard!”

“All gone forrard, sir!”

“Let go, aft!”

He saw the frothing water, suddenly alive, the jetty slowly edging away.

“All gone aft, sir!”

He heard Ainslie call, “All
clear
aft, sir!”

“Slow ahead. Midships.”

The land was moving.

The rest was a dream.

“PORT WATCH AT
defence stations, sir.” Spiers turned away from the voicepipes and glanced across the bridge. He was standing only a few feet away and hardly raised his voice. A formality. Or to make sure that his commanding officer had not fallen asleep.

Kearton pushed himself away from the flag locker, smothering a yawn. Eight o’clock: the first watch. Never popular with sailors, it was neither night nor day.

He leaned against the side and felt the steady, regular motion. A steep swell, but otherwise the same. He had heard the routine reports as the watches changed: four hours on, and four off. Even when you stole an hour or so to sleep, there was always the risk of a sudden alarm. It would be their first night at sea, twelve hours exactly since they had slipped their moorings. After all the noise and bustle it seemed uncanny, the sea empty, disturbed only by their own engines, and the occasional moustache of the bow wave next astern, Geoff Mostyn’s 977. In line ahead, playing follow-my-leader, with one M.G.B. keeping well abeam to starboard as an extra precaution.

The nearest land was the Libyan coast, two hundred miles to the south, a place called Sirte, unknown to most sailors but familiar enough to Montgomery’s Eighth Army in their bloody fighting up to the turning point, the victory at El Alamein. Only
months
, and yet it seemed like a page of history.

He looked at the evening sky, still clear from horizon to horizon. No haze, nor any hint of cloud. And tomorrow they would meet the small convoy.

Like hearing Garrick’s voice.
Nothing earth-shattering
. But Special Operations would not be involved if it were so simple. Garrick seemed to have a hand in everything.

How much did he really know, or care, about the people who carried out his orders?

He heard Spiers speaking to the helmsman, whose name was Bliss. He had taken more than a few wisecracks because of it since he had joined up ‘for the duration’. Turnbull had told him that Bliss had been a greyhound trainer at a dog-racing stadium. He wondered idly what Garrick would make of that.

He looked at the sky again. There would be no moon tonight. Useful for the convoy.
Unless
. “I’ll be in the chartroom, Number One. Want to check a couple of things.”

It must have sounded like a question.

Spiers said, “I’ve got the weight, sir,” and looked abeam. “And we have ‘Red’ Lyon on our flank, so we should be safe enough.” No sarcasm. He did not need it.

Kearton took the short-cut to the chartroom without leaving the bridge structure. Ainslie was sitting on a stool facing the table, his body swaying from side to side as if he, and not the hull, was moving.

“Just tidying up, sir. No point in turning in.” He looked at the cot. “I’ll go, then
you
can have a break.”

Kearton smiled. “If I fell asleep, I think it might need a depth-charge to wake me up again.” He leaned on the table, and then said, “Put it behind you, if you can.” He did not look at him. “Easy to say, I know. I’ve been there myself … Most of us have, if we’re honest.”

Someone laughed, the sound magnified and distorted. The voicepipe had been left uncovered.

“They depend on you, Toby. So do I.”

Ainslie remained silent, perhaps surprised by the use of his name.

I was with him. We were friends
.

He said, staring at the table, “The agent, Jethro—they’re now calling him Captain Howard …” He shook his head. “I’m not making sense, am I?”

Kearton waited. “You’re doing fine. What about him?”

Ainslie looked up. “He was going to shoot himself, when he thought we’d run into a trap. I knew you’d arrived to get us out of it … So I stopped him. Mark One—” He hesitated painfully. “Toby Warren died because of him. I should have let him pull the trigger!”

Kearton held his arm. “But you
didn’t
, so it’s between us, right? I dropped you in it in the first place. So over to me!”

The voicepipe intruded.

“C.O. on the bridge, please.”

Kearton seized his binoculars. “At least he’s polite!” The stair-hatch slammed shut behind him.

Ainslie did not move. Not an emergency, but whatever it was, it gave him time.

He said aloud, “You were right. They threw away the mould.”

When Kearton reached the bridge it was exactly as he had left it, the lookouts using their binoculars to make regular sweeps of sea and sky, the helmsman relaxed at the wheel, his body moving easily in time with the motion, and someone elevating and depressing the hooded machine-guns as a matter of routine.

And yet he could sense the difference. Expectancy. Something to break the tension and the monotony of watchkeeping.

Spiers said, “Sorry to drag you up here again, sir, but we had a signal from Lieutenant Lyon.” He gestured to starboard with out turning his head. “He reported sighting some drifting wreckage to the south-east. Requests permission to investigate.”

Kearton had already noticed that Weston, one of the
telegraphists
, was also present, his hands on the signal lamp.

“He didn’t use R/T?”

Spiers looked into the distance.

“Thought this was faster, maybe.”

Kearton glanced astern and saw the next boat keeping perfect station, and the others following. It would soon be prudent to close up; darkness would be sudden. They could not afford to lose one another at any time from now on.

Spiers knew that, and so did Red Lyon.

He said, “Make,
Affirmative
,” and saw the telegraphist’s fingers working the trigger of the lamp. Ainslie spoke highly of him, and he had behaved well during his first taste of action, cooped up in his little W/T hutch where every sound and shake must have felt aimed personally at him.

Weston said, “Acknowledged, sir.”

One of the lookouts muttered, “Now everyone knows about it!” and his opposite number laughed.

“That’s the idea!”

Spiers said nothing.

Tomorrow might be another routine patrol, an exercise to get them all working together. Not the time for settling old scores or feeding new dislikes. He was calm again.
Their senior officer should know that better than anybody
.

“Call me if anything turns up, Number One. Otherwise …”

Kearton looked at the sky and toward the horizon.

As he turned his head, he felt his chin rasp against his scarf. Shaving was out of the question. But it reminded him of the moment when she had touched his face. She might not even have noticed, or known what it had meant to him.

That was then …

He paused by the dimly-lit compass and knew the helmsman had tensed against the wheel.

“Your greyhounds will be missing you, Bliss,” and heard him laugh as though relieved.

“They’ll have the hare chasing
them
by the time I get back, sir!”

The ice had been broken. And the need was his own.

Spiers heard the hatch close and used his binoculars again to check the positions of the other M.T.B.s and the remaining motor gunboat. Lyon’s boat had long since disappeared, and would be nosing amongst the reported wreckage by now, if any was still there. Lyon was probably using it as an excuse to gain some freedom from their necessarily rigid formation. But he had been careful to tell Kearton first what he was doing. Spiers knew why it was getting him down, but it was no help.

He saw another figure framed against the darkening water and tried physically to make himself relax.

“Can’t you sleep, ’Swain? I thought you’d have your head down while it’s still quiet.”

Turnbull touched his cap. “I heard some excitement just now,” and nodded toward the side. “I was on my feet anyway.”

Spiers said, “Probably nothing. It’ll be lively enough later on, though.”

Turnbull said carefully, “Lieutenant Lyon is a bit of a live wire, from what I’ve heard of him.”

“Goes down well in some quarters, I suppose. I can live without it.”

Turnbull watched him move restlessly to the opposite side of the bridge. Spiers was usually better at hiding his feelings. As Jimmy the One, he had to be.

The inner voice warned him again.
Stay out of it
. But dawn might bring a new challenge, and they should all be used to that, even the new hands. He, as coxswain, most of all.

He asked quietly, “You mean like the bits that get all the headlines in the popular press?”

For a moment he thought he had overstepped the mark, or that his words had been lost in the steady vibration of Laidlaw’s four shafts.

Then Spiers said, “I think it’s often overdone. When Operation
Retriever
was over, and the survivors brought back to Malta, I saw a press camera at work, and that Hardy chap doing the rounds with Captain Garrick. And later, when ‘Jethro’ was being interviewed—I thought that was going too far.” He moved to the voicepipes and snapped,
“Yes?”
Then the tension seemed to leave him. “Some fresh ki is on its way.”

Turnbull waited. Maybe he had misheard. “I thought Jethro was snatched off to be grilled by the Intelligence people, V.I.P. treatment. He looked pretty well hemmed-in when I saw him.” Again, he thought he had gone too far. But it mattered, even more than he had realized. The girl standing in the shadows, and the Skipper holding her. Just holding her, when he had probably wanted to crush her in his arms. And the police; the chalk marks where another woman had been killed …

“After that, he was taken out of the base. He must have gathered some useful information for the brass to be so interested!” He touched Turnbull’s arm, which was unusual for him. “I shouldn’t say this, but I thought our friend Lyon was hoping for a little chat with Max Hardy himself!”

Then he was called to the voicepipes, business-like and very formal, the first lieutenant again.

Turnbull climbed down the short ladder to the deck. He would check around the various watchkeepers and make sure the steady, even motion of the hull was not sending them to sleep.

But all he could think of was Spiers’ casual comment. And that last conversation he had had with the Chief Yeoman of Signals.
She was raped
. A tray of thick cocoa, pusser’s ‘ki’, was passing him, but he scarcely noticed it.

He wanted to tell the Skipper. The man most of the others would never really know.
He saved me. I owe him
.

Turnbull did not need to look at the sky; he knew what it was going to be like. Tomorrow, when the sun found them again.

It was never easy. You never took it in your stride. The badges on his sleeve were proof of that.

They would all need the Skipper at his best tomorrow.
It’s too damned far to swim
.

The seaman carrying the tray turned to watch Turnbull stride past, and the lookout, who was cradling a mug gratefully between his palms, chuckled.

“Cox’n’s goin’ aft for somethin’ a bit stronger!”

The seaman balanced his tray against the motion.

“Needin’ a drop of Dutch courage, eh?”

Throughout his long service, good and bad, Turnbull had retained excellent hearing. He turned and said, “Promise me something, Yorke. When they issue new brains, make sure you’re first in the queue, right?”

He continued along the side-deck. Petty and unfair; “pulling rank”, they would say on the messdeck.

But soon they were going to need
him
, too.

“Rise an’ shine, sir. The birds are all singin’ their heads off!”

“Thanks, Ginger. I’m on my way.”

The hand on his shoulder, the gleam of a shaded torch, was all it took. Now.

Ainslie swung his legs from the wardroom bunk and reached for his boots, which were directly beside it. Automatic, like his response.

“Mug of char, sir. Just like Mum used to make.” He paused by the door, just to be certain he had set the wheels in motion. Ginger was a seaman-gunner, but when he was off watch served as wardroom messman,
officers’ lapdog
, as he was known, and could do almost anything in return for a few extra shillings. And he seemed to enjoy it.

Ainslie heard the door close and stood up, adjusting to the motion and listening to the sounds beyond the bulkhead and around him. He was wide awake.

So different from those early days, and nights. Aware of each new noise, afraid to close his eyes in case the alarm bells tore his mind apart. He had even slept fully clothed. It was not so long ago.

He tugged on his boots, so soft and supple now that it was difficult to remember them new. But he could still see the old tailor in his thoughts, standing back to observe as he had put on his first uniform. With satisfaction or amusement, it had been hard to tell. But then he had produced the boots. These boots. “Most of our regular gentlemen prefer these, sir. But in wartime, of course, they’re not easy to come by.” He had been right, but a handful of notes had secured a sale.

He peered at his watch. Four o’clock, or would be soon after he reached the bridge, and still pitch dark, but not for long. Their tight little world would come alive again. And
all the birds would be singin’ their heads off
. But not out here.