The Glory Boys (33 page)

He sat down again on the edge of the bunk and went through the usual routine. Notebook and ‘tools’, life-jacket. He patted his breast pocket. His wallet with Sarah’s photograph inside. The photo was looking a little shabby in places, which was not surprising; it was always with him, and he had told her so. She had seemed pleased, and something more. He had thought of asking her for a new one, but had decided against it. It would mean having to get someone to take it. Sharing it …

He smiled to himself, sipping the tea, careful not to spill it as the hull leaned over into a trough. He could see the pencilled figures and notes in his mind as if they were on a chart. Fourteen knots. Until … He licked his lips. Ginger knew his fondness for sugar: you could stand a spoon in this. He touched his wallet again and thought of Sarah’s mother. Difficult to know, and rather severe. It was impossible to see any resemblance between her and her daughter.

He put down the mug, recalling the time she had surprised
Sarah
putting an extra spoonful of sugar into his cup, on one of his rare, uncomfortable visits to their house.

“Don’t forget it’s rationed, Sarah.
I
don’t have any friends in the black market!”

Perhaps she disapproved of their relationship. Of him. What would she say if she knew what had happened before he had left to join 992? The only time they had ever been alone together … It had made him go hot and cold with nerves whenever he had thought about it afterwards. Not any more. He wanted her again, and he wanted her openly, now more than ever.

He thought of Peter Spiers, the faint disapproval whenever he had seen him showing her photograph, or writing to her. Maybe because Spiers never seemed to write any letters of his own, nor did he receive them.

Ainslie stood up again and looked around the small wardroom. Empty now. Private. But he could still see those other occasions, the meetings, the humour, and the doubts. And the last one, before they had quit their moorings, when he had clashed with the obnoxious Red Lyon. And Lyon with the Skipper: chalk and cheese.

At least, out here, they had something special. Like Ginger, who was probably still hovering outside the door listening for signs of life, in case Ainslie had fallen asleep again. And the leading torpedoman, Laurie Jay, who had survived the sinking of his submarine and who, in spirit, had never left that elite service. And the telegraphist Philip Weston, who had been dropped from the list of possible candidates for a commission because someone in his family was, or had been, a dedicated Fascist. He thought of the loud-mouthed gunlayer, Glover. He had heard him speak of Hitler while clearing away some of the damage after the action.

“Pity ’e’s not on
our
side, that’s what I say!”

He picked up his pipe and tapped it into an ashtray. Both were empty.

He heard a discreet cough.

“All set, sir?”

He put the pipe in his spare pocket. “England expects!”

Ginger was just as quick. “That’s why they call it the Mother Country, sir!”

Ainslie punched his arm as he headed for the ladder.

“We don’t need Hitler, with you around!”

Ginger was still staring after him as the hatch clicked shut.

It was dark on deck, but his eyes would soon adjust, and by the time he reached the bridge he could see the low crests breaking away from the stem and surging alongside, and even the mast, like a black pointer against the last pale stars. Nothing else in sight, although he knew he would soon be able to see the next astern. Otherwise, Number One would want to know why, and so would the Skipper.

He heard the murmur of voices, a squeak from one of the voicepipes, the helmsman handing over the wheel.
Course to steer
,
engine revolutions
,
speed
, and the man relieving him repeating them.

Ainslie listened to the last reports coming to the bridge. He was fully awake now, and refreshed by having had nearly a full watch’s sleep below. It had been the Skipper’s idea: he and Number One shared the most testing moments, sunset and daybreak. In most boats carrying only two officers, it was normal. God help them if one officer was taken ill. Or killed.

Spiers said, “Not much to report. Some wreckage was sighted. Nothing useful. A couple of corpses.” He sounded impatient. “It’s all in the log.” His face was still hidden by the darkness, but Ainslie could see his scarf. “The Skipper’s been up and down a few times … I don’t know how he does it. I feel shagged out.”

It was unusual for him to be so outspoken, as if he needed to talk.

He said suddenly, “We’re not meant for this kind of work. I
think
some self-important brass-hat sitting on his backside in Whitehall must wake up at his desk and peer at all his plans and clever ideas and say, ‘What can I give
them
to do?’” He stared at the sea, but only the scarf moved. “If they ever got up from their desks, they’d trip over the cobwebs!”

Then he said, “Italy will be the stepping-stone back into Europe—Germany’s Europe. Anyone should be able to see that. And Malta’s the key. Supply and demand …” He broke off, and asked, “Can’t you sleep either?”

It was Turnbull, clad in a black oilskin, like an additional shadow, as if he was about to take over the wheel.

He said, “I was awake, sir.” The oilskin creaked; he must have shrugged. “Just wanted to be on hand.”

The helmsman said, “You can take my place anytime, ’Swain!”

Somebody laughed, but Ainslie could feel the tension like something physical.

Spiers moved toward the ladder. “It’s a fast convoy, so unless there are any foul-ups, we should make our estimated contact as stated.” He swung round. “I’ll be in the galley if you need me. I shan’t be sorry if …”

Ainslie gripped a handrail and watched Spiers’ eyes as they lit up like two tiny flares, then he pulled himself around to stare ahead and saw the horizon come alive, a fiery sunset instead of dawn.

A few seconds, but small, trivial items seemed to predominate. Smears of salt spray on the screen like frost; one of the lookouts pointing toward the glow, his mouth a black hole in his face but making no sound. Then the explosion. It was more of a sensation than a sound, a thunder which seemed to reverberate, reaching the hull, holding it like a threat before passing on.

Just as suddenly the fire was gone, snuffed out, so that even the faint compass light seemed to invite retaliation.

“Check with the engineroom. Sound Action Stations.”

It was Kearton. Ainslie had not seen or heard him arrive on the bridge.

“Not that anybody will be asleep!”

Somebody even laughed. “Me neither, sir, after that!”

Spiers called, “Engineroom standing by, sir. The Chief is in charge.”

Ainslie listened to the brief reports and sensed the urgency. Like the coxswain, the Chief had been on the job. And the Skipper, snatching an hour or two in the chartroom, trying to clear his mind of responsibility and the risks that might lie ahead—how did he stay and sound so calm?

Like now, speaking to Turnbull as if this were part of an exercise, some drill to keep them all on their toes.

“What did you make of it, ’Swain? A tanker?” A pause. “Poor devils!”

“Something heavier, sir. Could have been loaded with ammo, explosives.”

Ainslie loosened his grip on the rail. His hand throbbed, as if he had been using all his strength. His nerve.

He heard the click of the R/T handset and tried to imagine the other boats, out there in the darkness. He bunched his aching fingers into a fist again. He could see the next boat astern, pale against the black water, bows thrusting across her own waves, and maybe the one following closely in her wake. It was not so dark any more.… In an hour, perhaps less. He tried to shut his mind to it. He was here. He was ready …
Brace yourself, Mark One
.

“All acknowledged, sir.” Even the man’s voice seemed hushed, almost lost in the engines.

“
Growler
to all units. We will increase speed as ordered.” Kearton paused, and Ainslie wondered if he would add something, advice or encouragement. Kearton had waited for some static to fade.
“Together!”

He stepped down from the grating and handed the instrument to another shadow. Except that it now had the outline of a face.

He held up his watch. “Ten minutes, Number One! By the book!”

Then he moved to the forepart of the bridge. He could see the top of the chartroom, a life raft lashed across it, and the twin, power-operated machine-gun turrets on either side. Beyond was the two-pounder mounting, its shield pale against the sea and the horizon. That, too, was visible, the delineation of sea and sky. Most of the stars were gone. And there was a hint of low cloud, or mist.

He readjusted the strap of his binoculars so that they would not bang against the bridge when he moved.

It was neither mist nor cloud. It was smoke.

Like a signal, or as if he had shouted the command himself, the sound and sensation of the engines took on a stronger beat, and he felt the deck lifting in response.

He could see them in his mind’s eye. The three M.T.B.s, 992 in the lead, and by now the motor gunboats would have increased speed to take station, one on either beam. Ready to offer extra firepower once action was joined. But when he stared directly ahead he could have been standing quite alone.

He was not. Ahead lay the enemy.

Turnbull stepped clear of the wheel and waited for his helmsman to take over, then rested both hands on the flag locker and began to perform a series of knee-bends. He felt he had been standing so long stooped over the compass that every muscle had seized up.

“Must be getting past it!”

“You know what they say, ’Swain, never volunteer, ’specially in this regiment!” The bridge machine-gunner was looking on, giving a grin, as if daring to relax for the first time.

They had sighted the convoy, “almost to the cross on the
chart
”, as Turnbull had heard Ainslie describe it. Less one, torpedoed by a U-Boat which had slipped through the escorts, three destroyers and a sloop. The force of the explosion must have taken the U-Boat commander by surprise, and either damaged his boat or made him drop his guard. Depth-charges had blown him and his crew to the same fate as their target.

Signals were exchanged, and the Skipper had received one himself from the Boss; and the little convoy had divided. Two ships had altered course in company with two of the destroyers and the sloop, which had apparently developed engine trouble and might require a tow for the last leg to Malta. Jock Laidlaw knew the sloop in question from his Atlantic days. She was over twenty years old, like so many of the hard-worked escort vessels.

Turnbull stretched again and shaded his eyes to peer at their only guardian. The third destroyer,
Natal
, was big, fast and modern, and no stranger to the Mediterranean. Her captain sounded courteous enough over his loud-hailer, but Turnbull had the impression he harboured doubts about the necessity of the additional protection.

Turnbull had borrowed a lookout’s binoculars to see for himself. Oak leaves on his cap, like Captain Garrick, and one of ‘those voices’. He smiled to himself. He was being unfair. But he knew.

The real cause of all the excitement was a new, sleekly designed freighter, more like a liner than a vessel for carrying cargo. Swedish-built and probably scarcely painted or equipped when war had been declared, she could boast a speed of twenty-five knots. She was named
Romulus
, and appeared to carry her own anti-aircraft guns and the D.E.M.S. personnel to man them. He had overheard the Skipper saying
Romulus
also had a separate identity and recognition code. So why was she so important?

Even Kearton did not seem to know. “Explosives, something like that,” and he had shrugged.

Turnbull looked toward the destroyer again, leading the pack, as Bliss the helmsman might say. She had radar too, an added protection or warning. Number One would have seen that: he was always beating the drum about radar.

He was here now.

Spiers said, “Go around the boat, will you, Cox’n? They’re getting too sloppy and idle, now they think it’s all going downhill.”

He did not raise his voice, he rarely did, but it sounded like a personal admonishment.

Turnbull straightened his back, wincing. “We’ve been promised air cover for the last bit, sir.”

“Just
do
it, right?”

So Spiers was worried, too.

Turnbull climbed down to the deck and made his way forward. He was glad to be moving again; it would get his circulation going. Otherwise, he knew it was a waste of time, an irritation. Nobody would fall asleep, no matter how weary he might be.

He watched the water creaming along the side, spray drifting over the deck and glistening in the sunlight. But no warmth, not yet, and he was thankful for his oilskin.

A few nods, or a hand raised as he checked each position and huddled figure. Little else. They all knew why he was passing. At the two-pounder gun, even Cock Glover had little to say, which was unlike him. Wrapped in a duffle coat with a lifejacket tied loosely around it, he had pointed vaguely in the direction of the
Romulus
and muttered, “I’ll bet they’re ’avin’ bangers an’ mash, an’ all th’ char they want, just by snappin’ their fingers!”

Then Turnbull met Laurie Jay, who had been making a few adjustments to one of the torpedo tubes, seemingly oblivious
to
the spray that burst over the side with each plunge of the stem.

He gave a quick smile as he picked up his little instrument box.

“Twenty knots, they tell me, ’Swain? Suits me!”

Turnbull liked him, although he still barely knew him. Helpful, good at his work; that would suffice. He had seen him go ashore with Glover. A more unlikely pair it was hard to imagine.

“Not long now, d’ you reckon?”

Jay glanced at the sea, not the sky, like most sailors.

“A few scares maybe.” He nodded. “Sunset. After that, they’ll lose the edge.”

Turnbull was still thinking about it when he returned to the bridge. Kearton was there, an unlit pipe jammed between his teeth.