The Glory Boys (37 page)

Kearton glanced along the table. “One-man, explosive motor-boats. We don’t know how many, but we do know they are there. Intelligence seems to think their next move will be to Pantelleria.” He looked at Griffin. “You’re right, Chris. Too close for comfort.”

Stirling said as if to himself, “It must have been around two years ago—I’d just arrived in the Med. Things were bad everywhere. Our forces were pulling out of Greece.”

Lyon murmured, “In retreat!”

The Canadian ignored him, or perhaps he was somewhere else, in another time.

“The navy was standing by—to check the enemy’s progress, they said—and evacuate our troops if it was necessary. And it was. But the Italians had some explosive motor-boats—first we knew of them. One man, one attack. They put the cruiser
York
on the bottom—others too, before anybody knew what was happening. Brave guys, or suicide jockeys—” He slapped his hand on the chart. “But those sons of bitches did the trick. Crete, Suda Bay … And I bet
York
’s still lying there.”

It was suddenly quiet again. Even the sentry, who had been pacing back and forth above them, had stopped.

Kearton looked at each man’s face.

“It’s not settled yet. I’ll know tomorrow. We’re on stand-by. But be ready to slip and proceed at sunset.”

Lyon said, “Makes a change from dawn.” But there was no laugh.

Kearton stood. “Tomorrow, then.” Short notice. But waiting, like doubt, could kill.

He followed them on deck and watched them depart. The sky was still cloudless.

He thought of Garrick. It had already been decided.

We’re on our way
.

He might have spoken aloud. Telling her.

KEARTON TURNED HIS
back on the chart table and rubbed his eyes. It was force of habit, but after the open bridge and the surrounding darkness, even the shaded light seemed blinding.

Everything was sealed, so that voices and movements were muffled or lost completely in the regular beat of engines. It was midnight, six hours since they had cleared the harbour limits, and even up to the last moments he knew that a lot of them had expected the latest orders to be cancelled. But almost to the minute, Operation
Vanguard
had been put into motion.

A.C.H.Q. had confirmed that the unknown vessel had indeed departed from the tiny harbour of Penta, and had been reported heading south. How could they be so certain? The harbour and local waters were known to be too shallow for intruders, like submarines. An M.T.B. would be hard put to get near enough without raising the alarm.

Perhaps a small coastal craft had spied out the situation, or one of the Levant schooners which often joined forces with Special Operations.

He turned again and stared at the chart. Pencilled lines and neat crosses. Heading south. By dawn everything might have changed. Been curtailed …

Ainslie was standing at the side of the chartroom, one hand on his parallel rulers to prevent them from rattling. There was a
steady
southerly breeze across the quarter, and the deck was livelier than it had been an hour or so earlier. He had heard the coxswain remark, “That’ll keep the hard cases from falling asleep!”

Kearton said, “Unless we hear otherwise, I think our information might be good. It’s going to be a long night.” He picked up his duffle coat and pulled it over his shoulders. “Do the same, Pilot. It’s cold up top.”

He leaned over the chart again, but he was thinking of his father. He always had piles of boating and yachting magazines at the yard, often depicting ships and exciting cruises in seas unimaginably far from the Thames. Exotic ports of call, girls in swimsuits and dark glasses, hovering stewards. And everywhere, the sun, especially in advertisements for the Mediterranean. He pulled his coat closer, shivering. His father had always wanted to go on a cruise, but had never been able to afford it. Or maybe it had been a different world in his eyes. A dream …

This was the reality.

Ainslie said suddenly, “These explosive motor-boats. Could they really delay an attack on the mainland? I heard about them being used in Crete—we all did—when I was finishing navigational classes.” It was too dark to see if he blushed as he amended it after a second. “Well—
starting
them.”

Kearton smiled. Sometimes Ainslie made him feel very old.

“It’s not a thing we want again right now. A few of those boats could cause havoc if they got amongst the invasion fleet. And no amount of nets, booms or underwater defences could stop determined, dedicated attackers.”

He closed his eyes as the light was switched off, then reopened them when the cold air fanned past him.

Ainslie’s question had caught him offguard, but he should have been ready for it. They had all heard about the attack at Suda Bay and the loss of the cruiser
York
two years before, as
John
Stirling had recalled at that last meeting in the wardroom. And Garrick had displayed a flash of real anger when Kearton had asked him point-blank, “Is Major Howard involved this time?”

“Without him, we’d still be in the dark! Courage, luck, or bloody-mindedness, it’s results that matter—to
me
, anyway!”

He had returned to the subject eventually, when Kearton had mentioned Suda Bay.

“Yes,
he
was there at the time. A special army unit. Did sterling work, to all accounts. Was awarded the M.C.—at the Palace, I believe.”

Kearton climbed up the sloping ladder and ducked his head automatically as he reached the bridge.

He looked up at the sky, very dark, but with a few thin, luminous clouds moving unhurriedly ahead of the wind.

He clenched his fist inside the duffle coat’s big pocket. There was a new moon, sharp as a shark’s fin as it cut through the clouds. Only a day or two old.

Like that night when they had suddenly found themselves awake, early or late; neither of them remembered. She had been propped on her elbow, looking down at him, her hair across his shoulder.

“Don’t look at it through glass, Bob. It’s unlucky. But make a wish.”

She had mentioned her marriage that same night.

“Stuart …” and he had felt a peculiar shock and surprise when she had used the name, the first time he had heard it. “They called him a hero. I believed it. Until …” A few moments later she said, almost inaudibly, “He hurt me. I knew then.”

It was enough. They had lain together and waited for the dawn.

He walked over to the compass and peered down at it. Northeast by north. He could see the other boats in his mind’s eye:
two
pairs, M.T.B. and M.G.B. abeam of each other. And the faces of those in command. Trust, loyalty, obedience: it was all and none of them.

Spiers had moved over to join him: another anonymous shape. He must have covered the white scarf with a coat.

“I’ve sent word for hot soup and sandwiches, sir. After that …” He did not finish. There was no need.

Instead he said, “Grand Harbour looked pretty empty when we left. Another convoy went out just before we did. Eastbound, back to Alex—big escort this time, including M.T.B.s., for the first leg of the passage, anyway. I suppose the enemy will know about that, too. They’re not stupid.”

“You’re right, Peter. They’re not. And they’ll know there’s nothing in their way now. Except us.”

He thought of her, lying in the dark.
Make a wish
.

The wind was still freshening, and when he looked up he could see the ensign flapping and cracking above the bridge, a pale shadow against the sky. But the moon had disappeared.

Lieutenant Peter Spiers made his way carefully to the forepart of the bridge, wary of anything that might have been moved during his brief absence, or the outthrust leg of one of the lookouts. It was still dark, but he could see the outline of the bridge, and the flag locker like a chequerboard against the dull paint.

He recognized Turnbull’s familiar outline by the wheel, the compass light casting only a tiny reflection now against his oilskin. He sensed Spiers’ presence and reached out to shake the other helmsman; they had been sharing each watch, an hour on, an hour off. Alertness was everything for the hands on the spokes.

“Wakey, wakey, Bliss! Starter’s orders!” He chuckled as the man joined him by the compass. “Nice day for it.”

Spiers shivered. Everything was cold and wet: spray carrying
on
the wind, the deck and gratings slippery underfoot.
Where was the dawn?

He saw Kearton turn toward him, his face and shoulders framed by a backdrop of whitecaps and broken crests, pursued by the wind from astern. As if they were trying to keep pace with the hull.

“Anything?”

Spiers shook his head.

“W/T office has nothing to report. It’s a bit lively down there—Sparks has no horizon to watch to keep his sandwiches under control.” He saw him turn again, as if to locate the gunboat which was keeping station abeam. Her bow wave was stark against the dark water. At any moment she would be completely recognizable.

He moved closer and lowered his voice.

“Maybe it’s been called off, sir. They might have had second thoughts, or been ordered back to Penta? Our people wouldn’t even know.”

One of the bridge lookouts was uncovering his binoculars, training them quickly seaward to test them or make certain they were still clean, and, only for a few seconds, Kearton saw the lenses before the lookout completed his sweep. Not black glass any more, but holding light. He looked at the sea. Now there was a horizon. Soon the sun would show itself. And the decision would still be his.

Spiers said, “I’ll check with W/T again, sir. Then I can go aft and give the spare hands a couple of jobs that need doing …”

“No.” Kearton did not raise his voice. “Stay here. With me.”

He pulled himself against the screen so he could see the two-pounder’s gunshield. That, too, was catching the light, with spray trapped and pooled beneath it, quivering to the beat of the engines.

He could feel the tension around him. Doubt, curiosity,
anxiety
. He shut his mind to it. When he reached out the handset was ice-cold in his fingers, and he could hear Ainslie’s breathing. Or was it his own?

“You’re on, Skipper.”

He pressed the switch. “This is
Growler
. To all units.
Listening Watch
.” He knew Turnbull had turned his head to hear him. He would know, better than most, what it might mean for them, and for their senior officer. “Stop your engines. Stand by!”

The deck gave a drawn-out shudder, and then submitted to the sea and the swell against the hull.

He said, “Tell the Chief.”

“Done, sir.” An unfamiliar voice. Were there still some he did not know?

Other sounds, exaggerated by the stillness. Loose tackle on deck, an ammunition belt against the bridge machine-gun, someone coughing or retching, trying not to throw up.

He saw the nearest M.G.B. clearly for the first time. No bow wave, and showing her deck as she idled across the troughs, metal glinting as it caught the light from the horizon.

A voicepipe squeaked, and he heard Turnbull’s curt, “Tell him,
wait
!”

Something moved on the foredeck, but it was a shadow cast by the two-pounder.

“Have you got the new course, Pilot?” He felt Ainslie brush against him, fumbling for his notebook.

Bliss broke the silence.

“Gunfire, sir.” He was gesturing toward the bows, but staring at Kearton.

Then he heard it. Like those far-off summer days: a woodpecker, unperturbed, searching for food.

“Growler! Take station on me! Attacking!”

He felt Ainslie gasp; he must have gripped his arm like a vise.

“Make the signal!”

The rest was drowned by the sudden roar of engines.

“Rocket, dead ahead!” The lookout repeated it. “Rocket!” Perhaps because of the noise, or to convince himself he had not been mistaken.

Kearton said, “Steady. Hold your course.”

Ainslie was saying, “Someone’s in trouble—”

Kearton steadied his binoculars. The rocket was already dying, would be only scattered green sparks by the time it hit the sea. They were not intended to last. He exhaled slowly as his mind responded, like a cocking-lever on a weapon. Or the crosswires on a target.

It was easier this time. The deck was steadier, responding to the speed, which was still increasing. Laidlaw was down there, deaf and blind to everything but his gauges and switches.

But there was nothing beyond the tiny image trapped in the lenses, blurred by spray, then sharpening again. Long and low: a lighter of some kind, but with a small box-like bridge and superstructure right aft, like a landing-ship. Shortening now, turning.

“All guns! Stand by!”

He felt Spiers hurry past, but he did not pause or speak. Only the target counted.

He waited for his eyes to clear, but the image remained in his mind. The same vessel which had been described, even sketched, in the reports and in Garrick’s red-lettered file.

And there was another ship, at first hidden by the lighter, now moving away and gathering speed. A speed to match their own.

“Starboard twenty!” He tried to keep the binoculars focused on the smaller vessel, following it until it was almost lost in spray, bows on.

“Midships!” He seized a rail as the deck tilted again. Turnbull was turning the wheel, staring at the indicator and compass as if nothing else existed. “Port twenty!”

He tried once more, but using one hand and needing the other to keep his balance made each second vital.

The two vessels were farther apart, but the range was closing fast. He sensed the nearest M.G.B. plunging round to hold station abeam. Red Lyon needed no encouragement.

But all he could see was a third vessel, or what remained, left astern and disappearing in the reflected glare. A fishing boat, or one of the schooners which were sometimes used for covert missions.

Garrick might have been about to give him details, but he doubted it.

And she had used his name, only once.
Stuart
…

He blinked again to clear his vision. Vivid flashes, and tracer rising and falling slowly, out of range.