The Glory Boys (7 page)

And for what?

Kearton stared across the littered deck and saw the coxswain looking back at him. Waiting. Then, deliberately, Turnbull gave a blatant thumbs-up.

Further astern now, the other boats resuming their station and
distance
, and fragments still tossing in their combined wake. That, too, would soon be forgotten.

But a debt had been paid.

The three officers stood together on the small bridge as the helm went over, and 992 settled on her final approach.

It was dawn, or near enough, the sea opening up from either bow and land rising from the shadows, still unreal in haze and smoke.

The engines sounded louder, catching a throwback from the coast, the first time for a thousand miles.

The last hours had been the longest, while they had waited to make the easiest and grimmest landfall most of them had ever experienced. For most of the time a prolonged air raid had been in progress, and the flash and glare of exploding bombs and the angry criss-cross of tracer and ack-ack from the defenders made further chartwork unnecessary.

Air raids or not, a boat had come out to greet them. A luxury motor-yacht in peacetime, but showing her pilot’s flag, and two mounts of machine-guns to mark her latest, and perhaps final, incarnation.

Kearton leaned forward to look along the forecastle, where the two-pounder gun’s crew stood watching the land reaching out. As if they had never moved.

He lifted his binoculars and saw the pilot boat turning slightly, faces visible now in her wheelhouse. They had already passed two minesweepers, heading out to begin the day’s work; there had been warnings on W/T of another bout of enemy minelaying. There was no exchange of friendly or frivolous signals this time.

Malta had endured over two years of seige and bombardment. He could smell the smoke, taste it, feel it in his throat.

He heard the wheel creak. Turnbull needed no unnecessary instructions.

He saw the mooring lines already laid out on deck, and a heavy C.Q.R. anchor propped up like a plough beside them, in case they had to let go in an emergency and no moorings were available after this latest air raid.

Spiers had dealt with that. He was gazing at the nearest land, obviously reliving the experiences shared in that rare moment of candour.

Kearton shifted the glasses again. To starboard, Fort St Elmo, bomb-battered but imposing, even majestic. And beyond, through another drifting bank of mist or smoke, the Grand Harbour itself.

Spiers said, “I’ll carry on, then.” It was a question.

Ainslie twisted round as well, his chin rasping across his coat. He was attempting to grow a beard, without much success. Kearton had already heard the brief exchange between them when Spiers had suggested a shave was in order before entering harbour. Ainslie had tried to offer some sort of explanation, and there had been a sharp retort.

“Just stay on the bridge, Pilot, and the wind will blow it off!”

“Fall out, guns’ crews!”

They were moving to their stations for entering harbour, dwarfed now by the long defences on the opposite beam. Fort Ricasoli, which Ainslie had already checked against his log.

Part of history, but the guns were pointing at the sky today, and there were great gaps among the nearest buildings, like broken teeth.

Leading Seaman Dawson had appeared on deck below the bridge, barking out names and gesturing with his fist. His flattened nose gave a twang to his voice, and Kearton had heard the sailors exchanging crude jokes and comments about it. It would be more than dangerous if Dawson overheard them.

He looked aft, and then astern at their two consorts. Figures already appearing on deck, preparing to do justice to the occasion. He had already seen that their own spotless
White
Ensign, which had greeted him at Gibraltar, was flying again.

He trained the glasses across the ruined buildings and rubble. Valletta had suffered constant air attacks, and had lost more than half its houses. There was a sloop moored alongside at a pier, White Ensign flapping listlessly in the strengthening light. An officer was watching their approach through binoculars; another was reading something, a letter perhaps. An ordinary start to the day.

Except that most of the sloop’s stern had been blown off, and been shored up by dockyard workers to keep her afloat. She would be used as an accommodation vessel until she was towed to the breakers. Or until the next air raid.

The officer with the binoculars had focused on Kearton, and threw up a smart salute. It was one of the saddest and bravest things he had ever seen.

He let the glasses fall to his chest again and cleared his mind. Take on fuel, and check all defects immediately. Signal for dockyard aid if need be.

The dust was settling, and there was a sheen of pale sunlight across the harbour. Not many other ships at anchor, which was no surprise.

“Signal, sir! We’re going in!”

The pilot boat was turning, someone waving a flag.

A quick glance astern: the others were following closely, men on deck with heaving lines and rope fenders.

A mooring place had been cleared. The rest looked like a scrapyard.

“Starboard twenty! Midships!
Steady!
”

He licked his lips and felt the grit between his teeth.

There were people on the improvised jetty, a few uniforms. The reception party.

Beyond them there were others, civilians, all sizes and ages. As if they had risen out of the ruins.

They must watch every incoming vessel, large or small. Everything came by sea: fuel, food, ammunition. Everything.

“Slow astern!”

A heaving line snaked across the gap but fell short. He heard Turnbull mutter, “Sailors, I’ve shit ’em!”

Another followed and was seized by one of the onlookers. Somebody gave a cheer as the hull loomed over them, and the fenders creaked against the jetty.

People were waving, cheering, shouting. Men, women, even a few children. They said Valletta was built over a maze of tunnels and shelters. Even the famous catacombs were not immune.

Ainslie turned, faint stubble shining in the frail sunlight.

“We made it!”

There were soldiers now, military police, their red caps making a show of authority. They knew about the U-Boat survivor.

The engines were quiet, the smell of fuel hanging over the bridge. The Chief would be making his report shortly.

Spiers climbed up to join them.

“All secure, sir.” He saluted, then his eyes moved to the jetty, perhaps surprised that it was not as he remembered it. “I’ll get the prisoner brought up.”

Turnbull had stepped away from the wheel and was looking toward the Grand Harbour.

He saw it differently, through the eyes of the young seaman he had been in his first ship, the battlecruiser
Hood
. The nation’s pride, and the largest warship in the world. Had he remained serving in big ships, what might he be today?

Like the mighty
Hood
, he thought, lying broken, dead on the sea bed.

“You’re wanted, ’Swain!”

He sighed. That said it all …

Ainslie pulled himself out of his trance of relief and faced the
telegraphist
who had just appeared, pad in hand, pencil gripped between his teeth.

“What is it, Weston?”

“Signal, sir.” He nodded toward Kearton’s back. “Priority.”

Kearton took the pad and read the signal. It was very brief.

MEET NOON TOMORROW. WELCOME TO MALTA. GARRICK
.

At that moment, the air raid warning sounded.

“Down this way, sir! Not far now!”

Kearton stepped over bricks, scattered the width of the narrow street. There had been two air raid alarms since they had moored alongside. Hit-and-run attacks, a few explosions, and once a column of smoke like a solid pinnacle against the blue sky; the crack of ack-ack, then the all-clear. One moment the streets had been full of people, trying to live their lives, or clearing up bomb damage. The next, it was deserted, as if nothing had survived.

He had been openly stared at, and there had been plenty of smiles as well. They seemed to know he had just arrived in Malta, and all that it signified: his appearance would have told them that.

His guide had halted by another turning, where soldiers were re-erecting a signpost that bore several pointers, naval, military, and emergency aid stations.

Throughout most of the journey he had caught sight of the Grand Harbour, reassuring in some way. But what about the civilians who lived here? They must sometimes ask ‘why?’

His guide was grinning.

“This is it, sir.”

He wore army battledress and boots, a webbing belt with a holster of some sort at his hip, and his eyebrows were pale with dust or sand, but topped by a naval cap and the familiar H.M.S. tally. It was another link.

“I’ll be waitin’, sir.” He grinned again. “Or someone will!”

Kearton looked around at the street, rising slightly, a panorama of tawny buildings, old and new, outwardly unscathed, or patched up, some even overgrown. There was a door, already open, a petty officer studying him across a barrier of sandbags.

“’Tenant-Commander Kearton, sir?” He did not look at his watch. He did not need to. “This way.”

He could hear guns in the distance. Another hit-and-run maybe. Or practice? Not that they would need any.

The door slammed shut, and after the sun it was oppressively dark, the air stale, unmoving.

Kearton followed the petty officer along a narrow passageway, occasional electric lamps and trailing wires marking their descent. It must be one of the many tunnels he had heard about, which had been dug through the soft sandstone from Lancaris itself to the moat beneath Valletta.

The petty officer stood by another opening. He was breathing heavily, but said, “Safe from air raids down here, sir.”

Kearton stared past him into another space, a cavern. It was well lit, with a huge chart covering one wall. Tables, benches, officers and ratings at telephones or working with signals, coming and going. The air was hot and foul, made worse by the hard lighting, some of which was flickering. There was a bin by the entrance, half filled with candle stubs.

The P.O. shrugged.

“Ready for the worst, sir,” and he attempted to smile. “You know what they say in this regiment, sir. ‘If you can’t take a joke, you shouldn’t have joined!’”

The lights blinked, and Kearton felt the ground shiver.

“’Ere we are, sir.” His companion did not seem to notice.

A dim, shored-up room, lined with raw planking, cool air coming from somewhere, a fan or vent. A rank of metal filing cabinets, another wall chart. And the smell of coffee.

Captain Richard Garrick was sitting at a broad desk, legs crossed, a cigarette in one hand, a telephone in the other. He nodded toward a canvas-backed chair and continued with his conversation.

“You know the score, Terry—it’s important. No foul-ups at this stage, eh?”

He held the mouthpiece against his shoulder. “Won’t take long.”

Kearton sat in the chair and felt it creak. Another survivor.

Garrick was wearing a lightweight drill jacket, probably khaki, although in this uncertain light it was difficult to distinguish. Surprisingly, there were no marks of rank, only a small strip where medal ribbons might have been stitched, with GARRICK printed on it. His cap, lying on a bench, was the only symbol of authority.

He appeared relaxed, but the eyes were hard and alert.

Kearton looked around the makeshift office. Apart from the map, there was only a notice that read
CARELESS TALK COSTS LIVES
. Beneath it somebody had scribbled,
That should keep them quiet!

The phone slammed down.

“Sorry about that. Means well, but a bit of an old woman.”

He stubbed out the cigarette and pulled a fresh packet from his jacket.

“You don’t, of course. A pipe, as I recall.”

As usual, he did not wait for a response. “Things are moving at last. I read your report—seems you had a good run.” He lit another cigarette. “How long do you need to be ready to move?” Again, he did not wait. “Day after tomorrow. One boat.” He blew out some smoke. “Yours.”

The floor shivered and grit pattered across the desk. “That’ll bring out all the bloody sandflies, as if things aren’t foul enough in this dump!” He laughed. “Good to have you on the team.” And then, “Heard about your diversion. You took a chance
there
, just to pick up a Jerry. U-Boat hand, no less.” He inhaled and flicked ash from the cigarette, shrugging. “I’d probably have done the same. In the good old days.”

More thuds, closer this time. Feet hurrying past the door, a bell tinkling somewhere.

Kearton asked, “Inshore operation, sir?”

Garrick nodded. “Good thinking. Might not come off, but I’ve got the specialists geared up and ready to go.” He tapped a ledger by his elbow, but did not open it. “Very hush-hush, no need to tell you that.”

The telephone rang again. Garrick took his time picking it up.

He said, “I
know
that, sir.” He stubbed out the cigarette. “I have him with me now.” A pause, then, patiently, “I’m
quite
sure, sir.”

He replaced it almost gently, and sighed.

“You know … sometimes, I really wonder.”

Outside the door somebody coughed and scraped his feet. Garrick was up lightly, like a cat.

“No heroics, Bob. In and out. You’ll have a few extra bodies to carry this time.” He thrust out his hand. “Just wanted to see you again.” He picked up his cap. “We’re in it together,” and the mood changed. “As I was just explaining to the Boss!”

The same petty officer was waiting for him.

“Been another hit-an’-run, sir—just to keep us on th’ jump. Brought one of ’em down in flames though, for a change.”

They had reached the entrance. There was a mat with WIPE YOUR FEET stamped on it, which he had not noticed before, no doubt liberated from a nearby hotel, or what was left of it.

“Watch your step, sir. One of my lads’ll show you a short cut.”

He was outside, the sun warm on his face, and the smoke and dust in his throat.