The Glory Boys (11 page)

There were sandbags along one wall, floor to ceiling, and fire extinguishers as well. In case anyone needed reminding.

A group of soldiers were playing cards at one table, oblivious to the noise around them, and the unmoving pall of cigarette smoke. Royal Artillery badges, for the most part: there seemed to be guns everywhere, Turnbull had noticed, even mobile ones just outside these buildings. Not very far from their new moorings. So much for getting any sleep …

Laidlaw said, “So we’re on stand-by again,” and drank. “I’ve just fuelled up, so we’re not going to be dragging our feet for long.” He glanced at him. “The Skipper—is he bothered? You know him better than anyone.”

Turnbull shifted his glass on the table. The beer was warm. Flat. They should have stayed aboard, down aft in their own mess, had a few hoarded tots and put up with the stench of petrol from the Chief’s refilled tanks.

He said slowly, “Out on his feet, I’d think. He’s been with the Big White Chief, then he saw the two other skippers. He was even finding time to write to poor Irwin’s folks, though God knows when they’ll get that.” He leaned back. “Rather him than me!”

Laidlaw said, “I’ll get a couple more drinks. Then we’d better make our way back for something a wee bit stronger.”

Turnbull took out a packet of cigarettes. He was trying to give them up.

He lit one, considering Laidlaw’s question. Maybe he was
right
about knowing Kearton better than anybody. It happened in this outfit, if you were lucky. But you never knew when
it
could happen. Like Irwin, and all those others.

Like this last time. The sound of engines tearing at your nerves, knowing it was real. It was now.

Is he bothered?

He rubbed his eyes. He had gone ashore this afternoon to collect some information about transport from the Master-at-Arms’ lobby by the gates, and he had seen the skipper with the dark-haired woman. Walking and chatting like old friends. But how could that be? And he had seen her hold her left hand to her eyes to shield them from the sun, and thought he caught the glint of gold on her finger. That was trouble in any language.

“Any one sittin’ ’ere, mate?”

Turnbull saw Laidlaw returning with two full glasses.

The soldier, a corporal, moved away. “Sorry, mate.” Then he saw the packet of cigarettes. “Duty-frees, eh? All right for some!”

Laidlaw put the glasses down and shook some spilled beer from his hand.

“I’ll lay odds the Skipper is doing better than this!”

They both laughed, and Turnbull was suddenly glad that what he had seen would remain a secret.

There was probably nothing to it. He reached for his glass.
Bloody good luck to him anyway
.

The glass hit the table, beer slopping against the duty-frees, and the canteen was half empty. The familiar alarm was sounding loud and clear over the music, and this time there seemed to be another, shriller note. A double emergency.

He saw Laidlaw slam down his glass and wipe his mouth with the back of his hand. The glass, like the canteen, was empty.

“Let’s move it, Harry! I think we’ve got visitors!”

Then they were both running.

It was coming to a stark and terrible climax. Worse than before, worse than ever, because of the utter silence. There should be voices, a scream, before the explosion. The mine was still there, closer now, sometimes within reach. He was drowning.

Kearton rolled on to his side and stared into the light, for a few seconds fighting the shadows.

“Sorry, Skipper—it’s six o’clock. You told me to call you.”

It had been Ainslie’s hand which had broken the dream.

The boat was quiet and still, without even the nudge of the moorings or the improvised pier.

He had his feet on the deck, beside the boots which were always close by, ready for any emergency. Three hours since it had ended. It seemed longer. As if he had been in his bunk for days.

Ainslie was saying brightly, “I’ve got someone busy in the galley. There’ll be something to drink in half a mo’.” It was a favourite expression of his. “D’you think we’ll be on the move again soon, sir?”

Kearton stood up and stretched his arms until his fingers brushed the deckhead, his thoughts falling into order.

“I have to visit Operations at midday. Maybe Captain Garrick will be better informed by then.” He was probably still sleeping off the Chief of Staff’s visit.

Ainslie snapped his fingers.

“
Sorry
, Skipper, I almost forgot. Ops sent word by messenger. You’ll have a driver this time. Make it a little easier, especially after the last raid … Just as well we changed our moorings, from the sound of it.”

Kearton was halfway to the cupboard where he kept his shaving gear when the casual remark hit him like a fist.

He had been here, in this cabin, when the alarm had sounded. Some of the hands had been ashore in the canteen, and there had been plenty of ripe curses when they had hurriedly and
noisily
returned aboard, not least from those who had been trying to catch up on their sleep.

There had been the usual
crump
,
crump
,
crump
of the heavier anti-aircraft guns, but only a few louder explosions.

“Not even worth uncoverin’ guns!” someone had said.

Kearton said, “Go ashore for me, will you? See the Officer of the Day and find out about that raid. Close to our last moorings, you said? Tell him I need to know.” He tried to lighten it. “As your senior officer!”

Ainslie was going.

“Right away, Skipper.” He grinned. “
Sir!
”

Kearton walked to the side and unclipped one of the deadlights. Grey, but it would be daylight very soon. He thought of the matters demanding his attention. A new hand joining their small company, the replacement for Irwin. The burial arrangements to be confirmed. Garrick had said a fourth boat would be joining their flotilla very shortly. It could take weeks, or it might be today.

He wanted to shake himself. Had that brief action left such a mark on him? Or, like the dream, was it only a reminder of something unresolved?

He recalled his visit to the two other boats, the obvious delight, even envy, at 992’s success. And far too many drinks. That was always the excuse.

He had finished shaving by the time Ainslie returned. In the early light, his beard appeared, finally, to have established itself.

He said, “The O.O.D. couldn’t tell me much. Or wouldn’t. Said it was just a couple of bombs. The others fell in the drink. Best I could do, sir.”

Kearton looked into the small mirror. His hand was steady enough; he had not even nicked himself.

“When Number One does his rounds, I’ll be going with him.” But the door had shut, and he could hear Ainslie’s footsteps on the deck overhead.

For their sakes? Or for mine?

He heard a sudden gust of laughter coming from the messdeck, then more, until someone tried to quell it, probably because it was so near this cabin.

He reached for his jacket. It had answered his question.

The car arrived earlier than expected. Whether this was because of the state of the roads, or the vehicle itself, was not explained. An old Wolseley, commandeered at the beginning of the seige, it had seen better days. It looked about the same vintage as Kearton’s beloved Triumph.

The driver, a Royal Marine, seemed confident, even suggesting his passenger sit ‘up front’ for a better view. Which was just as well, as the rear seats were cluttered with a Thompson submachine-gun, several magazines of ammunition, and the marine’s steel helmet.

“Just to be on the safe side,” he had remarked cheerfully.

It was not far to their original mooring place in Grand Harbour, nothing was far in Malta, but it seemed to take forever. And yet, despite the roughly repaired roads and avenues of bombed or abandoned buildings, there were people everywhere. They had no choice: between raids and warnings of raids, life had to go on.

They passed a group of workmen clearing wreckage, which had half buried a local bus. Two of them waved as they drove by, and the marine responded with a blast of his horn.

“Don’t know how they put up with it, poor sods!”

There were several diversions, soldiers putting up new signs, others clearing the way for ambulances.

“Nearly there, sir.” The marine braked and changed gear, and swore under his breath as he swerved to avoid a jagged hole in the road.

Kearton leaned forward, steadying himself against the door; he had recognized one of the buildings, or thought he did. It had an elaborate balcony, outwardly unscathed, and he remembered
it
from that day. The rest was a shambles, gutted houses, their contents piled just clear enough for the car to get through. Brickwork and charred timber, mixed with pathetic pieces of furniture, a doll, a chair with a newspaper wedged against it, as if waiting for someone to return.

More slowly now, crunching over fresh tyre-tracks; more uniforms at a checkpoint. The road was covered with sand, like a beach.

All that remained of the triple-sandbagged entrance.

Like hearing her voice that day. Defiant.
I am home
.

“Far as I can manage, sir.”

Kearton stood beside the car. Had something been trying to warn him?

The driver added helpfully, “Bit earlier than I thought. You never know, in this place.”

“Thanks.” He touched his cap. “Maybe you’ll be taking me back.”

He did not hear him reply.

He walked past piled debris, his shoe catching on a strand of barbed wire, and more sand.

A direct hit. Even the smell was the same. London, Portsmouth, Valletta.

He saw a low wall, massively built, a gate blasted from its hinges. Part of a building still standing, curtains flapping from windows like torn flags.

“Just a minute! Nobody’s allowed in there!”

It was the same lieutenant, Garrick’s aide, less smart and composed now, a tear in one sleeve, a strip of plaster across his cheek. But he tried to smile.

“Damn sorry, sir. You took me by surprise.” He shrugged, and winced. “Been rather busy around the old place!”

Kearton gripped his hand. It was shaking.

“I’m glad you’re OK.” He looked at the house; the curtains were suddenly still. “Were there many casualties?”

The lieutenant was staring around, although his eyes were blank.

“Some. I’m not too sure.”

He had had enough. Seen enough, done enough. And Kearton still did not know his name.

“Ah,
here
we are, sir!”

Like turning the clock back. The white coat, the patient smile. Why did they all speak like that?

The lieutenant said nothing, and was staring at Kearton now as if he were a stranger. Kearton watched them go, the medic still chattering as they picked their way over the rubble.

Someone else would come looking for him. Nothing had changed. Even if Garrick were to be replaced, or killed, once the wheels were in motion …

He pushed open a door. It was partly jammed, but he heard nothing fall. There was damage enough, and a shaft of dusty sunlight through part of a wall, which had been a room. Another door, but it was jammed or locked. Had she been here when it happened?

He heard brakes, another vehicle crunching to a halt. Voices.

He swung round and stared toward the shaft of sunlight.

She was standing with her back to the light, her face in shadow. Quite still, as if holding her breath.

Then she said, “I hoped it was you. Someone said—someone told me as I arrived.” She reached up to push some hair from her eyes. “I was afraid you’d hear about it. That you might worry …”

He did not know he had moved, but his arms were around here and her face was against his shoulder, and her voice was muffled. “You
are
here. You came.”

He felt her shivering. Then she said, “I wasn’t here …” and looked up at him, her eyes filling her face. “I was visiting one of our typists—the sick quarters. It was her birthday. Otherwise—”

She did not continue.

He looked past her, at the courtyard garden, half buried under debris which he recognized as part of the roof.

“Where will you go? Are you going to be all right?”

His hand was against her belt; he could feel her skin, her breathing.

She said, “It’s all arranged. It’s not the first time. I was just hoping …” She broke off as his hand touched her spine. “
Don’t
. Please don’t. Someone might …” She had stepped back slightly, her arms at her sides. “I have to go now. I—needed to know.” And then, desperately, “I’m not making much sense, am I?”

Another voice.

“I think he’s in there, sir.”

She reached up and touched his face, his mouth. “Thank you … Bob.”

She kissed him, and turned away in one movement.

“I’ll let you know …”

She was gone. It seemed as if the car started immediately.

He strode to the door but another vehicle was already pulling up at the barrier.

Another lieutenant was waiting to guide him to the appropriate department, above or below ground, but he walked blindly, clinging to those last few seconds. She would recognize the risk, the danger.

If this meeting had been scheduled to take place at the new moorings, they might never have met again.

He saw the door marked
STAFF OFFICER OPERATIONS
. The rest was a dream.

The meeting was brief and final. Captain Garrick was elsewhere, but had left no room for doubt.

All three M.T.B.s were required for active duty tomorrow, as stated in his orders. Garrick had even left a pencilled apology “for dragging you halfway across Malta” when he had better things to do.

A car was arranged for his return journey.

Afterwards, he wondered why he had not left immediately. She would not have returned to the damaged house so soon. If at all.
I’ll let you know
. He could still hear her. Feel her. He wanted to laugh it off, dismiss it. Like a young subbie in the throes of his first affair.

He walked across the scattered sand to the wall, the pots of brilliant geraniums, and tensed as he saw a woman’s shadow stooping and crouching, heard her humming to herself in time with the sweep of a broom.