The Glory Boys (30 page)

He skirted another large puddle left by the overnight rain and rapped on the door.

Garrick was sitting at a small trestle table, his jacket draped across a chair, his cap beside it. He waved to the only other, very hard chair.

“Good to see you! I want to run over a few things before you start work.”

Through another narrow door, Kearton could hear someone flushing water. Garrick shrugged.

“The heads, such as they are. Out of order at the moment, so don’t get taken short if you can help it.”

There was one telephone, the wire supported on a length of string. Also temporary.

Garrick was watching his expression with what might have been amusement.

“I come here to escape. Brice knows where I am—he can signal me if he’s out of his depth.”

The door opened and closed again and a figure in overalls, carrying a bucket and brush, squeezed past them.

“All done, sir.” He paused. “For now.”

Garrick pushed a file of loose papers aside and rested one elbow on the table. “At least we shan’t be disturbed here.”

Kearton said, “I wanted to see you, sir,” and halted as a drill clattered into action. Then it stopped abruptly.

“And I wanted to see
you
.” He touched the file. “You’ve not had a lot of rest since you came to Malta, have you?”

He pulled out a packet of cigarettes and shook it. “I’m up to my ears. You remember Lampton? Sir Piers Lampton? Well, he’s still with us, and becoming more involved than I care for. My old father used to say that Guy Fawkes was the only honest man who ever reached Parliament. I suppose I didn’t understand what he meant at the time. I do now, by God!”

Just as quickly, the mood passed.

“And I was expecting you to request to see me, despite all you’ve got on
your
plate. I know all about that unfortunate incident, the death of that poor Maltese woman. I’ve already had the police clambering all over the place—the usual stable-door tactics.” He lit the cigarette, and held the gold lighter quite steady until the flame died. “There are so many people, always on the move. Displaced persons, refugees, to say nothing of our own servicemen, even deserters. I sometimes think that if Hermann Goering himself walked through the gates, he would pass unchallenged.” He smiled briefly. “Provided he left his medals back in the Fatherland!” He stubbed out the cigarette, unsmoked. “And yes, of course it worried me. Thought about it quite a lot. Maybe she was having it off with someone from around here and it got out of hand. It happens. Or it was someone disturbed during a robbery attempt.”

He leaned back in the chair, his shirt impeccably white against the drab surroundings.

“All our people are accounted for. Even the unfortunate Lieutenant Warren’s crew have been under lock and key, so to speak, since you got them safely back from
Retriever
.”

Kearton said, “Mrs Howard is a friend of mine.”

“I know that.”

“It could have been her.”

“I know that, too.” He picked up the packet, but it was empty. He said, “No use asking you. A pipe man, right?”

Perhaps it gave him time. “Her husband, or ex-husband, as he will be when the smoke clears, has been with me, or with the Intelligence brass ever since he came ashore. Time he had a break, moved on to something less demanding, if such people ever can.” He reached back, into the jacket lying on the chair. “Bad habit. Could do worse.” He clicked the lighter again, and watched the smoke drift toward the solitary window, where it remained.

“I see Mrs Howard around the base from time to time. Done a lot of good work with and for our civilian staff. When the bombing was at its height she helped resettle a lot of people needing care or accommodation …” The teeth flashed. “Nice-looking, too!”

The solitary telephone jangled.

“Garrick.” He blew out a thin stream of smoke. “Ten minutes? Thanks.” He put it down slowly. “Well, Brice is awake. I’ll have to go.”

Kearton waited, knowing there was more. This ‘casual’ interview had been timed to the minute.

“I read your report, Bob. Proud of you. Hope someone at the Admiralty will eventually take notice of what we’re doing out here.” He tapped the file, serious again. “I see you’ve recommended your lieutenant—er, Ainslie?—for some suitable recognition after his general performance throughout
Retriever
. Good of you.”

Kearton said, “Good of
him
. I dropped him right into it. He deserves something.”

“It’s not that easy.” He frowned. “Some would say that he was only doing his job, which in turn was a reflection of your judgment or choice in the first place.” He stood up and slipped on his reefer jacket in two easy movements. “We can talk about it. Maybe a Mention. We’ll see.” He picked up his cap and blew some dust off its peak. “You’ll receive your orders today. A convoy of sorts. Nothing earth-shattering, but I know you’ll be wanting to knock your little flotilla into a team without delay.” He punched his arm. “But you don’t delay much on anything, do you?”

Kearton saw him give the habitual wave to the overalled cleaner with the bucket, and call, “Nice job of work, well done!” And the cleaner staring after him and beaming.

He turned and looked along the moorings. Timed to the minute.

But a man you would never know.

Able Seaman ‘Cock’ Glover peered around the two-pounder’s gunshield, then nudged his companion.

“ ’Eads up, Tosh, look busy! Trouble’s comin’!”

He dabbed at the training gear with his cloth again, although he could already see his face in it. Not long now, and they could knock off for some grub and a tot. All through the forenoon watch he had seen extra stores coming aboard and being checked under the hard eyes of the Cox’n. He sensed a shadow across the deck.
And
Jimmy the One. Nothing got past him unnoticed.

The Skipper was ashore, so he was in charge. Glover had known and served a lot worse, but Spiers was an officer.
Say no more
. Extra stores meant one thing: they were under sailing orders again. No more runs ashore for a while.

He had spent all of his cash, anyway. The place Laurie Jay
had
remembered from his previous service here was a lot of fun, but not cheap. He thought of the girl who had danced for them. There had been other Jacks there, but she had given him the eye. Greek, Maltese, he didn’t know, and it didn’t matter. But next time …

He heard a clatter and saw that his helper had spilled a can of polish on the clean deck. He sighed. A good enough lad, but as thick as two planks.

He snatched up some rags and looked around the mounting, then he exclaimed, “Blimey, Tosh,
that’s
a turn-up for the book!”

Spiers had walked right past without giving them a glance.

Glover grinned. “I’ll fix it. Cost you sippers at grog-time!”

Spiers had heard the noise, but he was watching the motor gunboat which was moored directly astern. One of the two new arrivals, and to any rookie or landsman no different from 992. She mounted more automatic weapons and would offer a formidable challenge to any would-be enemy, and was a knot or two faster, perhaps, without the extra weight of torpedoes. But the bows were scalloped for them, in case her role might be changed, if so decided.

There were occasional puffs of exhaust as the engines muttered into life, then switched off again. Spiers had noticed some of the base mechanics going aboard, and an electrical officer as well; he had seen the pale sunlight shining on the green cloth between his stripes and recognized him as the same one who had given 992 the OK after her swift overhaul.

So the M.G.B. was ready for sea.
Like us
.

It was not that thought which disquieted him. It was the man he had been talking to, the commanding officer. Like himself, a lieutenant.

‘Red’ Lyon, as he had become known; and he had revealed the shock of bright ginger hair just now when he had used his cap to emphasize some point. A few who had served with him unkindly suggested the nickname was his own invention.

He was the same age as Spiers, but a year less in seniority, a lifetime, as the old sweats would have it. And it sometimes was.

Now he was here. With his own command.

This time they had met only briefly, when Spiers had been supervising the moorings and Lyon had joined him on the jetty. Cap at a rakish angle, hands in his jacket pockets with the thumbs hooked over the edges, exactly as he remembered him.

“Well, hello!” He had offered his hand. “Spiers, isn’t it? You’re with Bob Kearton—his Number One, right? I thought you might have jumped up the ladder by now!” And the sharp laugh, which Spiers had not forgotten either. “We might see some action now, so you never know your luck!”

He had turned to speak with some of his men.

Spiers was still angry when he allowed himself to think about it. With Lyon, and with himself for letting it strike home.

See some action. What the hell does he think we’ve been doing?

He glanced at the M.G.B. again. A command to be proud of. In the right hands … He swung away on his heel, but he could still hear the laugh.

There were more tinned stores piled on the jetty, with a petty officer checking his list and licking the point of his pencil.

Spiers called, “You two, give a hand there! They won’t carry themselves!”

Glover touched his cap. “Good as done, sir!” and dropped his voice. “That’s more like it, Tosh. Bloody officers!”

But his companion was looking astern at the motor gunboat.

“That’s ‘Red’ Lyon down there, Cock.”

Glover grinned. “Sounds like a pub. Wish it was.”

Tosh did not hear him. “I’ve read about him. Been in lots of battles.”

Glover pretended to yawn. “Tell me about it!”

“He was awarded the Distinguished Service Cross. I saw it in the
Mirror
.”

“Yeah? Well, from what
I
’eard, blokes under ’im end up gettin’
wooden
ones!” He laughed. “An’ don’t forget, Tosh,
sippers
!”

Ainslie was sitting in the chartroom and heard the laughter as they passed the door, which was propped open. The door on the opposite side was closed, shutting out the sound of drills and the rattle of anonymous machinery from the waterfront. Although he knew that was not the reason.

Around and beneath him he could hear and sense the usual shipboard sounds and movements: stores being carried or hoisted from the jetty, the trill of a bosun’s call, and now, men laughing. All reassuring. Safe.

He stared at the charts he had just finished correcting, bringing them up to date, or as much as anything could be in wartime, with new wrecks constantly in the approaches: always real hazards to navigation, especially to homebound watchkeepers after a rough convoy, when they were thinking only of getting ashore to drown their sorrows. And other, older wrecks, which had been shifted and sunk in deeper waters, or blown up.

He had been working here all morning. In a way, it was an escape. He heard the intermittent bursts of power from another boat close by: under orders, preparing for sea. He tried to ignore it, but the tension remained like a knot in his stomach, and would not be dispelled simply by making pencilled lines and figures on a chart. He stared at the canvas bag he was using to carry and keep his ‘tools’ in. Weston, the telegraphist, had offered it to him to replace the old satchel. It would never do that, but he had accepted it, touched by Weston’s gesture. But it was always there. Another reminder.

Tomorrow, or the next day at the latest. It was an incoming convoy, and they would be there as back-up, and to give them the feel of working together in action. He was able to consider it calmly.
We won’t be alone this time
.

He reached up to switch off the chart light and saw his own shadow against the fresh paintwork. Like yesterday: now. The gun raised like a salute, his finger on the trigger.

He had seen him when he had gone ashore, being met by everyone on the base, or so it had seemed. Senior officers, too, and someone taking photographs. He had looked back then at Ainslie, with those cold, pale eyes. They could have been quite alone. But without recognition. Like a challenge.

And nobody else knew. He had not even told the Skipper. He switched off the light, and recalled Kearton’s handshake.

Especially not him.

He had heard about the woman being found dead: some attempted robbery inside the restricted area, according to the buzz. There were police and security patrols everywhere when he had been over there being vetted by the Intelligence staff, and he thought it was the last place anyone would attempt to commit a robbery. Now it was murder.

The Skipper had been involved, too, because his friend worked and lived within sight of the harbour. He wondered if there was anything in it. He had seen her a couple of times: she would turn anyone’s head, and he had heard somebody say she was married. He hadn’t thought the Skipper would get involved with a married woman, so maybe there was more to it than that. Turnbull in particular had spoken for most of them when he’d said, “Bloody good luck to him!”

He thought about Sarah, and the letter which was still unwritten. He had started it and fallen asleep across the wardroom table, and had woken to find someone had taken the pen from his fingers and screwed the cap back on, and left it beside the pad. Number One, perhaps, but it seemed unlikely. Peter Spiers had been almost like a stranger since Operation
Retriever
.

How can that be, in a boat this size?

He glanced at the shutter in the forepart of the chartroom, at his reflection.

Maybe it’s me. Have I changed that much? Am I the stranger?

He swung round as the other door suddenly opened, and the outside noises intruded.

“Sorry, old chap, I didn’t know anybody was in here.” He laughed. “Did I make you jump?”

It was the electrical officer Ainslie had seen earlier, visiting one of the other boats for a final check-up. But in the shadows the green cloth between his two wavy stripes was not apparent. Just his hand around the door, wearing a leather glove.

Now, he knew.