The Glory Boys (38 page)

He pushed Ainslie away from the side and, as their eyes met, saw him fighting his own private battle, and finally understanding.

Don’t keep all your eggs in one basket
.

“Ready, ’Swain? Another zig-zag?”

He heard an explosion and felt it pound the side of the hull like something solid.

Turnbull stared at the falling spray and wrinkled his nose at the stench of cordite.

“Say the word, sir!”

He could feel the spokes jerking in his hands.
Full speed
. At this rate … But his mind came under control again as the two-pounder opened fire. Cock Glover was doing his stuff.

He repeated the Skipper’s order and began to turn the wheel, but the crazy laughter was still hovering. If the Jimmy the One had not postponed Defaulters, Glover might be comfortably ashore right now. Maybe in a cell, but safe.

Another thud, this explosion closer, between 992 and Red Lyon’s command.

“Steady!”

“We going in, ’Swain?” That was Bliss, who was crouching, pressed against the voicepipes.

Turnbull concentrated on the compass: nothing else mattered. So many times, and some you wanted to forget. Except one.

“We are, my son. All the bloody way!”

He could hear Kearton’s voice, or snatches of it as he ducked his head to speak to the voicepipe, to Spiers and his killick, Laurie Jay.

He flinched as the twin Oerlikons opened fire from aft. They stopped almost immediately. Too quick on the trigger, or merely testing guns?

More tracer now. Low overhead but closer, some ripping across the water as if it was alive.

He thought he heard the buzzer, then the Skipper’s voice, clipped, final.

“Fire!”
Then, “Hard a-port!”

“Both torpedoes running, sir!”

Kearton strode across the bridge, but had to reach out for support as the hull tilted over in response to full rudder.

“Midships!”
They were turning at full speed, the sea surging over the deck, the spray falling like hail. He saw John Stirling’s boat, on a different bearing, crossing their wake and heading for the target. The two motor gunboats were exchanging fire with the patrol vessel, but one of them appeared to be slowing down, stopping, feathers of spray bursting along one side. He tried to control his binoculars; the bridge was shuddering as the outer screw rose close to the surface while they settled on their new course. He heard loose gear clattering, someone shouting. Then he saw the supply vessel, full-length this time as she completed a ninety-degree turn. She was a shallow-draught vessel, otherwise she would never have used Penta as a lair. And she was fast. Maybe the new torpedoes were duds. Designed by people who never had to use them …

Ellis, their best lookout, was standing beside him. He was shaking his binoculars as if to rid them of spray and saying something, but the words were lost.

Kearton did not hear the explosion. His mind recorded only a blinding flash, and pain, a blow on the head. Then nothing.

Turnbull held on to the wheel and used it to pull himself upright. He stared around the bridge, his brain still shocked and refusing to obey. There was something sodden under his feet, falling apart: it was his personal notebook, his bible. The duties and responsibilities of every man aboard; all the pros and cons. He was never without it. Glover was in it … several times …

It came back to him slowly. He had been trying to unfasten his oilskin. He had been sweating. And he had felt the notebook fall to the deck. Holding the wheel with one hand, he had stooped to recover it. It had saved his life.

He saw Bliss sitting on the deck with his back against the side of the bridge. His eyes were wide open, unmoving. There was a smear of blood marking his fall, like a brushstroke, and a series of jagged holes, ending in more blood.

He saw Ainslie at the top of the ladder, staring at the bridge as if he were unable to move.

Turnbull shouted at him, “Get someone to relieve me!” He knew the signs. Ainslie had already shown what he could do, but everyone had a limit.

Ainslie said, “Can’t Bliss …?” and broke off as he saw the dead helmsman, and the other body below the screen. Ellis, the lookout.

Others were coming; he heard Leading Seaman Dawson’s thick voice. Turnbull recognized it also, and felt a terrible relief.

“See to the Skipper, will you?”

Ainslie dropped to his knees and used his cap to cushion Kearton’s head from the deck.

“Hold on, Skipper. We’ll have you fixed up in no time.”

He felt Pug Dawson moving past him, two other seamen behind him. One of them took the wheel, and Ainslie heard him calmly repeating Turnbull’s instructions.

Ainslie licked his lips, and knew he had come close to vomiting. He felt the sun burning his neck now, and saw that the ensign was scarcely moving.

He heard Pug Dawson say, “Two hits near the waterline, amidships. I got two lads dealin’ with ’em. Make do, anyways!” He gave a wheezing chuckle. “Just so long as th’ Skipper’s OK.” And then, “Well, we sank their bloody supply ship—that’s somethin’ to blow th’ cobwebs away! Not that we can tell anyone at th’ moment.”

Turnbull looked aft along the deck, at the wash stretching away astern.

“I didn’t even hear it. Must’ve been when we were hit—” He recalled what Dawson had said. “Is the W/T knocked out?”

“Direct hit.”

Turnbull said, “I’d better get down there.”

Dawson patted his arm kindly. “Not unless you got a strong stomach.”

Ainslie looked up and said quietly, “Who was it?”

Pug Dawson might have shrugged.

“Weston. Nice kid. I always thought …”

Ainslie stared at the flag locker, remembering the last time. The scattered bunting, and death.

He felt a hand resting on his and saw that Kearton’s eyes were open, focusing on his face.

“It’s over, Skipper. We did it!”

He felt the fingers move tentatively.

“How many, Toby?”

He saw Turnbull hold up one hand.

“Five, sir.”

Kearton’s fingers were not resting now but gripping, and he
could
feel him trying to turn on his side. But it was too much for him, and he let his head fall back on Ainslie’s cap.

“Tell our lads—I’m proud of them.”

Pug Dawson was kneeling beside them, his square hands fashioning a pillow from some flags.

“Give it a day or two, sir, an’ you can tell ’em yerself!”

Kearton lay very still, the sounds and voices merging. Some things were clearer than others: even the explosion, a shell smashing into the deck forward of the bridge. The blow on his head had not been a splinter or a fragment from the blast. He had opened his eyes and found his face almost touching the iron ringbolt which had knocked him unconscious. The impact was already making itself felt. But that would pass.

But when he had tried to move the real pain had prevented him, and he had heard himself cry out before the darkness had closed in again and driven it away.

Another image, like a flashback from some old film. His jacket being unbuttoned, his shirt torn away like paper. Hands: more pain. Darkness.

Another voice: Spiers, very calm, confident. “Cracked a couple of ribs, as far as I can make out. They’ll soon put it right.”

He must have asked Spiers about the action; he remembered only the curtness of his reply. The anger.

“We did what was expected of us. I only hope they’re satisfied!”

He opened his eyes, and knew that Ainslie was shielding his face from the sun with his cap. They must have lifted him on to some sort of support, like a seaman’s unrolled hammock.

“I’ve laid off our course.” Ainslie was resting one hand on his shoulder, and it was strangely comforting. “We’ve had a signal from H.Q.” He must have felt Kearton’s attempt to move, and the hand gently restrained him. “Our R/T has been knocked out. Lieutenant Stirling’s boat came close enough for his loudhailer—he was full of it. He sank the patrol boat with one
torpedo
—the other misfired. He wanted you to know. He was actually laughing.”

“And what was the signal, Toby? Important?” He was becoming drowsy again. Something Laidlaw had fished out of the engineroom medical cabinet.

Ainslie moved the cap slightly, to conceal his expression.

“Short and sweet. All it said was
Well done!
”

Kearton tried to lie still. Laughing would bring back the pain. Or the tears.

Turnbull was watching Spiers scribbling notes on a signal pad. They were standing near the twin Oerlikons, which still pointed seaward, the barrels and mounting scarred and blackened from a burst of cannon fire. One of the gunners lay nearby, stitched in a length of canvas. It was Ordinary Seaman Yorke.
With an ‘e’
, he thought, and wished that he had liked him.

He heard footsteps and saw Glover coming aft with a sack of waste from Dawson’s working party. He was grinning.

“You survived then, ’Swain? Tsk, tsk!”

Turnbull ensured Spiers was out of earshot before he snapped, “Don’t forget, Glover. You’re still up for First Lieutenant’s report!”

Glover put down the sack and faced him.

“I’ve bin goin’ over it. An’ I ain’t so sure.” He ticked off the points on his fingers. “Th’ Naval Discipline Act. Section Seven, or maybe Eight … I think I can appeal!”

Turnbull turned his back on him and watched the Canadian M.T.B., tubes empty like their own, turning now to follow astern.

A near thing, the closest he’d come to buying it since that other time, when Bob Kearton had come back to search for them.

He thought of Ainslie’s face as he had reported the signal to the Skipper.
Well done
.

Christ, he thought. Maybe it was just as well their own W/T couldn’t reply.

He looked at Glover again.

“When we get alongside and things settle down, you must join me in the canteen, and I’ll stand you a tot. Maybe several!”

Spiers was calling him again. There was a lot to do, shorthanded or not, before they entered harbour.

But it was worth it, if only to see Glover’s face.

Good or bad, they were still one company.

Kearton eased his body over the side of the cot, his feet touching the deck carefully as he tried to prepare himself. It had been a mistake. He should have remained on the bridge, propped up in one corner. What was he trying to prove? It was almost dark in the chartroom, although on deck there was bright sunlight and the sea had seemed almost colourless in the glare.

The final passage had taken longer than he had hoped. The damaged motor gunboat had finally broken down, and had been taken in tow by Red Lyon. Stirling’s boat had resumed station directly astern. Their time of arrival at Malta would be midmorning.

Over the loud-hailer he had told them, “We left together. We enter harbour together.”

He moved again and took the weight on his feet, and held his breath as the pain seared his side like hot metal. He clutched his sweater and waited for it to subside. Even the sweater was a mystery, and how they had managed to get him into it without making him pass out.

“Are you sure you should be doing this, sir?”

He sat down again. He had forgotten Ginger, who had been with him since he had struggled down from the bridge. He was standing, legs astride, his back to the chart table, holding an open cutthroat razor, with a towel still draped over his shoulder.

“But if you
insist
.” He looked strained and crumpled, but still managed a cheeky grin. “You want to show them your wonderful shave, I expect.”

Kearton touched his chin.

“I’m just glad you’re on my side!”

“I’ll see if it’s all clear, sir.”

The sliding hatch closed, and Kearton made another attempt. He was ready for the pain, could meet it like an opponent. He took a few steps, not resting against the chart table before he retraced them. He was still trying to recall each moment in order. Sounds, colours, faces.

And the rocket: that was never out of his thoughts. A warning, so that they would not miss the final rendezvous, or a challenge? To show them he was already there, ahead of them. If so, it had cost him his life, and the lives of a lot of others. Only he would have known.

“Ready if you are, Skipper?” It was Ainslie, the sun behind him, his face in shadow.

Kearton picked up his cap but lingered, looking at the table. The charts, rolled or flattened, ready for use. Ainslie’s spare pencils rattling together in a little tube, exactly as he remembered them. Waiting for the dawn …

“The pilot boat came out earlier. We were hardly near enough to land for me to take a fix … He must have been expecting us.” He smiled for the first time in many hours, and seemed very young again. “Not soon enough for me!”

Kearton climbed slowly to the bridge. Measuring each step, waiting for and meeting the pain. Ainslie went ahead, and he knew that Ginger was also close by in case he fainted.

The sun dazzled and almost blinded him as he stepped into the open bridge. A quick glance around: faces he knew, some better than others. But other faces were missing, the helmsman and the lookout who had been beside him. The stains were still there.

Turnbull had looked toward him, and he saw the nod. No smile.

Kearton turned to look ahead, almost falling in the process. The pilot was in the lead, exactly as he had imagined it when Ainslie had first brought the news. And not an empty sea ahead, or the merest hint of land, but Malta reaching out on either bow: headland and fortress, and a thousand windows flashing in the sun like private signals.

Spiers tilted his cap over his eyes.

“The harbour seems to have filled up since we left. Glad we’ve got the pilot to hold our hands!”

Ainslie joined him and said, “D’you want to sit on something, Skipper?”

“No.”
He reached out immediately, and held his arm. “No, Toby. I’m all right.” He stared out at the headland. Crowds of people, someone with a small child on his shoulders; both were waving. He added quietly, “I’ve got to be. Now.”

Turnbull kept his eyes on the pilot, but he had already seen the other ships, some of them huge and impressive. Cruisers. He leaned on the spokes. And a battleship, not one of the ‘old faithfuls’, but a newcomer commissioned only last year. Somebody meant business this time.