The Glory Boys (6 page)

Kearton saw Lieutenant Ainslie turning away from the screen, his face in shadow. Probably wondering what he had been doing down in
his
chartroom.

“All quiet, Pilot?” Kearton had only been off the bridge for an hour, but it seemed far longer. Like a demanding grip, dragging at him the moment he turned away from the ‘ifs’ and the ‘maybes’.

He saw the smile.

“Aye, sir. Steady at fourteen knots. I can’t complain, so far!”

It
was
steady enough, but it was time to reduce speed, before they lost the light entirely. Then, the slightest swell would make the motion queasy. He looked astern again. The three boats were keeping in line. Good conditions, but that could change. He had seen it several times. Boats increasing speed in the darkness for fear of losing their leader, or worse, being left alone in enemy waters: a single burst of power, and one boat smashing into another. The watchkeeper’s nightmare.

Ainslie was already holding his wristwatch up to his eyes.

“Fifteen minutes, sir.”

“Very well.” He glanced at the compass: due east. He could visualize the neat lines and crosses pencilled on the chart, the open logbook nearby. Ainslie was a good navigator. Outwardly easygoing and friendly, he had been a trainee teacher in a boarding school before he had volunteered for the navy. It must have been hard to distinguish him from some of his own pupils.

Young though he was, he had a girlfriend; Kearton had seen her photograph when Ainslie had opened his wallet.
Like me
…

Feet on the ladder; it was the coxswain.
He
did not need to look at his watch.

Turnbull cleared his throat. “Ready, sir?”

Kearton touched his arm. “You never lose it, do you?”

“Engineroom standing by, sir!”

The Chief would be down there, too, just in case. He was lucky to have such a good crew. They, too, were fortunate in the time they had had together before he had even stepped aboard.

The three boats had sailed in company from Milford Haven, on the south-west tip of Wales, for most of the passage alone
and
unescorted all the way to Gibraltar: almost the same journey he had taken in
Kinsale
, but far less comfortable.

Fate had been generous. There had been no breakdowns, and none of the foul weather that might be expected in winter. And the only sign of the enemy had been a big Focke-Wulf bomber, when they had been giving the French coast a very wide berth. They had gone to action stations and waited for an attack, or for the German pilot to call up reinforcements, but the bomber must have had a more important target in his orders. Nothing had happened. But it had been their first experience of standing together. There always had to be a first time, no matter how many actions you had seen, or if you were as green as grass.

He peered aft, and saw some vague figures crouching abaft the Oerlikon guns. Their little dinghy had needed securing, and his Number One was down there himself. That, however, was as far as it went. This might be a small, crowded warship, but the skipper and his first lieutenant were still miles apart.

He thought of the chart. A thousand miles, or near enough, from the Rock to beleaguered Malta. They could make up the speed during the hours of daylight, but at night they could too easily become the hunted and not the hunters. He half-listened to the engines, the rattle of a bell near the helmsman as Turnbull took his place.

“Cox’n on the wheel, sir!”

And Ainslie’s, “Very good. Steer due east!”

As if they had been together for months. And that was a long time, in this outfit.

They had cast off from their moorings this very morning, even as Reveille was being sounded aboard the smart cruiser. In line ahead, hands fallen in, ensigns flying as they had wended past the other moored and anchored ships, exchanging brief signals while the boom-vessels and patrol boats cleared the way. Kearton had noticed that the cruiser had nets rigged protectively along either side of her hull. So even in Gibraltar
there
was danger. There had been rumours of attempted underwater attacks, not by submarines but by divers, frogmen, some of whom had been captured, but only after achieving their objectives. Something new: it was all very hush-hush, but it was known that bigger, more important ships had already fallen victim to this daring form of attack here in the Med.

He heard someone swear as the hull dipped steeply into a trough, the motion stronger under the reduced speed. The D-Boats were much heavier and more solid than the smaller M.T.B.s with their sleek lines and high speed, weighted by all the extra fuel and ammunition and, in addition, the piles of tinned rations which every warship ordered to Malta was expected to carry.

He recalled Captain Garrick’s optimistic prediction of a change of fortune after El Alamein. Perhaps Malta’s suffering would end, and the seige be lifted. But at what cost? The most bombed place in the world, one reporter had called it, and that was not surprising, with the enemy’s airfields in Sicily only sixty miles away.

“All secure down aft, sir.” It was Spiers, peering astern. “I have an extra lookout there, in case Mostyn’s boat puts on some speed.”

“Good thinking.” He had not seen Spiers arrive on the bridge. Tall and broad-shouldered, he moved with the easy familiarity of someone who had wasted no time in getting to know his own boat.

He watched the next boat astern. Spiers knew all their names, too. 977’s skipper, Geoff Mostyn, was a face from the past, encountered briefly at Dover during those early, testing battles with E-Boats and armed lighters: he was short, stocky and tough, a Geordie from Newcastle. Very outspoken, or had been then. Kearton had sensed a certain wariness the last time they had met. Did the new half-stripe really make such a difference?

He recalled that meeting, when they had been given orders to
leave
the Rock. “Get up and scram,” as he had heard the coxswain translate it. The third skipper was a Canadian, like the rest of 986’s crew. Mostly from the Canadian flotillas which had already been on active service in the Mediterranean. All volunteers. They must be keen, he thought.

Lieutenant John Stirling R.C.N.V. R. had seemed very relaxed, with an easy, untroubled smile. He had commented little on his own experiences, but was eager to point out that he came from Halifax, Nova Scotia.

“Where all the best sailors are made!”

Mostyn had retorted, “Probably ran aground there in the first place!”

They obviously got on well together. A good team. The only hurdle was here.

“You’ve been to Malta before, Peter?”

Spiers seemed unprepared, either for the question or the informality.

“A few times, sir. Covered a couple of relief convoys from Alex, when things were getting a bit dicey.” He paused. “The going was rough. One convoy had to turn back because they lost too many merchantmen to make it worth pressing on.” He seemed to be reliving it. “Bomb Alley, we called it. Another time we gave up because the escorts simply ran out of anti-aircraft ammunition.”

The bridge was dark now, but he could see him shake his head. “I don’t know how they put up with it. And then …”

Kearton said quietly, “Tell me.”

“The time we did get through, and got alongside, there were people waving to us. One woman brought some flowers. I’ll never forget it.”

“It does you credit. Nor would I.”

A hooded shape loomed through the gate and announced breezily, “Freshly brewed char, gents!” before he saw Kearton. “Oops, sorry, sir.”

Kearton felt his limbs relax. “Bang on time. Bell, isn’t it?”

The seaman grinned, his teeth almost glowing against the sea’s backdrop.

“ ‘Dinger’ to his friends, Skipper!” That was Ainslie, the faint compass light moving across his duffle coat as he turned to share the joke.

Spiers said, “When we alter course—” He got no further.

There had been no sound, no tremor that might have been discerned through the regular beat of engines. It was no more than a sensation. Instinct.

Kearton stood by the screen, his mind and body responding to the hull beneath him.

No flashes to light up the sea, only darkness. Even the horizon had disappeared.

His stomach muscles tightened, as if anticipating a blow. There it was again, faint but persistent. Down in the engineroom, it would have been lost in that confined space of shafts and machinery.

It had been a series of explosions, far away and regular, in a pattern. Not bombs or gunfire. He breathed out slowly.
Or mines
… It was still buried in his memory. Waiting.

He said, “Depth-charges. Not in our neck of the woods, but pass the word to all hands.”

A submarine, detected and under attack.
Theirs or ours?

He thought of the destroyer
Kinsale
. Maybe she had got to grips with a U-Boat or an Italian submarine while she was still on passage to Malta.

He heard a voicepipe being snapped shut.

“Nothing from W/T, sir.”

Ainslie cleared his throat and said precisely, “Some more tea, I think.”

Nobody answered.

Kearton moved back to his original corner. The twin machine-guns on the wing of the bridge were uncovered,
pointing
at the sky, the ammunition clinking to the shift and sway of the deck. More voices now, murmuring to one another. Another fanny of hot tea on its way.

Kearton closed his eyes tightly and heard someone mutter, “Nice tot of grog would be a bloody sight better!”

He leaned back against a handrail but hardly felt it, reminded of the flask of brandy he had often carried. Now it was on the bottom of the North Sea.

“I’m going down to look at your chart again, Pilot.”

“Can I help, Skipper?”

Ainslie’s boyish informality did more to ease the tension than he could ever know.

“No, I’ve got to manage on my own!”

Several of them laughed as he climbed down from the bridge.

He paused, staring at the black water sliding beneath the side.

They had laughed. But he was speaking the truth.

The following day proved calm and sunlit, and even when they were closed up at action stations they could feel a touch of warmth on their faces. The sea, too, was clear and empty. Speed was increased to eighteen knots, and the distance between the boats opened to half a cable again.

Kearton had gone down to his cabin to snatch a few moments to shave and change his shirt, his first commanding officer’s words lingering in his mind.

A skipper who looks scruffy, thinks scruffy!
It still made him smile, although he could remember very little else about the man.

He had passed the little W/T office, with its incessant stammer of morse and an occasional human voice, until the telegraphist realized he was passing. French or Italian, there had been too much static to be certain, but somehow it sounded strangely sad.

Like the cabin, as neat and unlived in as ever, the bunk still
waiting
, unused. He returned to retrieve his newly repaired pipe and the tobacco; he had seen Ainslie smoking a pipe in the wardroom. For some reason, it had made him look younger than ever.

He sat for a few minutes, but he knew he would fall asleep if he lingered. It was still strange to be continuously at sea like this, one day after another. Before, he had been used to sighting an enemy-held coastline almost as soon as their own had slipped into the mist.

He took out his pocket notebook.

Two days, and they would reach Malta. New orders? A change of direction …

“You’re wanted on the bridge, sir!”

The messenger sounded breathless, anxious.

He snatched his cap and hurried on deck. Maybe he had been expecting it. It had happened often enough in the Channel, and in the North Sea. But not usually the work of a U-Boat.

He reached the bridge, and took time to wipe the lenses of his binoculars. Drifting wreckage, seeming scattered for miles on this tideless sea. Decking and pieces of timber, smashed cargo crates. Probably an old freighter, fallen astern of a convoy or risking a run on its own. A drifting lifebuoy bearing a Greek name, which was not listed in any of their intelligence notes.

Perhaps a U-Boat had been investigating this same drifting flotsam, if not the actual cause. Either way, the plan had misfired.

There was still a long, trailing slick of oil, and now a few corpses. At reduced speed, the three M.T.B.s circled the remains.

Kearton moved his glasses slowly. So many times, and yet he had never become accustomed to it.

The U-Boat sailors had most likely been lookouts, or the gun’s crew. All wore life-jackets, and two appeared to be clinging to a small raft. Or had been.

The depth-charges, which they had felt, had done their work well.

Kearton let the glasses fall to his chest.

“Signal, resume course and speed.”

We must have looked like that, to the Fisherman
. He turned away.

“One of ’em’s still alive, sir!”

Someone else said, “More’s the bloody pity.”

Spiers snapped, “Port twenty!”

“Belay that!”
Kearton had thrust one hand into his pocket, fist clenched so tightly that the pain steadied him. “Hoist that one aboard.
Dead slow
ahead.”

Like a spell breaking. Orders shouted, some seamen already up forward, one over the rail shaking out a rope ladder. Lights flashing and clattering between the boats, somebody standing on the Canadian’s searchlight platform, training a camera.

Kearton looked down as the bow’s shadow moved slowly across the motionless raft.

It only took a few minutes, but the time seemed endless. Taking the forbidden risk …

Then the raft was bobbing along the side, its only occupant still staring at the sky, the remains of a leg trailing in the water. The sea churned into life again beneath the stern, and the bridge shook to the sudden response from the Chief and his crew.

Spiers said, “Have him taken to the wardroom,” and as an afterthought, “With a guard.”

No unnecessary diversions. No distractions
. The orders were clear. Garrick would hit the roof if he heard about it …
When
he heard about it.