But he should have been ready, doubly so on that stretch of water. It had been New Year’s Eve, no matter what K.R.s and A.I.s laid down: maybe they had been drinking. It did not take much to blunt the edge, the caution, and then it was too late.
There might have been a shout from one of the lookouts, maybe even a scream. In the vague flashes of memory he could even see the mine, and the leaping bow wave as the helm had gone hard over. Then oblivion. No explosion or sound as the hull had been blasted apart, the crew with it. Nothing.
“I see you’re ready, sir? There’s a car here for you.”
It was the same chief S.B.A., a note pad in one fist. A name to delete; another to replace it.
There was somebody outside the room, a Royal Marine, the badge on his beret gleaming in the overhead lights. The Captain, Coastal Forces, had sent his own driver. That must have caused a stir …
He picked up the suitcase and seemed to be waiting, until the chief petty officer said, “That’s all, Royal.” Then, after a pause, “Better luck this time, sir.”
Kearton put on his cap, tense, already knowing it was pointless to ask.
“Any chance someone else survived?”
The other man cleared his throat.
“’Fraid not, sir. Next of kin have already been informed.”
Like a door slamming.
He walked out of the hospital, and saw the Royal Marine standing beside his car. He quickened his pace, feeling the cold air sting his face and eyes. It was over. The chance was his. If it’s got your number on it …
They all knew that, or should by now.
Two young sailors passed him, throwing up smart salutes as if on parade. Probably on local leave from H.M.S. Ganges, the training establishment which was not far away.
He returned the salutes and felt the pain lance through his arm. Such young faces … only boys. And instead, he saw the subbie aboard his M.L., laughing at something, sharing it with his little crew.
And then he heard the scream.
It was not over.
The car had barely come to a halt before the white-painted pole across the driveway had been raised smartly, and they were waved through. A few salutes, but no questions or identity checks this time. The sight of the big Humber staff car was enough.
Kearton stared over the driver’s shoulder, caught off guard by the sense of unfamiliarity: he had visited Coastal Forces H.Q. often enough in the nearly two years he had been based here. From the driveway it still looked like a hotel, despite the uniforms and sandbags, and the White Ensign that streamed so brightly in the keen air. He forced himself to relax. It would pass. It must.
“I’ll take care of your case, sir.”
He saw the Royal Marine’s eyes in the driving mirror. Probably thinking, another one who nearly bought it. But he said, “An’ to think people used to pay to stay in this place!”
Kearton laughed, for the first time.
Inside, it was exactly as he remembered. Bustling figures, some carrying packs of signals or documents, snatches of conversation fading when a senior officer was close by. Open doors and the clatter of typewriters, and the urgent chorus of teleprinters, in stark contrast to the bunches of tired-looking holly and Christmas ribbon draped above framed photographs of the King and Winston Churchill, and a notice that read, In the event of an Air Raid …
“Ah, here you are. Nice and early, too!”
A second officer in the W.R.N.S., attractive and smiling; not the face he recalled from his last visit, or the one before that. The Captain C.F. must be a hard taskmaster. He could imagine that.
She said, “I’ll take you to him. A short cut,” and waited for him to follow. “Bit of a flap on today.”
Over her shoulder she added, “But you’d know all about that.”
Through another office: more Wrens, looking up from their work as they passed. One called, “Is it all right now if—”
“Later! I told you, Collins!”
But she was smiling again when they reached the passageway beyond. It was empty, and comparatively quiet, with one door at the end.
Kearton thought of the quick exchange between his companion and the troubled-looking Wren.
“Spot of bother back there?”
She pulled up her sleeve with its two blue stripes and peered at her watch.
“Just one of those days.” She was smiling directly at him now, but it did not reach her eyes. “Ready? He’s waiting.” She hesitated. “Good luck. I know I shouldn’t say that, but …’
He touched her arm.
“I didn’t hear you.”
“Come in!”
She must have tapped the door.
“Lieutenant Kearton, sir.”
“About time, too.” But he was grinning. “Good to see you, for more reasons than I can shake a stick at!”
The door closed. As if it were yesterday …
Captain Ewart Morgan was not a big man, nor was he tall. Kearton had once heard him described as “that nuggety little Welshman”. It was fortunate for whoever had said it that the captain had been out of earshot, or the sky would have fallen on him.
But as he stood up and reached across his desk to seize Kearton’s hand, Morgan seemed to dominate the room, and his grip was warm and strong.
A straight-ringed regular, Morgan had served under Admiral Jellicoe aboard Iron Duke, Jellicoe’s flagship at Jutland. It was said that he had been on the beach for a while between the wars, like so many others, but the display of medal ribbons on his jacket told another story.
He gestured to a chair directly opposite the desk.
“Take the weight off your feet. It is good to see you.” He sat down and touched a file marked TOP SECRET on the desk. “I’ve read all the reports. They’ve given you a clean bill of health. Never thought otherwise …” He leaned back. “Ready to start again?”
Something Kearton always remembered. Incisive. The opening shot.
A telephone rang suddenly from beneath a pile of signal flimsies. Morgan snatched it up.
“I said I was not to be disturbed!” His free hand was turning over some of the signals, as if his mind were already elsewhere. “Well, this is important, so tell him to wait!” The telephone slammed down.
Kearton wondered if it was the same Wren officer on the other end, and recalled her comment about ‘good luck’.
Someone must have told her about it. Warned her, perhaps.
Whenever a flotilla or group of M.T.B.s had put to sea from here, usually at dusk, to seek out and destroy the enemy, as their lordships might describe it, Morgan had always made a point of being on the pier to watch them leave. His signal never changed. Good luck. Then back to the wardroom and a good night’s sleep, or so they used to tell each other. But Morgan was always there, watching them come home, back to base again. Most of them, anyway.
And then one night, as the boats had slipped their moorings and Morgan had made his familiar signal, one of the commanding officers had switched on his loud-hailer and retorted, “Actually, sir, we rely on skill!”
The officer had not survived that patrol. But Captain Morgan had never mentioned luck since.
He realized Morgan had leaned forward in his chair, as if nothing had happened to interrupt him.
“You’re getting a new command, which is why I had you brought back here in such a bloody rush. But you knew that before you requested to make the handover yourself, at sea.” He glanced at the door. “Go well, did it? Your successor has a good record … Hammond, isn’t it.”
Kearton felt his hand pressing his leg. The well-known faces, the jokes, the strength of comradeship under all conditions. The moments of stress, and sometimes fear. They would soon forget, and rally around their new skipper. It was the key to survival.
Morgan was continuing, “She’s a different class of boat. Bigger, too—but I’ll fill you in when I’ve explained the reasoning behind it.”
Kearton wanted to moisten his lips, ease the strain. Had he been bluffing, e
ven up to the last few seconds? Unfit for duty. Until …
Morgan said, “Who would have believed, a year ago today, that we might truly be on the offensive again? You’ve heard of Dick Garrick.”
“Captain Garrick, Combined Operations.”
Morgan turned impatiently. “Rear-Admiral Garrick, or soon will be, to all accounts.” And, almost to himself, “We were snotties together, and that’s hard to believe, when I look back.”
When he spoke again, his voice was level.
“You’re going to the Med. Gibraltar first, for orders to take command. It would require too much time to explain the haste, but I want you ready to ship out in three days—right?”
Then he came around the desk, as if coming to a decision.
“It’s part of a new group, three boats so far. My guess is Italy, the ‘soft underbelly’, as Churchill calls it. With Rommel and his Afrika Korps in full retreat at long last, Italy seems the most likely target, don’t you think?” As usual, he did not anticipate an answer.
Kearton watched the neat figure move to one of his wall charts, and then back behind his desk.
“Who’s the senior officer, sir?”
Morgan faced him once more and allowed himself a smile.
“You are. Or you will be, at Gib.” Then he snatched up the telephone, the moment past. Perhaps he saw it as weakness, a crack in his armour.
“My assistant has all the details—she knows what to do.” He covered the mouthpiece but did not turn toward him. “You’re getting a half-stripe, by the way. Acting, of course. We’ll just have to see …” He snapped into the receiver, “Yes, I got your message! What is all the fuss about this time?”
Kearton felt a hand on his sleeve and realized that the door was open.
She said, “This may take some time. Sir.”
The same passageway, the noise and bustle, more unreal than ever.
A new command, and promotion. Lieutenant-commander.… He could still hear Morgan’s words, and the rare show of warmth. Acting, of course.
“Is this really happening?”
She held out a fat envelope.
“It’s all in here, sir. Someone will take your uniform to the outfitters while you’re at the base. Captain Morgan has fixed it—with Gieves, he said.”
They walked back through the same office, the Wrens still hammering at their typewriters. He saw a clock: it was less than ten minutes since he had been conducted through this ‘short cut’. He stopped abruptly, and saw her turn.
“Can you wangle me a telephone? I’d like to make a private call.”
She seemed to consider it, biting the end of the pencil which had never left her hand.
“I think we can manage that.”
He said, “I’d like to let my mother know. Some of it, anyway.”
He saw two of the Wrens bending over another who was seated at one of the desks. One girl had her arms around her shoulders, and her eyes were red with tears. He heard the second officer say softly, “I couldn’t deal with it earlier,” then she turned to face him, excluding everybody else. “She was on leave. She only just got the news. Her brother’s reported missing, presumed killed. His ship hit a mine.”
Kearton walked across the lobby, where hotel guests had once lingered, planning their days, and how best to enjoy their leisure. Another world, which might never come again.
He thought of Morgan. Ready to ship out in three days. A lifetime. He glanced at the two portraits on the wall. By then, the remains of the holly and the faded ribbons would have been swept away.
A new beginning. He saw the Royal Marine climbing out of his car to stand beside it. Waiting.
He hesitated, half expecting to hear the shout … or had it been a scream?
But he was quite alone.
The duty petty officer in his white belt and gaiters pushed open a door marked Officers Only and peered up at the dockyard clock.
“If you’ll wait ’ere, sir, a boat’ll be along directly.” He sighed. “There’s a queue of ’em linin’ up already!”
Kearton saw his suitcase just inside the little room, the raincoat folded across it. His other gear had already gone ahead, or so he had been assured, but he had long ago discovered that it was better to take no chances in the navy.
The petty officer glanced at a list pinned to a square of plywood.
“H.M.S. Kinsale. Came in yesterday. Always in a rush, in destroyers!”
Someone shouted and he looked in that direction. “Call me if …” But he did not finish it. “What’s the matter? Don’t they teach you to bloody read in the trainin’ barracks? Officers only!” He strode away, already calling to somebody else.
A young seaman was standing beside his kitbag and lashed hammock where they had been unceremoniously dropped, a regulation suitcase at his feet: as new as he was. His dark blue collar and carefully pressed bell-bottoms said it all.
For some reason it seemed to help, steadied Kearton’s mind.
He said, “First ship?”
The boy, and he was no more than that, stared at him, the face and the uniform, and nodded jerkily.
“Y-yes, sir. I was delayed.”
“You still ’ere?” The P.O. was back. “Wait by the stairs!” Then he relented slightly. “I’ll carry the bag—you might lose it.” He looked at Kearton and grimaced. “What’s the Andrew comin’ to these days, sir?”
Kearton stood by the solitary window and imagined he could feel warmth in the sunlight through the glass. But it was two o’clock in the afternoon, and would be dark in a couple of hours. He shivered, trying to recall what it had been like. The first ship …
He stared across the harbour. Portsmouth: always crowded, always busy. Speeding motor-boats and scruffy working craft, a backdrop of moored ships in dull grey or dazzle-paint. Some preparing for sea, others enduring the indignities of repair or overhaul. The waiting was almost over. He wanted to yawn, and restrained it.
Captain Morgan’s three days had become five. And he was feeling everyone of them.
Going over his orders until he knew them almost by heart, not that they ever gave much away. Go there. Do that. An unfamiliar bed, and never free to meet and discuss things with men he knew. He had spoken to his mother twice on the telephone; the first attempt had been cut off. Something one of them must have said. A click on the line, then it had gone dead. Careless talk costs lives.
They should have been prepared, after all this time. He had also written to her, not saying much. But she would know. She would tell his father then, in her own way.
There was sudden movement abeam of a moored escort vessel, and, subconsciously, his bruised body responded. An Air-Sea Rescue launch, the colours vivid against the sloop’s hard-worked and dented plates. He thought of the Fisherman, the weathered features, the handshake. He would be back at sea again, a fisher of men. If only people knew.
“ ’Tenant-Commander Kearton, sir?”
He was still not used to it, and he was not the only one. The questioning glances, and even when he had seen his own reflection in a shop window it had been like glimpsing a stranger. Could that little piece of gold make such a difference?
It was a tough-looking seaman, cap chin-stay pulled down, face reddened by the cold air. A leading-hand’s killick on one sleeve: probably the boat’s coxswain.
“I’m from Kinsale, sir.” He indicated the case. “Ready if you are, sir.”
His collar was pale, dhobied and scrubbed until it was almost colourless: a proper Jack, unlike the young rookie with his bag and hammock.
Another seaman had appeared and was already picking up the case. He, too, had glanced at Kearton’s sleeve and the new gold lace. All right for some. But he said cheerfully, “My brother’s in Coastal Forces, sir.”
The leading hand grinned. “Then God help us!”
The same petty officer was waiting at the pier, where an assortment of boats was jockeying for position, offloading personnel, or waiting for others to arrive.
“Can you take another one, sir?” He gestured to the young sailor. “’E’ll be adrift otherwise.”
Kearton nodded. “He’s joining Kinsale. I’m only a passenger!”
He climbed down into the boat and felt the engine quiver into life. He was back.
2
Of One Company
HE WAS SUDDENLY wide awake, but for a few moments he could not recall having been asleep. His body reacted more instinctively, identifying the pressure against one arm and then the other, the vibration beneath and around him, even as his mind was still grappling with it.
There was a tiny deckhead light, just enough to see the opposite side of the cabin, and the other bunk, obviously empty. And the outline of the door, the one thing that really mattered if the alarm bells or worse should shatter the silence.
He lay listening to the sounds as the hull leaned over: the clatter of loose gear, boots thudding along the deck overhead. Familiar, yet so different from the thrust and plunge of an M.T.B. in any kind of sea.
His first ship on active service, before he had been accepted for Coastal Forces, had also been a destroyer, one of the old V & W class, built for the Kaiser’s war. Compared with those, the new breed of destroyers like Kinsale seemed giants, superior in speed, armament and performance. They had been deployed at once, mostly in the Mediterranean, and had been in the thick of it throughout those first, decisive months. Now, as far as he knew, Kinsale and one of her sisters were the only survivors of their class. Fine ships, and so often in the news reports: one, the Kelly, had even withstood torpedoes, only to be sunk by bombers during the battles for Crete. She was still remembered, not least because of her flamboyant captain, Lord Louis Mountbatten, who had survived both attacks and was in service again.
And now Kinsale was going back to the Mediterranean. Rejoining the Fleet, as her commanding officer had remarked almost casually when he and Kearton had been introduced, a few hours before Kinsale slipped her moorings and headed out into the Solent.
He lay quite still and listened to her now, waking up, albeit reluctantly. Another day: early morning, and still black on deck, but the morning watch taking comfort from the knowledge that all the other hands were being called, to have their breakfast, work ship, and be ready to take over the forenoon watch on time. It never changed: four hours on watch, four hours off. Snatch any sleep you could when you got the chance. He rubbed his chin. He would have a shave … His mind was now fully alert, the uncertainty almost gone. Sometime today they would sight Gibraltar. Kinsale was making good progress, and the navigating officer, whose cabin he was sharing, seemed confident about their E.T.A.
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