The Glory Boys

by Douglas Reeman

  The morning watch, but the sky and sea were still like night, although he could dimly see the outline of the helmsman’s duffle coat now, and the faint gleam of the compass. Others he recognized only by where they stood or crouched at their lookout stations and guns, or by an occasional voice.

  He felt the bridge sway, with the responding creak of equipment and clink of ammunition.

  Eleven hours since they had cast off, and wended their way past the harbour defences and out into open water. An empty sea. But in his mind he could see it like a map: they were soon to enter the narrowest part of the Strait between Cape Bon on the North African coastline and the southwestern tip of Sicily. He gripped the handrail beneath the screen and stared into the darkness. About fifty miles abeam from either side. No wonder the convoys had to take such risks to fight their way through to Malta.

  He had heard some of the older hands scoffing about it, men who had served in the English Channel, with both coasts rarely out of sight and the enemy often within range. But at least they had had somewhere to run.

  He surrendered to the yawn and listened to the engines. Hard to believe by their muted beat that they were the same ones which had roared into monstrous life, as if nothing could control them. And that it was the same two-pounder, clinging to its target, the smoke tinged with red, like blood.

  He moved aft and saw the sky, defined by a pale edge for the first time.

  He thought of their last-minute discussions, the skipper and the two other commanding officers answering questions, even joking from time to time, apparently at ease. As if they had all known one another for months.

  He saw a surge of spray out on the starboard quarter, and knew the other M.T.B. would be keeping station on the opposite bearing. The arrowhead formation gave the widest arc of vision, and was the best for immediate action.

  Someone coughed, either to show he was awake or as a warning to others that something was about to happen.

  Spiers was talking to one of the gunners, then Ainslie heard him laugh. That was rare enough these days.

  Ainslie felt the beard catch against his sweater. He had been tempted to shave it off: that was what everybody seemed to expect. His mind shifted just as quickly. What about Sarah? His girl. The girl …

  She would laugh, tease him. And then …

  Somebody nudged against him and he saw a mug of something steaming, balanced beside his hand.

  “Sorry, no saucer, sir!” The grin showed in the gloom as he groped his way back to the ladder. Ainslie sipped at the enamel mug. It was badly chipped. He felt his mouth crack into a grin. No saucer. Better than any salute.

  A door or hatch slammed somewhere beneath him, almost lost in the unbroken tremor of engines. The starboard lookout said, “Skipper’s comin’ up, sir.”

  “Nothing wrong with your ears, Ellis! I’ll have to be careful in future!”

  He heard him chuckle. If only you knew.

  He shivered, but it was not from fear. It was like an uncontrollable excitement, the thrill of being part of it. The motion was more pronounced now, and although he knew it was because of the Strait and the nearness of land, it was as if the boat was coming alive, aware of the new day.

  Men were going quietly to their stations without any apparent orders or encouragement, some still chewing on the remains of a hasty mouthful snatched before their small galley had been sealed.

  Ainslie thought of other ships he had seen, like the smart cruiser at Gibraltar, the shrill of a bosun’s call magnified over the speaker system, or the blare of a bugle and stamping feet. Another world.

  He leaned against the flag locker and peered aft once more. He could see the side-deck clearly now, a dark stain where a hose had washed away any petrol spilled when the Chief’s mechanics had been topping up the tanks from the extra drums. Much of the sea was still in darkness, but it was more lively, throwing up spray from the props and the bow wave’s endless crest.

  He unfastened his binoculars and trained them toward the M.T.B. on the starboard quarter, her number, 986, clearly visible on the side. The Canadians had painted a large red maple leaf on the low bridge, so there would be no room for doubt.

  He turned as more figures appeared on the bridge: relief for the two lookouts, extra hands for the machine-guns, and, of course, the coxswain.

  Turnbull took the wheel and murmured something to the helmsman before reporting, “Cox’n on the wheel, sir. Steady on North-forty-West.”

  He had been right through the boat, above and below deck with Number One, but he was not even out of breath.

  Then he said loudly, “Give the compass a wipe, will you?” Someone reached over with a piece of cloth, and Ainslie saw Kearton, with Spiers close behind him, climbing into the bridge.

  Kearton walked to the forepart of the bridge and rested both hands on the rail below the screen.

  “All being well, we will rendezvous with the destroyers around noon.” He paused, listening to the engines. “Fifteen knots, Pilot? Should be near enough.” He glanced at the sky, then astern toward their two consorts. Beyond them the horizon was clear, like the edge of a dam. He faced forward again, and his face was in shadow.

  He said, “Minden is the senior ship, one of the new M-Class destroyers. Well armed, and she can knock up thirty-six knots or more.” He paused again and smiled. “Better warn the Chief.”

  Turnbull eased the wheel slightly, his eyes on the compass.

  “I saw her at Portsmouth when she was first commissioned. I think her paint was still wet!”

  Spiers lifted his binoculars and focused on a piece of timber drifting between the boats.

  “Minden will find us. She’s got the latest radar. Coastal Forces are right at the end of the queue, as usual … The Yanks have even got radar in their P.T. boats!”

  Kearton watched the other M.T.B.s taking shape in the early sunlight. But he was still hearing Spiers: curt, almost hostile. They could not afford friction in the boat. None of them could.

  He felt the wind in his face, and when he looked up he saw the ensign whipping out from its halliard, fabric tattered from constant use. Unlike the new one which had greeted his arrival on board. But instead, he saw the ragged curtains in the empty windows of the bombed house.

  “Pass the word. Uncover guns. We will test firing directly. I’ll call the others on R/T.” He looked over at Spiers. “Radar or not, Number One, we’ll be ready.”

  Spiers said, “I’ll deal with it myself, sir.”

  Turnbull heard him drop down the ladder, already calling to the nearest gun crew. It was not the time to interfere. Keep your mouth shut.

  But he said, “I’ll warn the engineroom, sir.”

  Kearton was already there at the voicepipes and handsets, his message to Laidlaw barely finished when the port-side heavy machine-guns opened fire. Sharp and sharp, then silence.

  Turnbull said, “Sorry, sir.”

  “Stand by!”

  He braced himself for the next burst of fire, and tried to concentrate on the quivering compass card.

  Even that seemed unimportant as he felt Kearton’s hand rest on his shoulder.

  “No, ’Swain. I’m the one to be sorry.”

  He swore under his breath and reversed the turn of the wheel to satisfy the compass, although neither was at fault. He saw Kearton standing with young Ainslie, watching as the nearest M.T.B. fired a burst of scarlet tracer directly overhead.

  “Cease firing! Clean guns!”

  But Turnbull ignored it.

  He could not even tell Laidlaw about it. It would have to remain another secret.

  Suddenly there was a crash, followed by a metallic clatter, then a burst of ironic cheering that broke into laughter. Someone had dropped a sack of expended cartridge cases on deck abaft the bridge. He could hear Leading Seaman Dawson’s hoarse voice shouting to restore order, but to no avail.

  He looked across at Kearton, and saw his almost imperceptible nod.

  Trust, loyalty, or resignation. But they
were ready.

  The rendezvous with the two destroyers was both impressive and dramatic. From the first moment when they had been sighted, breaking through the misty haze on the horizon and altering course toward the three M.T.B.s, it seemed only minutes before they were in close company. The senior ship, H.M.S. Minden, leaned over as her helm swung her in a tight arc to steer parallel with 992, the hard sun lighting up the sleek hull and dazzle-paint. With her impressive armament and a ship’s company of nearly two hundred men, she represented a force to be reckoned with. Her consort, Bristow, a smaller Hunt Class destroyer, looked almost frail in comparison.

  Kearton watched the giant bow wave, like a frothing moustache as it churned away from the stem and rolled toward them.

  “Stand by on deck!”

  992 swayed as the wash surged beneath the hull, lifting it like a dinghy while Minden lay directly abeam, her shadow almost touching them.

  Turnbull moved the wheel a few turns to allow for the upheaval and murmured, “Bloody show-offs!”

  Spiers stood beside Kearton and heard the squeak of the destroyer’s loud-hailer, and saw the huddle of figures on her bridge. One with oak leaves on his cap, whom he had already seen with the binoculars now hidden inside his coat. He almost smiled, cursing himself for caring what some unknown brass-hat would think about being stared at, not without awe, by the lesser fry. But Minden was a fine-looking ship. Her main armament was well sited in three twin turrets, with a full span of torpedo tubes and an array of short-range and automatic weapons that would make any gunnery officer a happy man.

  The loud-hailer squeaked again. Someone had carried the handset across the bridge, so that the oak leaves would not have to move.

  “Good to have you with us! Bang on time, too!”

  Spiers relaxed slightly as another voice muttered, “Thanks, Dad!”

  “Take station as ordered. Increase to twenty knots!” Another squeak. “Hope you can keep up!”

  Kearton waved his hand toward Minden’s bridge, and switched off his own handset. He had heard a few comments about Minden’s captain, whose humour was best described as one-sided.

  He heard Turnbull snap, “What the hell do you think you’re up to?”

  The unknown offender said sheepishly, “It’s the Victory Sign, ’Swain! Mr Churchill does it all the time!”

  Turnbull turned to the compass again. “Not like that, he bloody doesn’t!” But he agreed with the gesture.

  Kearton stared astern and watched the other boats lifting, then settling in Minden’s wash. Beyond them the sea was empty, metallic in the glare.

  Suppose Garrick and his superiors had changed their minds? Or no further news of an enemy operation was forthcoming? Press on to Gibraltar to assist the convoy escorts? He rubbed his chin with the back of his hand. Time and distance were the real enemies.

  The last big convoy to Malta was common talk now, especially on the beseiged island. It had happened about six months ago, and had been, at that time, Malta’s last hope of survival. The most spectacular convoy of the war, it had been called: fourteen merchant ships including a giant tanker, nothing by Atlantic standards, most would say. But it had been escorted by a fleet, under the flag of a vice-admiral: two battleships, three carriers, one loaded with Spitfires for Malta, seven cruisers and thirty or more destroyers.

  They were calling it Operation Pedestal now.

  And the enemy had known about it, and of its vital importance. Many warships had been sunk or put out of action after endless attacks from the air, and by U-Boats and E-Boats, German and Italian, from Sardinia and Sicily, to the gates of Malta itself.

  Only four merchantmen had reached harbour, and then, a day later, burned, bombed and with her decks partially awash, the real prize, the tanker Ohio, had struggled through. He had heard that thousands of people had lined the walls to cheer and weep as she had been towed to safety in Grand Harbour. Her cargo of petrol and kerosene had saved Malta.

  He thought of Garrick, clicking his gold cigarette lighter and hinting at another convoy, and the measures that might be used to destroy it.

  In these same waters. He shaded his eyes again to watch Minden picking up speed, taking the lead.

  Spiers joined him by the wheel.

  “I’ve warned the Chief, sir.” He hesitated. “Something wrong?”

  “Just thinking about the last big convoy. You must have heard all about it, at the time.”

  Spiers said slowly, “We lost a carrier, two cruisers, a destroyer, as well as half the convoy. Touch and go.”

  Kearton picked up the new R/T speaker. Then he turned and looked astern.

  They’ll be watching us.

  He realized that Ainslie had reappeared on the bridge, notebook in hand, a pencil between his teeth.

  He pressed the button, and it made him recall Laidlaw’s surprise and obvious delight when he had told him the code name he was adopting for his role as senior officer.

  “All units, this is Growler. Increase to twenty knots.”

  He looked over at Spiers.

  “There’s just us now, OK?”

  Spiers tugged at his white scarf.

  “OK by me.” He smiled. “Sir.”

  *

  Kearton had been in the chartroom for about half an hour, but it felt like only a few minutes before the bell-mouthed voicepipe took charge.

  “Signal from Minden, sir. Aircraft at Green one-six-zero. Closing.” Calm, unhurried: no mention of radar. They did not need reminding.

  “Coming up!” He snatched his cap from the table and folded Ainslie’s notebook before thrusting it inside his jacket. Those neat calculations and the familiar schoolboy handwriting must wait.

  Aircraft. It had to be an enemy.

  He clipped the door behind him and hurried to the bridge, prepared for the sun and the glittering water, harsher than ever after the dimness of the chartroom. The heavy machine-guns in their little turret were already pointing at the sky, and neither gunner nor loader gave him a glance as he paused on the side-deck to stare astern.

  On the bridge it seemed very still. Only the occasional sweep of binoculars, or the shift of the wheel, a patter of spray drifting aft from the bows as the hull settled into the extra knots.

  Spiers said, “Nothing yet, sir.” His eyes looked sore, from the spray, sun or endless use of the heavy binoculars.

  Kearton looked toward the other boats, and heard Spiers add, “Both standing by, sir.”

  He nodded, and raised his own glasses to peer ahead at Minden, stern-on, a faint plume of smoke fanning from her sturdy funnel. Her guns were already moving, tracking an invisible target. The other destroyer was keeping station on Minden, her silhouette distorted by glare and haze.

  He could feel the steady vibration of the four Packards through the deck, and against the side of the bridge. He pictured the engineroom, confined, hot despite the fans, and always noisy. Laidlaw watching his machinery and listening with his mechanics and stokers, among them the round-faced kid called Rathbone. ‘Basil’. Who had once worked at Finlay’s Garage on the Kingston by-pass.

  “Aircraft, bearing Green one-one-zero, angle of sight four-five! Closing!”

  Kearton levelled his glasses, up and across the blurred horizon and a long sliver of cloud, balancing himself with the boat’s movement. Almost a part of her.

  He heard Spiers say, “Got you!” Then he saw it himself.

  So deceptively slow, turning now, catching the sun like a flashing signal, heading away.

  “Staying well out of range!” Spiers sounded impatient, even disappointed.

  “He’ll be back.” Kearton focused his binoculars on Minden again. Her guns were unmoving, trained fore-and-aft; her captain would know the aircraft had not appeared by accident. Not out here. A signal would be on its way, if it wasn’t already on somebody’s desk. Like pieces on a chequerboard, or a chart in Garrick’s Operations room. Not flesh and blood.

  “From Minden, sir. Maintain course and speed.”


  “Acknowledge.”

  He looked at the sky. No aircraft.

  Spiers said, “The Chief wants permission to top up his tanks, sir.”

  Ainslie, recovering his notebook, said, “But this time tomorrow …” and broke off. “Sorry, Skipper.”

  Kearton stared across the glittering water toward the M.T.B. on the starboard quarter, her wake streaming astern like a furrow.

  “We turn back, or press on to Gib—is that how you see it, Pilot? I think we’ll know sooner than that.” Then, “Tell the Chief to carry on.” And to Spiers, “Fall out action stations, and open the galley.”

  It was like pulling some lever and bringing them back to life.

  Half to himself, he said, “Our Chief must be a mind-reader.”

  Spiers stopped on the ladder. “I’ll get a couple of hands to swab the deck when they’ve finished topping up.” He was already gesturing to someone, but looked up again, and his voice was only loud enough to carry above the engines. “We’re going to fight, then?”

  He dropped to the deck without waiting for a reply.

  Turnbull stepped down from the wheel and waited while the stand-by helmsman repeated the course and speed before handing over.

  “Just keep your eyes on Minden, my lad. Don’t want to blot our copybook with the brass watching us.” He tapped his arm. “And for God’s sake drop in at the barber’s shop when we get back to base, or they’ll think we’ve got Wrens on board!”

  The seaman grinned, while swearing under his breath.

  Bloody coxswain. Is that all he can think about?

  Turnbull made his way aft. He knew exactly what he thought, what they all thought. Expected …

  He watched the sea, creaming astern and spreading out to the thrust of the screws. There was a breeze now, but not enough to kill the stench of petrol. Two hands were already hosing down the deck. Jimmy the One was detailing some others to collect the empty mugs from the gun mountings, which were still manned and ready for any more snooping aircraft.

  He looked at the sea far astern. Like a desert. Not like all those other times. He unclenched his fist. Who would know, out here? Who would care?