“Hard a-starboard!” Turnbull felt spray on his face and hands as the wheel went over. He thought of Jock Laidlaw, holding on for dear life, machinery flashing and roaring around him, having to guess what was happening above in the real world.
“Both torpedoes running, sir!”
That was Ainslie, distant, almost formal.
“Midships!” Turnbull repeated the order and watched another boat turning steeply in the welter of spray and broken waves from 992’s own wake. The attack was over. There was nothing else they could do. The torpedoes had missed their target. Same old problem. Until the next time …
The explosion was blinding white, lighting the sea like daylight, the three M.T.B.s, and even, briefly, the remains of the unknown vessel which had saved them.
The lighter must have been a mile distant, but the shockwave was immediate, as if they had collided with something solid. Even at reduced speed, the engines were deafening in the silence.
Spiers had appeared on the bridge.
“Some damage, port side, nothing serious.”
Kearton looked across the water. No wreckage. Not even any smoke.
“I saw someone being carried on deck.”
“Overcome by fumes from an extinguisher. He’s coming out of it already.”
Kearton walked to the opposite side and stared at the Canadians’ boat.
“Damage and casualties.” He did not look at the empty sea again. All those mines. Now there was nothing.
But for that unknown light, which had looked like a star, those mines would be on their way to join the war.
He said, “Take over, Number One. I must make a signal. We might need some air cover on the run back to base. But we’ll have a look at that burned-out vessel, if it’s still afloat.” He sensed Spiers’ doubt, and added sharply, “There’s always a chance.”
Spiers was tugging at his white scarf, as if to conceal his thoughts.
“Leading Torpedoman Jay deserves a pat on the back, sir. He has the touch.”
Kearton looked around the bridge. It was still dark, but the shadows were acquiring features.
“So have you, Number One.”
Between decks, evidence of their brief encounter was instantly apparent: splintered planking and the stench of smoke and burned paintwork, which even the fans could not disperse. But the man who had been half-suffocated by fumes was sitting propped up in a corner, his blackened face lined with runnels as if he had been weeping huge tears.
Leading Seaman Dawson was on his knees beside him, a wet rag in one hand. He twisted round, looking up.
“ ’E’s OK, sir. I told ’im, never volunteer!” He gestured with the rag. “Couple of ’oles through the messdeck.” His own smoke-stained face split into a grin. “But th’ bastards missed the galley!”
Someone stopped coughing long enough to call, “We showed ’em, sir!” The coughing began again.
Kearton glanced once at his own cabin. Just to sit there and be alone. Cut off from everything. Just for a few minutes.
He pushed into the W/T office and listened. With men like these …
Weston was there, as if he had never moved. The other telegraphist was with Spiers.
“Noisy down here, was it?”
Weston licked his lips. Then he said, “Once, I thought …”
He picked up his pad and held it with both hands. “The signal’s ready, sir.” He kept his eyes on the pad. “Ready to go.”
He did not look up, and Kearton was glad.
Ainslie raised his arm and signalled slowly to the bridge, steadying himself against a stanchion with the other hand. He felt the deck vibrate as the engines responded and went astern, to bring the hull almost to a halt. He had learned the hard way.
He thought it had taken fifteen minutes or less to locate and manoeuvre amongst the spread of half-submerged wreckage and charred fragments. It seemed like an eternity. And all the time the sea and sky were brightening, laying them open as a target. He leaned over the bow, where it was scalloped to allow a free run for the torpedo as it was fired. The tube was now empty. He could see the reflection directly beneath him, ashes clinging and rippling along the waterline. And a corpse, or what was left of it, bobbing past, turning one shoulder as if suddenly awakened.
The vessel must have been carrying fuel, and had been an easy victim. Tracer had done the rest. And now, the waiting and the stillness were taking their toll.
He saw another reflection beside his: Jay, the ex-submariner, who knew more about torpedoes than any of them. How did he feel, now that his part was over? That blinding explosion, a ship blasted to oblivion at the touch of his hand. Two other seamen were with him, hoisting-tackle and canvas slings laid out and ready. Lowering a raft or the dinghy would be too risky. Asking for it … He looked away as another corpse dipped beneath the hull, still afloat in its life-jacket.
One of the seamen said, “Too late for you, mate!” Nobody else spoke.
“There’s one!” Jay was pointing toward some larger pieces of wreckage, held aloft by trapped air despite the fires and the last explosion.
Ainslie waved to the bridge. The engines stopped.
Jay was saying, “Ready, Ginger?” He was already helping him with one of the canvas slings. “Don’t take any bloody arguments!” He patted his shoulder. “There’ll be a double tot for you when you’ve finished!”
Ainslie saw two more hands hurrying to help with the tackle. One was the gunlayer on the two-pounder, who had first raised the alarm.
Ainslie leaned over the side, but heard Jay say, “Leave it to Ginger, sir. He knows his stuff.” He twisted round and regarded him steadily. “They know you’re here, see?”
The tackle squeaked through a block and someone yelled, “Got ’im!”
“Easy does it!” But there was a scream, sharp, inhuman, and again as the body was hoisted and manhandled on to the deck. Ainslie was on his knees, although he did not know he had moved, holding one of the hands in his own while he struggled to pillow the head against his legs. Jay was helping him, but the survivor seemed stronger than both of them. Soaked with water and slippery with oil. And blood. Then, as suddenly, he was still. Only his eyes were alive.
Ainslie heard a second body being hauled aboard. Then someone shouting, “Let ’im go! Poor bastard’s been through the mincer!” and a splash alongside.
Jay said, “No more, sir. This is the only one.”
Ainslie stared at the bridge.
“I’ll tell the skipper.” He swallowed again, tasting the vomit. Not now.
He tried to get to his feet, but one of the hands was gripping his wrist like a vise. He could hear his breathing, short and desperate. The eyes had not moved, fixed on his own.
Jay said, “I’ll tell ’im, sir.” He was on his feet, a tall, rawboned figure against the sky. And the sky had gained a hint of colour.
The seaman nicknamed Ginger stooped over them, his body running with water.
He muttered, “No use, sir,” and held up his fist. “ ’E’s got a lump of iron like this in ’is back.” He shook his head. “Best leave ’im.”
Ainslie felt the grip tighten, as if all his remaining strength was there. And in the eyes.
Jay had already gone, and a few moments later the engines roared into life, and the charred wreckage seemed to move. But it was 992 which was underway, already turning, the first daylight revealing the smoke stains on the two-pounder’s barrel, and the darker stains on the deck.
Ainslie murmured, “I’ll not leave him.”
He watched the shadows sharpen in the strengthening light, moving across the deck as the helm went over and steadied. He could see another boat coming up to take station on the quarter again, her ensign almost silver, her bow wave lifting like a wing. No visible damage. He thought of the jagged scars he had seen when he had leaned over the side. I was not afraid.
He felt the grip ease very slightly, and when he looked he saw that the eyes were staring up at him, the mouth alive, as if at
tempting to speak.
He bent down as far as he could, one hand beneath the tangled hair, feeling the drying salt and the blood.
Close enough to feel the desperation, and that he was losing the battle for his life.
His voice was almost drowned by the returning power of the engines. Italian, maybe Sicilian. As a teacher, languages had never been Ainslie’s strong subject.
He was reaching up, as if trying to touch Ainslie’s face, but it was too much for him and his hand fell to the deck. The lump of iron had won.
His eyes were still open, his lips forming the last syllables. A name. Jethro.
Ainslie struggled to his feet; he had to prise the dead hand from his wrist. Someone reached out to steady him. Jay was back.
“All done, then?” He indicated the water, lifting and surging past the side. “I can tip this one over.”
“No!” Then he repeated quietly, “No. Cover him up. They’ll need to know …”
Jay glanced in the direction of the bridge.
“The C.O.’s waiting.”
Ainslie felt the spray against his face, clean and salt. He did not look back, but he knew that the eyes were still watching.
Kearton unfastened the front of his oilskin and made certain his binoculars were still dry. In Malta they said you should never be surprised by the weather: humid and sultry one minute … He glanced at the low cloud. Rain the next. It was cold too, and the sea was choppy under a stiff breeze.
He watched the pilot boat, a different one this time, turning now, leaving them to their final approach.
They had passed an outward bound tug, the deck cluttered with tackle and green wreck-marker buoys, and he had seen some of the crew peering at the tracer damage and giving a thumbs-up when they saw 992’s small company falling in, caps tilted against the rain.
Their return to Malta had been completely uneventful.
They had been ready, and when aircraft had been sighted skimming at mast-height directly toward them they had expected the worst. Then Kearton had seen a couple of seamen cheering and hugging each other as the two fighters flew as close as they dared, and performed spectacular Victory Rolls more often seen above the cliffs and green fields of England. Spitfires: two of that last convoy of reinforcements, which had been all but destroyed.
Turnbull wiped the spray from his chin with the back of his hand, his eyes never leaving the indicator or compass.
“Somebody loves us,” he said.
There were plenty of people about too, rain or no rain, some huddled below the old defences. There were even a few colourful umbrellas, which, like the ancient walls, were shining, and somehow defiant.
Ainslie was beside him, his stubbly beard plastered against cheeks grey with fatigue, and Kearton knew he himself did not look much better.
He thought of the body below the bridge. No flag this time to attract interest or sympathy. Who was he? He had been to see him at first light, but someone else would have to solve the mystery, discover what part, if any, he had played in that sharp and bloody action. But he knew what he had thought before he had uncovered the face.
The pilot boat had changed its mind and was turning fussily again. Turnbull muttered something under his breath and said aloud, “All right, Dad!”
Kearton looked across the water, at the buildings and the familiar bomb damage. The dark clouds were so low that he had mistaken them for the smouldering aftermath of yet another raid.
“Port fifteen.” There was the old white cone. “Ease to five. Midships.” The long mooring pontoons, the wide steps beyond, all slick with rain. He looked at the buildings beyond, and knew he had been holding his breath.
Nothing had changed.
Some figures hurrying to the water’s edge: an officer standing apart from the others, watching their approach, two soldiers leaning against an upended stretcher.
Some of them were pointing at the damage, but it did not hold their attention for long.
“Slow astern, starboard.” He looked at the steps. “Stop!”
He could imagine them giving a cheer in the engineroom. They must have thought the worst was happening when the mines had exploded.
He watched the lines pulling taut. Most of the onlookers had drifted away.
“Officer comin’ aboard, sir.”
Spiers was on the bridge.
“All made fast, sir.”
“We’ll have the dockyard people taking over.” Kearton forced a grin. “So screw everything down.” He looked astern, and saw the other two M.T.B.s making fast alongside.
Spiers was watching them too, but said, “Does that mean—”
“You’ll be in command.”
Ainslie called, “Lieutenant-Commander Price from Operations is aboard, sir,” and a tired, patient voice interrupted, “Brice, if you don’t mind.”
Kearton shook hands.
“I’d offer you a drink, but …”
“Hoped you might.” Brice snapped open a briefcase long enough to display a bottle. “Dick Garrick sent this over. Congratulations are in order, I understand.” He snapped the briefcase shut. “First things first, I always say!”
Kearton turned to look at the buildings beyond the gates. The rain had stopped. The place was deserted.
They had reached the ladder; Brice seemed to find it steeper than he expected. Not a small-ship man …
He stumbled down the last step, then exclaimed, “Oh, almost forgot, what with a corpse to collect and all the usual formalities. Completely went out of my head.” He fumbled inside his jacket. “I was asked to give you this.” He beamed. “Now, what about that drink?”
Spiers was here, taking over subtly, and together he and Brice made their way to the wardroom, where Brice paused to examine some of the smoke stains.
Kearton turned over the pale blue envelope, recognizing it. There had been some identical to it in her room, lying with the broken glass and discarded wedding photo.
“Coming, old chap? This is the real stuff!”
It was probably just a polite note, warning him off before anything could get out of hand. He put it inside his jacket, and wanted to laugh at himself.
“Coming!”
It was a lifeline.
8
Welcome Back
THE OFFICE DOOR was already open as Kearton approached, and the same petty officer, a yeoman of signals, was waiting to greet him.
He glanced at the drops of rain on Kearton’s uniform.
“I see you dodged the worst of it, sir, but it looks as if we’re in for another downpour at any minute. Don’t have to keep you waiting this time, either.”
Kearton looked around. Exactly as he remembered it: same chairs, and a few magazines, the tape pasted across the windows, even the smell of paint. But the glass was streaked with rain, cutting through the dust, and the sky was grey, more like evening than eight o’clock in the morning.
The base was already wide awake, with men on the march, sloshing through the puddles, and the occasional bugle call, or the impatient rasp of orders or information from a tannoy system.
His own energy surprised him; he should have felt exhausted. A few hours’ sleep, encouraged by some of Garrick’s fine Scotch, then the inevitable hand on his shoulder, and he was ready to move. He had met the other M.T.B. officers, but only briefly, before making a list of repairs for the maintenance staff to check, and had even managed to swallow some fresh coffee before coming ashore.
He had looked back once in the grey light at the ragged scars along the hull, the splintered mahogany red against the stains. Perhaps it was still not hitting him: his mind had been so geared up for their final run back that what had happened was still being held at bay. Sooner or later, something had to snap.
He realized that the petty officer had halted by the other door.
“Good to have you back, sir.” It seemed what he had intended to say from the beginning. “Me and some of the lads went down to see you come alongside yesterday. You did us proud. Not just
us.” He gestured toward the window. “After all the shit and bombing these people have had to put up with—” He looked away and rapped on the other door.
Lieutenant-Commander Eric Brice crossed the room to meet him. Easily, unhurriedly. As if he were more at home here, bombs or not, than in a small warship that still stank of burning and cordite.
“You’re bright and early, Bob!” They shook hands. “The Boss is still away, I’m afraid. But he’s bang up to date with everything.” He patted Kearton’s shoulder as he took the indicated chair. “Sends you his warmest greetings.” He smiled, and it made him look younger. “And he meant it, believe me.”
He moved to the desk. It was bare but for one slim file. There was no ashtray.
“It’s all laid on for the dockyard people to run some repairs. They’ll start tomorrow.” He was studying the file. “Early. No other damage. Engines, communications—” He tapped the file. “The R/T plays up?” Turning over a sheet. “Well, pretty marvellous, when I consider what you achieved. Bloody marvellous, really. Not surprised the Boss is cock-a-hoop about it.”
The telephone rang noisily. “Can’t very well pretend I’m not here, can I?” He picked it up, said, “Brice, Operations,” and seemed to straighten in his chair. “Yes, sir. No, I’d not forgotten, sir. Government House? Of course. Thank you, sir.” He put it down. “I sometimes think he actually expects me to bow to him!” And he laughed.
In the next breath, he was serious again. “The good news is that you’re getting two new boats, not one, as was first reported. Arrival time, a couple of days, unless … Well, we won’t use that word.”
He laced his fingers together and gazed across the desk.
“By the way, Bob, I stood in for you when that young sailor was buried. I thought it was only right.”
Kearton guessed he had waited until now, when they were alone: another side to this man who could carry his responsibility with enough gravity to satisfy Garrick, but still keep himself human.
Brice was saying, “There was a naval guard from the base, and a bugler. Not much, but it meant something, I think.” He snapped his fingers, different again. “Oh, and the base sent a splendid wreath. A nice gesture. Thought you might have known about it?”
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