“Operations. Brice here.”
“He’s on his way.” That was all, but it was enough. Garrick was returning earlier than anyone had expected. They could be in for some fireworks.
“Many thanks.” He put the phone down gently. It was good to have friends. Especially now.
Kearton climbed out of the car and stood for a few minutes to regain his sense of direction. It was all much as he remembered, but some effort had been made to tidy, if not actually repair, the damage. A few windows were boarded up; others were in use again. One roof was partly covered with a canvas tarpaulin, but the area adjoining it had been left jagged and open to the sky, a grim reminder.
There was fresh white paint around the checkpoint, and an imposing wall of sandbags where he had last seen debris.
Two armed patrolmen were observing from their little hut but made no attempt to question him. It jarred another memory: the car said it all.
There was a small van parked inside the barrier. Nothing else.
He said to the driver, “Can you wait?”
He nodded, surprised. “Forever, if need be, sir,” and indicated the checkpoint. “I can have a mug of tea, or somethin’.” Then he grinned rather shyly. “Cap’n Garrick said I was to wait, so ’ere I’ll be.”
“I’ll not be long.” The driver probably knew that, too.
One of the patrolmen threw up a smart salute as he approached.
“Can you find your way, sir?” He pointed at a pile of rubble. “It’s round the other side now, sir. New door since you last came.”
Kearton thanked him. The patrolman must have a very sharp memory to recall him, with all the comings and goings he must have to check throughout the course of a watch.
He saw the garden. There was a big crack in the wall, where someone had painted a number, for repair or demolition was anybody’s guess. Thousands of houses must have been destroyed or severely damaged during the siege. One more crack would hardly count.
The door opened and she was facing him. Surprised, one hand going to her hair, the other still clutching a sack. “It’s you! I didn’t want you to see me like this!”
He reached out.
“Here, let me. I’m early—I’m sorry.”
She held on to the sack. “It’s just junk. The last of it, I hope.” She threw it on to another pile. “And you’re not too early. Far from it.”
He took her hands, and held them. “You look wonderful.” She did not resist as he pulled her closer, and turned her face so that he could kiss her cheek.
She said, “Not too close. I’m all sweaty after that!” Then she smiled. “You know, you’re staring again.”
They both laughed and walked together into the house. She was wearing khaki slacks and a pale green shirt, and her eyes and her hair were exactly as he remembered.
“You’re worth staring at,” he said.
She turned, quite suddenly, serious again.
“Are you really all right, Bob?” There was a slight hesitation, as if hearing his name again, on her own lips, could still surprise her. “We heard so many stories—rumours—one begins to doubt everything.”
“I’m fine, Glynis. I had to see you. You see, I was worrying about you.” He felt her flinch as he held her, without moving, almost touching. She did not look up.
“Remember, I’m all sweaty …” He could see her lashes, lowered to shield her eyes. Feel her breathing.
She said quietly, “Please, Bob, I’m only human.” Then she lifted her chin, her eyes steady, determined. “And … I’ve got friends here.”
There was a thud in the adjoining room, where he had seen the bed, and he heard voices. His hand was still on her waist. She did not attempt to remove it; all he heard was one word, barely audible.
“Please.”
She moved away, and he saw the desk behind her. The same basket, empty now.
Then the room seemed crowded, although there were only two of them. Both Maltese, a dark-haired, athletic man with a ready smile which displayed a glinting gold tooth, and a pretty young woman, with the lilting laugh he had heard on the telephone. She wore a gold crucifix hanging between her breasts, and was heavily pregnant. They stood side by side, like children waiting to be introduced.
“Mr and Mrs Falzon.” It seemed to break the tension. “Joseph and Stella.” She took the man’s arm. “Joseph used to work with my father.”
He half bowed and displayed his gold tooth again.
“For your father, if you please!”
“And this is Lieutenant-Commander Kearton.” She smiled, but did not look at him. “Bob Kearton.”
Falzon gave a quick salute. “I know.” He took Kearton’s hand. “Much of my work is at, and for, the docks.” He nodded slowly, his eyes serious. “I hear many things which I am not supposed to hear.” He released his hand. “I am proud to know you, the man.” He did not smile now, but repeated, “Proud.”
Glynis said, “Sit down, Bob.” She had turned, so that her face was hidden from the others. “You must be feeling bushed, if half the rumours are true.” She laughed, but kept her eyes on him. “I can’t even offer you a proper drink. There’s only some sherry.” She walked to the desk, her hand resting briefly on his shoulder as she passed. “Just sit there and I’ll see what I can find. I’m so sorry—everything’s been in turmoil …” She broke off as he reached up and covered her hand with his own.
Falzon said, “There is a car outside.” His dark brows lifted only slightly. “You are still,” he hesitated, “still in demand?”
Kearton grinned.
“I shall have to ask my superiors before I know that!”
They all laughed, but he saw her eyes flicking around the room. Remembering? Regretting?
She said, “Joseph and Stella are sharing rooms with me. So many people have had to be rehoused or evacuated because of the bombing, and the shortages. But I shall still have my office.” Her hand moved slightly on the desk, near the telephone in its military-style container. “When I am in demand.” The others laughed again, but Kearton saw something else. Disappointment, pain? It was neither.
He said, “At least I’ll know my way next time.”
The girl named Stella had been stooping over a low cupboard, and straightened, gasping, “Almost forgot!” She held out a bottle triumphantly. “The sherry, Glynis! All is not lost!”
Her husband hurried over to steady her, wagging a finger as a warning. But Kearton was looking at Glynis as she whispered, “There will be a next time, Bob? So much I wanted to say. To know …”
“I’m the same.” She did not hear him.
“Two different lives, different worlds. I don’t want you to think I’m one of ‘those women’. It’s not like that.”
He reached out and took her wrist; she did not move or resist.
“I’d kill anyone who suggested it!”
Joseph Falzon was holding the bottle to the light.
“Too late. It has had its day, I fear.”
He almost dropped the bottle as someone rapped loudly on the door. Glynis reached it first. It was the Royal Marine.
She looked across the room, eyes in shadow, expression hidden.
“For you, Bob.”
The driver peered past her.
“Cap’n Garrick, sir. They say it’s important.”
Kearton had been expecting it. So had she. It made it no easier.
Important. Like that last time.
He waved to the others and turned away. She walked by his side, her hand through his arm, but hardly touching him.
He could see the two patrolmen by the hut now, and imagined what they were thinking. Bloody officers. It’s all right for some.
She said, “It’s not right. You’ve only just come back, and now they want you again. You’ve had no time …” She turned her head as the car started and began to manoeuvre away from a pile of debris. “If it hadn’t been for me, you wouldn’t have come all this way.”
They stood by the parked van, a
nd as though it offered some illusion of privacy, he took her hands.
“If it hadn’t been for you, I wouldn’t have wanted to come.” The hands tensed. “Next time …” He released her. “I’d better go. Promise me you’ll take care of yourself.”
He turned toward the car, but she said, “Next time, Bob Kearton, call me again. Promise me.” And she was suddenly pressed against him, her words muffled against his shoulder. “So many things I wanted to say, to explain—and now there’s no time!” She pushed some hair from her forehead with the characteristic gesture, and gazed up: he could feel her trembling. “Kiss me.”
Not her cheek: her mouth, and then she walked away, toward the house, although she turned back for a moment. She might have waved, or been touching her hair. Or her eyes. Then she was gone.
He was in the car and it was moving before he could pull himself together. The usual barriers and arguments meant nothing. He was wrong, no matter what excuses his mind was offering.
He said, “Sorry to keep you hanging about.”
The driver shot him a quick glance in the mirror.
“No bother, sir. I know a short cut. If it’s still there!”
Kearton looked back, but other buildings had already moved out to hide the road and the checkpoint.
Next time. Like a hand reaching out.
He saw the glint of water, the motionless, moored ships. He could almost hear Garrick’s voice. Important.
He was ready.
Garrick did not look at his watch.
“You made it, then?”
By the time he had returned Kearton’s salute his mood had changed, and the famous grin was on display. “This can’t wait. Today, of all days!”
In his best uniform and apparently straight from the V.I.P reception, he was in stark contrast to the clutter of the repair yard and motionless derricks. A few workers in overalls had stopped to stare, and Garrick gave them a wave which was both casual and deliberate. There should have been a camera ready, Kearton thought.
Garrick was saying, “I’d just about had it up to the gills. All that guff about expense and the hard-working souls behind the scenes, for the war effort, and for us, for God’s sake! As if we were all sitting on our arses doing nothing!”
Kearton waited. He could smell the drink but Garrick was sober, if volatile. Sharp one minute, triumphant, even excited, the next.
“You know, some people, even senior ones, who ought to know better, have absolutely no idea what Special Operations can achieve. Have already achieved. I sometimes wonder!” He gestured toward a section of armed Royal Marines, and a rope barrier stretched across part of the yard. There was an officer in charge, a young, tough-looking lieutenant who marched toward them and saluted.
Garrick snapped, “He’s with me, damn it!” but relented immediately. “Show him your I.D., Bob. He’s only carrying out my orders.” He nodded to the lieutenant. “Well done.”
Kearton saw the smart salute. This was a restricted area; everybody knew that. So why all the extra security?
He realized that Garrick had stopped and was facing him, with his back toward one of the smaller repair basins.
He said, “For months, I’ve hoped and dreamed of something like this. I’ve had agents, good men, risking their lives to discover a flaw in the enemy’s defences.” He was standing on the very edge of the basin, like a showman. “Now, out of the blue, the Deep Blue, has come my reward!” He waited while Kearton stepped carefully to the edge. “Ran out of fuel, stopped and helpless, when along comes H.M. Minesweeper Gabriel. Now, see for yourself!”
The torpedo boat lay directly below him, held in place by wooden booms, and with mooring ropes and wires reaching out to keep her clear of the rough concrete. As if she were snared in a trap. Italian, about half the size of 992 and the other D-Boats, but with the clean, rakish lines he had never forgotten. Four torpedo tubes; usually able to carry a full cargo of depth-charges to fulfil her other role as an A/S vessel, and equipped with engines which could offer forty knots at the touch of a switch. He could hear them now in his mind. Like the ones they had encountered that night.
He had studied them often enough in the recognition manuals. Fast and deadly: the Italians had, after all, been the pioneers in this class. A crew of eighteen or nineteen. A command anyone would be proud of.
This one had run out of fuel. And out of luck.
“Did they put up a fight?” He could see no damage, or evidence of gunfire.
Garrick was beside him, staring down into the basin.
“Gabriel’s skipper fired a warning shot over them. That was enough. The Italian commander had other ideas, and tried to scuttle her.” He walked a few paces and gave his theatrical wave to one of the overalled figures who was using a flashlight over the side of a floating pontoon. The man grinned and responded with a thumbs-up.
Garrick exclaimed, “Bloody perfect!” He seemed to recall what he had been saying. “Gabriel’s skipper is a bit of a hard case. R.N.R., used to be a trawlerman before the war. He switched on his loud-hailer and told them the nearest land was a hundred miles away. It would be a long swim!”
“And the Italian changed his mind?”
Garrick moved away from the edge. “His crew did it for him!”
Kearton looked again at the dock. “Fuel would always be something of a risk. A range of three hundred miles, sometimes less, at twenty knots?”
Garrick nodded.
“Nothing wrong with your memory, Bob. So we’ll not take any chances. We may never get another opportunity like this. I told Gabriel’s skipper as much. It’s the catch of the season!”
He laughed abruptly at his own joke and walked back to the edge. “Not much time, and we can’t afford to waste it.” He was thinking aloud. “We’ll use one of your boats, to tow this one for part of the distance. Save fuel, and give us time to prepare.” He snapped his fingers. “Who d’you suggest?”
“John Stirling, in 986.” He felt numb, as if someone else was responding to Garrick’s clipped urgency. “He’s had a lot of experience in the Med.”
For a moment he thought Garrick had not heard him, or had already shifted to another tack. But he said, “The Canadians? If you say so. I’ll go along with that.”
Then he looked at his watch again. “I’ll leave you to deal with, er, Stirling. He’s on stand-by, so he should be on top line.” Then, very quietly, “By the way, the convoy will be arriving in the forenoon, a little later than planned. Had a spot of bother on the last leg, but nothing we can’t deal with at this end.”
Kearton said, “You’ll want the operation to begin before that, sir?”
Garrick smiled.
“I’ll have the full details sent to you immediately—or I’ll want to know the reason. No time to hang about. We can’t keep our ‘catch’ a secret for long. The prisoners, or someone spilling the beans over a few gins!” He straightened his cap. “Brice knows what to do. He’d better!”
Garrick’s new aide was hovering close by now, a wad of papers in his hand; the bomb-happy lieutenant had been replaced. Garrick had seen him, but seemed oddly unwilling to leave.
Then he said, “It’ll be your show, Bob. Another rendezvous. Not much warning—there never is. I’m depending on you. So be it!”
Kearton walked toward the barrier, and saw one of the guards waiting to pass him through.
An hour ago? Less? Next time … Right or wrong, she was with him now.
10
No Guts … No Glory
LIEUTENANT TOBY AINSLIE sat in a corner of the M.T.B.’s crowded wardroom and wondered why it should feel so different. He knew all but one of the faces here, at least by sight; he had always had a good memory for those. Names were something else. Stirling, the Canadian commanding officer, had made him welcome enough, and had apologized for the lack of hospitality. Time did not allow it.
Like their own boat, this one had been built to exactly the same design, and in the same British yard, and probably launched within a
few weeks of 992. All the fittings and armament matched, so there was no chance of losing your sense of direction during the night watches. So where was the difference? Ainslie could not define it, but it was here. The voices, the smells from an identical galley, a couple of framed photographs on the bulkhead, a hockey team on skates, another of a sailing cutter with an iceberg close abeam. But he was still not certain …
He could feel the vibrating murmur of generators, hear loose gear being dragged across the deck. Making ready for sea. He knew that was the real reason for his anxiety. Maybe if they had been ordered to sail again soon after their last grim assignment, but in their own boat, it might not have been so upsetting. He was not afraid; surely he would know that by now.
There was plenty of coffee, hot and strong. He sipped it gratefully, and saw the first lieutenant, Tom Cusack, watching him. “Too powerful, Toby?” He was smiling, but there was something else, reminiscent of the moment when the Skipper had introduced him as ‘Pilot’.
Cusack had been smiling then. “Don’t trust us, eh?”
Ainslie listened to the others. Mostyn, the other commanding officer, and his first lieutenant, who would be remaining here on stand-by. And Spiers, holding the fort and keeping an eye on the repairs. It was hard to know how he felt about being left behind.
He darted a quick glance at the other stranger in the wardroom, a Lieutenant Warren: he had not caught his first name. Kearton had met him on the upper deck. It had been quiet, unemotional, and all the more moving for that.
Kearton had gripped Warren by the shoulders and had held him without speaking. Then, “How long? For God’s sake, I thought …” He had not continued. Warren had nodded, his eyes never leaving Kearton’s.
“I thought so too, Bob. Took them six months to put me together again.”
Kearton had said to Ainslie, “Eighteen months ago, maybe more. We were based at Dover a while …” He had touched Warren’s arm again. “It was rough going, at the time.”
Warren wore a leather glove on what remained of his right hand. Ainslie had seen it when he had been unfastening a folder of charts: more like a claw than a hand, it was a miracle he could still use it. He had seen Ainslie’s expression, and made a joke of it.
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