Tomorrow, or the next day at the latest. It was an incoming convoy, and they would be there as back-up, and to give them the feel of working together in action. He was able to consider it calmly. We won’t be alone this time.
He reached up to switch off the chart light and saw his own shadow against the fresh paintwork. Like yesterday: now. The gun raised like a salute, his finger on the trigger.
He had seen him when he had gone ashore, being met by everyone on the base, or so it had seemed. Senior officers, too, and someone taking photographs. He had looked back then at Ainslie, with those cold, pale eyes. They could have been quite alone. But without recognition. Like a challenge.
And nobody else knew. He had not even told the Skipper. He switched off the light, and recalled Kearton’s handshake.
Especially not him.
He had heard about the woman being found dead: some attempted robbery inside the restricted area, according to the buzz. There were police and security patrols everywhere when he had been over there being vetted by the Intelligence staff, and he thought it was the last place anyone would attempt to commit a robbery. Now it was murder.
The Skipper had been involved, too, because his friend worked and lived within sight of the harbour. He wondered if there was anything in it. He had seen her a couple of times: she would turn anyone’s head, and he had heard somebody say she was married. He hadn’t thought the Skipper would get involved with a married woman, so maybe there was more to it than that. Turnbull in particular had spoken for most of them when he’d said, “Bloody good luck to him!”
He thought about Sarah, and the letter which was still unwritten. He had started it and fallen asleep across the wardroom table, and had woken to find someone had taken the pen from his fingers and screwed the cap back on, and left it beside the pad. Number One, perhaps, but it seemed unlikely. Peter Spiers had been almost like a stranger since Operation Retriever.
How can that be, in a boat this size?
He glanced at the shutter in the forepart of the chartroom, at his reflection.
Maybe it’s me. Have I changed that much? Am I the stranger?
He swung round as the other door suddenly opened, and the outside noises intruded.
“Sorry, old chap, I didn’t know anybody was in here.” He laughed. “Did I make you jump?”
It was the electrical officer Ainslie had seen earlier, visiting one of the other boats for a final check-up. But in the shadows the green cloth between his two wavy stripes was not apparent. Just his hand around the door, wearing a leather glove.
Now, he knew.
The Chief Yeoman of Signals put the thick envelope on his table and waited as Turnbull signed for it.
“Nothing much you don’t already know, Harry. Couple of recognition signals that might come in handy if everything goes according to plan. But your S.O. will expect to be up to date.”
Turnbull was listening to the typewriters and the telephones.
“We’ll take root if we stay here much longer!”
“That’ll be the day!”
“No more runs ashore for a while, anyway.”
The Chief Yeoman glanced at one of his young signalmen, who was scrawling something on a blackboard, biting his lower lip in concentration.
“A bit quieter around here now.” He lowered his voice. “We’ve been crawling with cops. Ours, the army, even some civvies, for all the good they’ve done.” He shook his head. “That poor lass. Never stood a chance, to all accounts.” He made a chopping motion with his hand. “Rabbit-punch, then strangled, or so I was told.”
“They find anything?”
“Couldn’t find a bottle in a brewery, that lot!”
Turnbull pointed at the bundle which had just been delivered.
“What’s that?” and was rewarded with a crooked grin.
“A rowing-machine. The Boss likes to keep in shape. Over here, away from the staff.”
Turnbull shrugged. “Maybe he’s in love, Yeo.”
“He is. Every time he looks in a mirror!” He picked up some papers. “But I’ve served worse.” Then he touched the badges on his own lapels and said quietly, “You’ve got some service in, Harry.” He glanced at the medal ribbon. “Keep your nose clean, an’ you should rate promotion yourself.” He poked his arm. “Get a nice soft job ashore—like me, I don’t think!”
They walked to the door together, the noise left behind them. For once, there was nobody else within earshot.
Turnbull stopped and faced him.
“You know Mrs Howard, don’t you?”
“I see her around quite a bit, Harry. Call her ‘our Glynis’, behind her back of course.” He paused. “Not that she’s stuck up, like some. But she’s got to be careful with all these Jolly Jacks about.” He winked. “The wardroom, too.” Then, abruptly, “What’s on your mind? Have you heard something?”
“I’ve talked to her. Saw her at the sick quarters with a young chap off the Kinsale. He was dying. But there’s something …” He broke off as a messenger strode past them.
The Chief Yeoman dropped his voice again.
“She was living here in Malta before I was drafted to H.Q. She came out with her father from England just before the balloon went up and the shit began in earnest. Done a lot of good stuff, civilians, welfare.” He paused as if listening. “And she got married. Friend of her dad’s, to all accounts. A soldier. You know how it is, the war, an’ everything.”
He paused again. “It was all gossip—but the marriage didn’t work out. He was sent away, something happened. Anyway, she wanted to break it off.”
A voice shouted, “Call for you, Yeo!”
He sighed. “If I don’t see you before you shove off to sea, Harry, I’ll keep a noggin waiting for you.”
Turnbull nodded. “I’ll take you up on that.” And then, “There was trouble?”
He waved toward the door, as if undecided.
Then he said in an undertone, “She was raped. Hushed up at the time, of course.”
“Was it …”
“Only two people know that, Harry.”
The voice shouted again, “Too late, Yeo! He’s rung off!”
He smiled. “I’d better do the same.” It was a strong handshake. “Just watch your step, my son.”
Turnbull walked across the yard, or whatever it had once been, and looked through a gap in the old stone wall. He could see the water, but the M.T.B. moorings were hidden from view.
He was ready; he had to be. And the rest? Stay out of it. His friend had understood, and had warned him.
Others depended on him. He twisted the thick envelope in his hands.
He thought of Jock Laidlaw, and the policeman dressed as an army captain. He had told both of them, he saved my life. And the girl with the dark eyes and bloodstains on her breast, who had held his arm and walked beside him.
She probably knew better than anybody: the Skipper was completely alone. He thought of his face, when he had gone to his cabin with his carefully rehearsed welcome. Me an’ the lads … and the jug, which he had found almost untouched when he had gone back to switch off the lights.
They were all going to need him more than ever.
He tugged his cap down over his eyes. So be it.
Kearton glanced along the wardroom table and pulled the chart slightly toward him. All the scuttles were open and the deadlights raised. Outside it was still clear with some misty sun, but for security reasons they would soon shut the ports and darken ship; and then, even with the fans at full blast, this place would be like an oven.
“That about sums it up. We slip and proceed at eight tomorrow forenoon. Gentlemen’s hours, for a change.” There were smiles and a laugh or two. The four commanding officers were here, and Ainslie, squeezed into a corner with his own chart and logbook. Spiers was just outside the wardroom door, listening, but making sure they were not disturbed by unexpected visitors or unimportant signals.
At least the tension had been broken. This was their fi
rst meeting en masse: Stirling the Canadian, cheerful, and alert to every snippet of information, showing no sign of strain after their action with the Italian patrol vessel and the recovery of Retriever’s survivors. Or maybe experience had taught him to conceal it. And Geoff Mostyn of 977, puffing his pipe and jotting notes on a well-thumbed pad: he had asked a few questions, but seemed otherwise untroubled.
There was Lieutenant Chris Griffin, one of the M.G.B. skippers; it was his first command. Soft-spoken, with a ready smile, he was a West Countryman, maybe Cornish. And Lyon, pointing now at the chart, shaping the convoy’s route with his hands.
“Special cargo from Alex, so they’ve likely been ushered right around the Cape, and up through the Red Sea to Suez. Phew! It would bore the pants off me.”
Stirling said, “Hell of a lot safer, though.”
Red Lyon nodded. “But if a risk saves time and lives, take it, I say!”
Kearton remembered him, like so many others, from the Channel days. But not so sharply defined then, he thought, and less confident than he seemed now.
He said, “We shall exercise in formation once we’re on our own. But meeting the convoy and offering additional escort for its home run will be our main objective.” He gauged their expressions. “Four ships—not many, so they must be important. We haven’t been told.”
Stirling grinned. “Ask me no questions, I’ll tell you no lies, eh?”
Kearton looked past him toward Ainslie, ready with his own notes and official navigational details; he had already ticked off a list of final instructions. But Kearton could see the change in him. Feel it. Like someone else standing in for the bright, sometimes shy youngster who had greeted him at Gibraltar. Did any of them remember that?
He saw the new pipe lying across an ashtray near Ainslie’s chart. He must have bought it ashore somewhere, or else he had been carrying it around, saving it for some suitable occasion.
It had ended in a bout of coughing.
Mostyn had suggested, “Get some good stuff, Pilot. Pusser’s tobacco will kill you!” He had laughed and thumped his own chest. “Don’t I know it!”
Red Lyon had said, “Not for boys.”
Kearton folded the chart and looked at the open door. Apart from the fans, the boat seemed silent. No libertymen, not even a short run ashore to the wet canteen. Especially not to that. Fuel tanks fully topped up. He could picture Laidlaw in his mind, muttering about the extra cans of petrols they had stowed aboard as an extra precaution. As he put it, “an extra bloody risk.” Weapons and magazines checked. And the massive torpedoes, oiled and shiny. Always waiting.
He gazed at the bulkhead, as though he could see through and beyond it to their company. A mere handful compared with any major warship, even a destroyer or corvette. But properly handled …
“Any mail going ashore? Do it now.” He saw Ainslie peer at his own clip of notes, and knew what he was thinking.
The hull tilted slightly as another vessel passed, fairly close. He thought he heard the helmsman being challenged, and the faint response. He watched the flickering reflection on the low deckhead, then it stilled until the next disturbance.
Where was she now? What might she be doing? Working late in one of the offices, or dealing with a new arrival? Or sitting in the apartment. Listening. Watching the telephone.
He wanted to shake himself. She was safe now. Everybody knew.
“I think that’s all, gentlemen,” and, forcing himself to smile, “If you’ll excuse the formality!”
They all laughed, as he knew they would. It always seemed to help.
Lyon was the last visitor to leave. Somehow Kearton had known that, too.
“Good to be working with you—er, Bob. We can teach them a few new tricks!” He unhooked his thumbs from his pockets and looked around for his cap. “I heard Toby Warren bought it the other day. I served with him for a time.”
He shook his head, so that his hair seemed to glow under the deckhead lights. “Too bad—but if your number’s on it, that’s it.” He was looking at Ainslie. “Something I said?”
Ainslie said in a low, cold voice, “I was with him. We were friends.” He stood up and gathered his papers. “I must take some mail ashore.” He brushed past Spiers in the doorway without looking back. He had left his new pipe behind on the table, and Lyon touched it.
“Too soon. It’s a man’s pipe.”
Kearton said quietly, “Cut it out. You know the rule.”
He held up both hands. “Sorree, sir, I forgot! No names in the mess. Afterwards!”
Then he grinned. “He should come over to my command for a spell, and see some real officers at work.”
Kearton followed him to the ladder and stopped him.
“When you come over to mine again, try and act like one.”
He could still hear the laugh when Lyon had reached the upper deck, and knew he had made an enemy.
“Close all watertight doors and scuttles! Down all deadlights!”
Leading Seaman Pug Dawson did not need the tannoy system: his voice reached upper and lower deck without effort, and was usually more reliable. The small galley was shut, the messdeck cleared of everything but essential gear. Anything left lying about would be pounced on by the coxswain, and the owner would have to pay a fine before he could reclaim it.
The few remaining lights dimmed briefly as the engineroom quivered into life. A few of the usual jokes, a grin or two. The waiting was over. It was almost a relief.
Kearton was in his cabin. That, too, looked bare, and more unlived in than ever. He checked his pockets and his notebook; if he had forgotten anything, it was too late anyway.
Always the same … He had heard the slam of watertight doors and hatches, the sounds of hurrying feet and muffled voices, and found that he could smile. It’s never the same.
He pictured the chart again. Going over it with Ainslie, translating the written orders into speed, time, and distance. South-east this time, to meet the small convoy, some of which had pounded all the way around the Cape and up through Suez to avoid the commerce raiders and U-Boat packs. They still had a long way to go to reach Malta once they left Alexandria. He recalled what Spiers had told him about Bomb Alley, but that had been then. Things might have eased off now, with the Afrika Korps at a stalemate.
He thought of Ainslie again, apparently quite at home with his charts while they had been together, but still quieter than usual. Than before …
He looked at his watch, and tightened the strap slightly. A bad sign, but it was only in big ships that the meals ran on time.
He stared at the sealed scuttle. Like hearing her voice, her concern.
“You’ve got to look after yourself, Bob. Promise me?”
At the foot of that same staircase. Yesterday. People hurrying past, tutting if they had to squeeze by, or turning openly to stare. They were alone for only a few minutes.
“I want to be with you, Glynis. There’s never a moment.”
Someone had called her name then, and held up some letters.
“I must go.”
He had already seen Brice hovering, trying not to look impatient.
“I want you to be careful.”
She had touched his shoulder, then his face for the first time.
“Oh, Bob, you want a lot!”
“I want you.”
But she had pulled away.
He thought he heard someone say, “Nice work, if you can get it!” He had not seen who it was. It was just as well.
He gathered up his pipe and tobacco, recalling the exchange between Ainslie and ‘Red’ Lyon. That was then. This was now.
Pug Dawson again: “Special Sea Dutymen close up!”
More voices now, less restrained. The usual jokes, silly, necessary. The stand-by helmsman hurried toward the bridge, and a voice called, “Don’t forget, Arthur, starboard is on the right!”
He replied without stopping, “Is it Red or Green?”
Spiers had appeared outside the door, wit
h the merest hint of a smile.
“Ready, sir. When you are.”
“Thanks, Peter.” He did not look back.
“D’you hear there? Clear lower deck! Hands fall in for leaving harbour!”
He climbed into the daylight and gazed over toward the jetty and the buildings beyond. Sunshine, but without warmth, and patchy cloud.
The mooring wires were already singled-up and some spare hands, onlookers, were waiting to cast off when the order was given.
The usual clouds of vapour now, the engines muttering in unison, men lined up fore and aft. There were a few people up on the road, beyond the gates; there might be more closer to the entrance. No secrets here.
He glanced forward and saw a seaman standing up in the bows, ready to lower the Jack when they got under way. Smartly turned out in his best Number Threes, when, within hours, he might be called to action stations.
He shut it from his mind, and climbed up into the bridge.
Ainslie saluted. “Signal to proceed when ready, sir.”
So formal. Maybe that, too, was just as well.
He saw Turnbull beside the wheel with his extra helmsman, a lookout, and a telegraphist waiting by the signal lamp. The ‘little ships’ did not warrant a bunting-tosser.
The machine-guns were still hooded, unmanned.
He lifted his binoculars, but let them fall again.
She might be out there somewhere. Watching … It would be asking a lot. From both of us.
“Warn the Chief.”
“Done, sir.”
“All acknowledged, sir!”
He knew Turnbull was watching him, heard him say, “Like old times, sir.”
He knew.
He raised his arm and saw Spiers salute.
“Let go, forrard!”
“All gone forrard, sir!”
“Let go, aft!”
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