The Glory Boys

by Douglas Reeman

  He leaned over the chart again, but he was thinking of his father. He always had piles of boating and yachting magazines at the yard, often depicting ships and exciting cruises in seas unimaginably far from the Thames. Exotic ports of call, girls in swimsuits and dark glasses, hovering stewards. And everywhere, the sun, especially in advertisements for the Mediterranean. He pulled his coat closer, shivering. His father had always wanted to go on a cruise, but had never been able to afford it. Or maybe it had been a different world in his eyes. A dream …

  This was the reality.

  Ainslie said suddenly, “These explosive motor-boats. Could they really delay an attack on the mainland? I heard about them being used in Crete—we all did—when I was finishing navigational classes.” It was too dark to see if he blushed as he amended it after a second. “Well—starting them.”

  Kearton smiled. Sometimes Ainslie made him feel very old.

  “It’s not a thing we want again right now. A few of those boats could cause havoc if they got amongst the invasion fleet. And no amount of nets, booms or underwater defences could stop determined, dedicated attackers.”

  He closed his eyes as the light was switched off, then reopened them when the cold air fanned past him.

  Ainslie’s question had caught him offguard, but he should have been ready for it. They had all heard about the attack at Suda Bay and the loss of the cruiser York two years before, as John Stirling had recalled at that last meeting in the wardroom. And Garrick had displayed a flash of real anger when Kearton had asked him point-blank, “Is Major Howard involved this time?”

  “Without him, we’d still be in the dark! Courage, luck, or bloody-mindedness, it’s results that matter—to me, anyway!”

  He had returned to the subject eventually, when Kearton had mentioned Suda Bay.

  “Yes, he was there at the time. A special army unit. Did sterling work, to all accounts. Was awarded the M.C.—at the Palace, I believe.”

  Kearton climbed up the sloping ladder and ducked his head automatically as he reached the bridge.

  He looked up at the sky, very dark, but with a few thin, luminous clouds moving unhurriedly ahead of the wind.

  He clenched his fist inside the duffle coat’s big pocket. There was a new moon, sharp as a shark’s fin as it cut through the clouds. Only a day or two old.

  Like that night when they had suddenly found themselves awake, early or late; neither of them remembered. She had been propped on her elbow, looking down at him, her hair across his shoulder.

  “Don’t look at it through glass, Bob. It’s unlucky. But make a wish.”

  She had mentioned her marriage that same night.

  “Stuart …” and he had felt a peculiar shock and surprise when she had used the name, the first time he had heard it. “They called him a hero. I believed it. Until …” A few moments later she said, almost inaudibly, “He hurt me. I knew then.”

  It was enough. They had lain together and waited for the dawn.

  He walked over to the compass and peered down at it. Northeast by north. He could see the other boats in his mind’s eye: two pairs, M.T.B. and M.G.B. abeam of each other. And the faces of those in command. Trust, loyalty, obedience: it was all and none of them.

  Spiers had moved over to join him: another anonymous shape. He must have covered the white scarf with a coat.

  “I’ve sent word for hot soup and sandwiches, sir. After that …” He did not finish. There was no need.

  Instead he said, “Grand Harbour looked pretty empty when we left. Another convoy went out just before we did. Eastbound, back to Alex—big escort this time, including M.T.B.s., for the first leg of the passage, anyway. I suppose the enemy will know about that, too. They’re not stupid.”

  “You’re right, Peter. They’re not. And they’ll know there’s nothing in their way now. Except us.”

  He thought of her, lying in the dark. Make a wish.

  The wind was still freshening, and when he looked up he could see the ensign flapping and cracking above the bridge, a pale shadow against the sky. But the moon had disappeared.

  Lieutenant Peter Spiers made his way carefully to the forepart of the bridge, wary of anything that might have been moved during his brief absence, or the outthrust leg of one of the lookouts. It was still dark, but he could see the outline of the bridge, and the flag locker like a chequerboard against the dull paint.

  He recognized Turnbull’s familiar outline by the wheel, the compass light casting only a tiny reflection now against his oilskin. He sensed Spiers’ presence and reached out to shake the other helmsman; they had been sharing each watch, an hour on, an hour off. Alertness was everything for the hands on the spokes.

  “Wakey, wakey, Bliss! Starter’s orders!” He chuckled as the man joined him by the compass. “Nice day for it.”

  Spiers shivered. Everything was cold and wet: spray carrying on the wind, the deck and gratings slippery underfoot. Where was the dawn?

  He saw Kearton turn toward him, his face and shoulders framed by a backdrop of whitecaps and broken crests, pursued by the wind from astern. As if they were trying to keep pace with the hull.

  “Anything?”

  Spiers shook his head.

  “W/T office has nothing to report. It’s a bit lively down there—Sparks has no horizon to watch to keep his sandwiches under control.” He saw him turn again, as if to locate the gunboat which was keeping station abeam. Her bow wave was stark against the dark water. At any moment she would be completely recognizable.

  He moved closer and lowered his voice.

  “Maybe it’s been called off, sir. They might have had second thoughts, or been ordered back to Penta? Our people wouldn’t even know.”

  One of the bridge lookouts was uncovering his binoculars, training them quickly seaward to test them or make certain they were still clean, and, only for a few seconds, Kearton saw the lenses before the lookout completed his sweep. Not black glass any more, but holding light. He looked at the sea. Now there was a horizon. Soon the sun would show itself. And the decision would still be his.

  Spiers said, “I’ll check with W/T again, sir. Then I can go aft and give the spare hands a couple of jobs that need doing …”

  “No.” Kearton did not raise his voice. “Stay here. With me.”

  He pulled himself against the screen so he could see the two-pounder’s gunshield. That, too, was catching the light, with spray trapped and pooled beneath it, quivering to the beat of the engines.

  He could feel the tension around him. Doubt, curiosity, anxiety. He shut his mind to it. When he reached out the handset was ice-cold in his fingers, and he could hear Ainslie’s breathing. Or was it his own?

  “You’re on, Skipper.”

  He pressed the switch. “This is Growler. To all units. Listening Watch.” He knew Turnbull had turned his head to hear him. He would know, better than most, what it might mean for them, and for their senior officer. “Stop your engines. Stand by!”

  The deck gave a drawn-out shudder, and then submitted to the sea and the swell against the hull.

  He said, “Tell the Chief.”

  “Done, sir.” An unfamiliar voice. Were there still some he did not know?

  Other sounds, exaggerated by the stillness. Loose tackle on deck, an ammunition belt against the bridge machine-gun, someone coughing or retching, trying not to throw up.

  He saw the nearest M.G.B. clearly for the first time. No bow wave, and showing her deck as she idled across the troughs, metal glinting as it caught the light from the horizon.

  A voicepipe squeaked, and he heard Turnbull’s curt, “Tell him, wait!”

  Something moved on the foredeck, but it was a shadow cast by the two-pounder.

  “Have you got the new course, Pilot?” He felt Ainslie brush against him, fumbling for his notebook.

  Bliss broke the silence.

  “Gunfire, sir.” He was gesturing toward the bows, but staring at Kearton.

  Then he heard it. Like those
far-off summer days: a woodpecker, unperturbed, searching for food.

  “Growler! Take station on me! Attacking!”

  He felt Ainslie gasp; he must have gripped his arm like a vise.

  “Make the signal!”

  The rest was drowned by the sudden roar of engines.

  “Rocket, dead ahead!” The lookout repeated it. “Rocket!” Perhaps because of the noise, or to convince himself he had not been mistaken.

  Kearton said, “Steady. Hold your course.”

  Ainslie was saying, “Someone’s in trouble—”

  Kearton steadied his binoculars. The rocket was already dying, would be only scattered green sparks by the time it hit the sea. They were not intended to last. He exhaled slowly as his mind responded, like a cocking-lever on a weapon. Or the crosswires on a target.

  It was easier this time. The deck was steadier, responding to the speed, which was still increasing. Laidlaw was down there, deaf and blind to everything but his gauges and switches.

  But there was nothing beyond the tiny image trapped in the lenses, blurred by spray, then sharpening again. Long and low: a lighter of some kind, but with a small box-like bridge and superstructure right aft, like a landing-ship. Shortening now, turning.

  “All guns! Stand by!”

  He felt Spiers hurry past, but he did not pause or speak. Only the target counted.

  He waited for his eyes to clear, but the image remained in his mind. The same vessel which had been described, even sketched, in the reports and in Garrick’s red-lettered file.

  And there was another ship, at first hidden by the lighter, now moving away and gathering speed. A speed to match their own.

  “Starboard twenty!” He tried to keep the binoculars focused on the smaller vessel, following it until it was almost lost in spray, bows on.

  “Midships!” He seized a rail as the deck tilted again. Turnbull was turning the wheel, staring at the indicator and compass as if nothing else existed. “Port twenty!”

  He tried once more, but using one hand and needing the other to keep his balance made each second vital.

  The two vessels were farther apart, but the range was closing fast. He sensed the nearest M.G.B. plunging round to hold station abeam. Red Lyon needed no encouragement.

  But all he could see was a third vessel, or what remained, left astern and disappearing in the reflected glare. A fishing boat, or one of the schooners which were sometimes used for covert missions.

  Garrick might have been about to give him details, but he doubted it.

  And she had used his name, only once. Stuart …

  He blinked again to clear his vision. Vivid flashes, and tracer rising and falling slowly, out of range.

  He pushed Ainslie away from the side and, as their eyes met, saw him fighting his own private battle, and finally understanding.

  Don’t keep all your eggs in one basket.

  “Ready, ’Swain? Another zig-zag?”

  He heard an explosion and felt it pound the side of the hull like something solid.

  Turnbull stared at the falling spray and wrinkled his nose at the stench of cordite.

  “Say the word, sir!”

  He could feel the spokes jerking in his hands. Full speed. At this rate … But his mind came under control again as the two-pounder opened fire. Cock Glover was doing his stuff.

  He repeated the Skipper’s order and began to turn the wheel, but the crazy laughter was still hovering. If the Jimmy the One had not postponed Defaulters, Glover might be comfortably ashore right now. Maybe in a cell, but safe.

  Another thud, this explosion closer, between 992 and Red Lyon’s command.

  “Steady!”

  “We going in, ’Swain?” That was Bliss, who was crouching, pressed against the voicepipes.

  Turnbull concentrated on the compass: nothing else mattered. So many times, and some you wanted to forget. Except one.

  “We are, my son. All the bloody way!”

  He could hear Kearton’s voice, or snatches of it as he ducked his head to speak to the voicepipe, to Spiers and his killick, Laurie Jay.

  He flinched as the twin Oerlikons opened fire from aft. They stopped almost immediately. Too quick on the trigger, or merely testing guns?

  More tracer now. Low overhead but closer, some ripping across the water as if it was alive.

  He thought he heard the buzzer, then the Skipper’s voice, clipped, final.

  “Fire!” Then, “Hard a-port!”

  “Both torpedoes running, sir!”

  Kearton strode across the bridge, but had to reach out for support as the hull tilted over in response to full rudder.

  “Midships!” They were turning at full speed, the sea surging over the deck, the spray falling like hail. He saw John Stirling’s boat, on a different bearing, crossing their wake and heading for the target. The two motor gunboats were exchanging fire with the patrol vessel, but one of them appeared to be slowing down, stopping, feathers of spray bursting along one side. He tried to control his binoculars; the bridge was shuddering as the outer screw rose close to the surface while they settled on their new course. He heard loose gear clattering, someone shouting. Then he saw the supply vessel, full-length this time as she completed a ninety-degree turn. She was a shallow-draught vessel, otherwise she would never have used Penta as a lair. And she was fast. Maybe the new torpedoes were duds. Designed by people who never had to use them …

  Ellis, their best lookout, was standing beside him. He was shaking his binoculars as if to rid them of spray and saying something, but the words were lost.

  Kearton did not hear the explosion. His mind recorded only a blinding flash, and pain, a blow on the head. Then nothing.

  Turnbull held on to the wheel and used it to pull himself upright. He stared around the bridge, his brain still shocked and refusing to obey. There was something sodden under his feet, falling apart: it was his personal notebook, his bible. The duties and responsibilities of every man aboard; all the pros and cons. He was never without it. Glover was in it … several times …

  It came back to him slowly. He had been trying to unfasten his oilskin. He had been sweating. And he had felt the notebook fall to the deck. Holding the wheel with one hand, he had stooped to recover it. It had saved his life.

  He saw Bliss sitting on the deck with his back against the side of the bridge. His eyes were wide open, unmoving. There was a smear of blood marking his fall, like a brushstroke, and a series of jagged holes, ending in more blood.

  He saw Ainslie at the top of the ladder, staring at the bridge as if he were unable to move.

  Turnbull shouted at him, “Get someone to relieve me!” He knew the signs. Ainslie had already shown what he could do, but everyone had a limit.

  Ainslie said, “Can’t Bliss …?” and broke off as he saw the dead helmsman, and the other body below the screen. Ellis, the lookout.

  Others were coming; he heard Leading Seaman Dawson’s thick voice. Turnbull recognized it also, and felt a terrible relief.

  “See to the Skipper, will you?”

  Ainslie dropped to his knees and used his cap to cushion Kearton’s head from the deck.

  “Hold on, Skipper. We’ll have you fixed up in no time.”

  He felt Pug Dawson moving past him, two other seamen behind him. One of them took the wheel, and Ainslie heard him calmly repeating Turnbull’s instructions.

  Ainslie licked his lips, and knew he had come close to vomiting. He felt the sun burning his neck now, and saw that the ensign was scarcely moving.

  He heard Pug Dawson say, “Two hits near the waterline, amidships. I got two lads dealin’ with ’em. Make do, anyways!” He gave a wheezing chuckle. “Just so long as th’ Skipper’s OK.” And then, “Well, we sank their bloody supply ship—that’s somethin’ to blow th’ cobwebs away! Not that we can tell anyone at th’ moment.”

  Turnbull looked aft along the deck, at the wash stretching away astern.

  “I didn’t even hear it. Must’ve been w
hen we were hit—” He recalled what Dawson had said. “Is the W/T knocked out?”

  “Direct hit.”

  Turnbull said, “I’d better get down there.”

  Dawson patted his arm kindly. “Not unless you got a strong stomach.”

  Ainslie looked up and said quietly, “Who was it?”

  Pug Dawson might have shrugged.

  “Weston. Nice kid. I always thought …”

  Ainslie stared at the flag locker, remembering the last time. The scattered bunting, and death.

  He felt a hand resting on his and saw that Kearton’s eyes were open, focusing on his face.

  “It’s over, Skipper. We did it!”

  He felt the fingers move tentatively.

  “How many, Toby?”

  He saw Turnbull hold up one hand.

  “Five, sir.”

  Kearton’s fingers were not resting now but gripping, and he could feel him trying to turn on his side. But it was too much for him, and he let his head fall back on Ainslie’s cap.

  “Tell our lads—I’m proud of them.”

  Pug Dawson was kneeling beside them, his square hands fashioning a pillow from some flags.

  “Give it a day or two, sir, an’ you can tell ’em yerself!”

  Kearton lay very still, the sounds and voices merging. Some things were clearer than others: even the explosion, a shell smashing into the deck forward of the bridge. The blow on his head had not been a splinter or a fragment from the blast. He had opened his eyes and found his face almost touching the iron ringbolt which had knocked him unconscious. The impact was already making itself felt. But that would pass.

  But when he had tried to move the real pain had prevented him, and he had heard himself cry out before the darkness had closed in again and driven it away.

  Another image, like a flashback from some old film. His jacket being unbuttoned, his shirt torn away like paper. Hands: more pain. Darkness.

  Another voice: Spiers, very calm, confident. “Cracked a couple of ribs, as far as I can make out. They’ll soon put it right.”

  He must have asked Spiers about the action; he remembered only the curtness of his reply. The anger.