KEARTON STOOD ON the starboard side of the bridge, his elbow wedged against some voicepipes. Not that he needed any support; apart from a slight swell, the sea was like a millpond. And it was dark, no horizon, the stars faint and scattered. He listened to the engines, throttled down to a steady, regular twelve knots, so that other, insignificant sounds were audible. The creak of the wheel, the rattle of signal halliards from the solitary mast, and always the movement of the bridge machine-guns: to check the sighting, or simply to ease the cramp in a seaman’s legs.
It seemed nothing had changed since they had received the signal, and had altered course in response to its command.
He had watched the two destroyers fading into the distance, as if they and not the three M.T.B.s had altered course. At this moment, they were steering almost southeast, retracing those same lines on Ainslie’s chart. Back into the Strait. Just us.
An enemy transport, a lighter of some kind, had been reported heading south, following the Italian coast. It was carrying a full load of mines. Scattered ahead of the expected convoy, that could mean disaster, not only for the convoy but for Malta.
The lighter, if that was an accurate description, had been lying at Naples, but how good was the information?
Minden had picked up another aircraft on her radar, but none of the lookouts had sighted it. The pilot had either been satisfied with their course and position, or the plan had already been changed.
It reminded Kearton, not for the first time, of something an old hand in Coastal Forces had said, back in those early ‘Channel days’. “Decide what the enemy is preparing to do, and plan your attack accordingly. Then you can be sure the enemy will do precisely the opposite!” But it had not saved him.
His mind took him around the hull. Gun crews and lookouts, damage-control party, mechanics, telegraphists. Like Weston, who had brought the signal to the bridge. Recommended for a commission but dropped for some reason, although there was nothing shown against him on his papers. Ainslie liked him, and had said as much.
Kearton peered forward at the two-pounder’s faint outline, its crew huddled out of sight. A useful gun on a power-operated mounting. And the twin Oerlikons abaft the bridge, which could inflict terrible damage with their six hundred rounds a minute per gun.
He pictured the boats astern, but did not turn to look. Any sign of restlessness could be seen as doubt, or lack of confidence.
He heard footsteps: Spiers coming back after checking the depth-charges. Lighters were usually of shallow draught, and torpedoes, even at a minimum setting, would often run beneath them without exploding. An official warning on the subject had been issued by their lordships: cost versus results. It had provoked some outspoken reactions from Coastal Forces. No doubt the situation looked very different when viewed from across a desk.
“All checked and in order, sir.” Spiers stretched both arms and then interlaced his fingers, and cracked the knuckles. “I wonder if it’s still on?”
“We’ll have to stick it out. Otherwise it’ll be back to Malta, and try again later.”
Spiers rubbed his hand along the screen. “This cloak-and-dagger stuff is reliable up to a point, but I’ve known it misfire on a couple of occasions.” He dropped his voice. “I sometimes think they’re still fighting the Battle of Jutland!” Then, surprisingly, his teeth showed in a smile. “But I agree. We should stick it out.”
Kearton said, “I’ll be in the chartroom. Won’t be long. Call me.”
It was hard to think of anything but here and now. But he knew it was the closest they had been since that first day at the Rock.
The light in the chartroom came on as Kearton clipped the door behind him. He could feel the fan on his face, but after the open bridge the air was stale by comparison.
Ainslie straightened up as he rested both hands on the chart.
Kearton stared at the pencilled figures, times and distances, and had to look away. They seemed to blur, like a warning.
He said quietly, “Finished?” and was surprised by its casualness.
Ainslie tapped the chart with his pencil, a habit he no longer noticed.
“Like you said, Skipper. It’s today. Has to be. If we believe the signal, it’s all a matter of daylight. No captain in his right mind would risk parading a cargo of mines within striking distance of Malta.” When Kearton remained silent he tapped the chart again. “Pantelleria. We’ll be passing immediately south of the main island in an hour, give or take a few minutes.” He attempted to smile, but it eluded him. “I’ve been over it several times, and even allowing—”
He looked at the pencil. He had broken the point.
Kearton said, “Pantelleria has been a thorn in our sides ever since Mussolini opted into the war.” He was thinking aloud, seeing it. “Good harbour. Big enough to transfer the mines to faster, smaller craft.” He looked at him steadily. “When it’ll be too late to do anything.”
Ainslie hesitated. “But if I’m wrong?”
Kearton was at the door.
“And if you’re right? We’re steering across the bastard’s path!” He glanced back. “Keep with me, Pilot. Together, right?”
“But—suppose—”
He waited for the light to die and tugged open the door.
“Sarah will be proud of you!”
He sensed Spiers had been waiting for him as he appeared on the bridge, and Turnbull was turning quickly from the wheel, but his face was in darkness. He groped for the R/T handset, his mind closed to everything else.
“Growler to all units.” He wanted to shake it; it felt dead in his hand. Hearing another voice, one of the maintenance staff, warning all of them.
This R/T system is entirely new, experimental. Sometimes unreliable.
He repeated, “Growler to all units. Stop your engines. Listening Watch.” Like hearing a stranger. “Prepare for action!”
“Acknowledged, sir.”
He replaced the handset. He felt the engines quiver, then fall silent for the first time.
Turnbull was watching the compass, ticking aimlessly out of control as the hull swayed in the swell. This was not the time for anyone with a weak stomach.
He braced his legs and stared into the darkness, but saw only his reflection in the screen, catching the faint glow from the compass. Now, the waiting game …
He thought of Kearton’s voice on the R/T intercom. Calm, unhurried, leaving no room for doubt or panic. He had sensed the flash of impatience when the transmission had failed. And why not? It was his decision, right or wrong, and their lives might depend on it.
He steadied himself against the motionless wheel as the hull pitched steeply again, and spray splashed over the screen. Someone was retching. Even the toughest sailor could only take so much.
“Go to him, Ellis. Fetch a bucket.” He felt his own stomach contract.
Ainslie called, “Do what you can, but don’t be too long about it!”
Turnbull took another deep breath of the salt-laden air. The young lieutenant didn’t sound too good himself. Roll on my twelve …
He heard Spiers ask, “Maybe we should get under way, sir? Do another sweep astern?”
Kearton had moved to the forepart of the bridge, his back toward them.
“Not yet. Too soon.” He might have turned, perhaps to look astern for their two consorts. “If we keep together …” He broke off as the bucket clattered on the deck. “If you want to do something, Number One …” He moved to the compass, and said again, “Too soon.”
Right forward from the bridge, Able Seaman Glover twisted round in the two-pounder’s turret and grinned at his companion.
“Bloody boat’s fallin’ apart!” He shook his fist. “If you’re goin’ to spew up, shift yerself right now, chum, not in ’ere!”
He peered across the gunlayer’s sights and saw a solitary star. A touch on the training handle and the power-operated mounting purred into life, the stubby barrel moving instantly. He grinned again. “Magic!” But he was alone; he could guess what his Number Two was doing.
He touched the gun again. But not here. Not bloody likely.
He stared directly ahead: it was like standing alone in the eyes of the ship. Just the curve of the bows, and then the sea. Nothing else. It gave the gun a maximum training ability. There was a safety rail between it and the bridge, in case he got carried away and blew it all to blazes, officers and all. He had often entertained himself with the thought.
He leaned his back against the steel, the safest spot in the whole boat.
He had been in the gunnery branch since he had joined, and he had volunteered, if only to avoid conscription into some dreary regiment with a load of squaddies. He had been working at their local grocer’s shop at the time, as the errand boy, pedalling up and down those dismal rain-swept streets with a fully loaded carrier, two at weekends, because his boss, Nobby Clark, was too mean to buy a van. He could still see his face that day. The war’ll be over by Christmas. And, Don’t expect to find this job still waiting for you when you come running home. Some hopes. He shook his head. Some job.
Mister Clark, as he liked to be called, expected hard graft for his money, at all hours. There were a few tips, half a crown for an extra heavy load maybe, and a few pints of mild-and-bitter to lay the dust.
He touched the smooth metal again. The next time he got back to England and up the Smoke, he would show himself at the old shop and tell Mister Clark where to stick his job.
He yawned and felt his jaw click. The stars were paler already. It would be dawn soon. He yawned again, then froze. The solitary star was still there. But it was moving.
“Bridge!”
Kearton levelled his binoculars and controlled his breathing to keep them steady. Only seconds since Ainslie had repeated the call from the forward gun. Nobody spoke.
He moved the glasses slightly, his legs ready for any sudden plunge or roll, but there was none. Perhaps it was a false report? Tension, even boredom, often played tricks with a man’s vision. He pictured the one in question: Glover. He had seen him often enough, and had heard Turnbull speak well of him.
He eased his shoulders and breathed out slowly. The sea was empty, and if the sky seemed paler it was because he had become part of it.
He had been on so many night watches when strain and tiredness had teased his mind and eyes with illusions.
The binoculars moved again very slowly, then held fast.
“Light, Red four-five.” He hardly raised his voice, but it sounded like a shout. He held on to the glimmer of light: in line with the horizon, when there was one. So small, like a tiny star. But strong enough. Now it was gone.
There was no sound on the bridge, and he knew the next seconds were vital.
“Now!” He saw them moving, like parts of a machine. Somehow he had the handset in his free hand, the binoculars dangling heavily around his neck. Maybe the others would not hear him. It was too late now.
“Enemy in sight! Tally-ho!”
The last words were lost in the cough and roar of Laidlaw’s engines.
He felt the sharp pressure against his side as the wheel went over, and saw the rising edge of foam creaming away from the stem. The sound of metal. Cocking-levers at the machine-guns, steel helmets being handed around. The battle-bowlers, as the sailors called them, were usually discarded, orders or no orders.
Kearton shouted above the roar of engines, “Twenty-five knots!” and heard Ainslie shout back, echoing Laidlaw’s joke.
“With a following wind, Skipper!”
Spiers was waiting.
“Standing by, sir!”
He would be aft with the Oerlikons, clear of the bridge, although nobody ever mentioned the reason. In case the worst happened here. He might survive to command.
He stared toward the horizon again, then astern where other bow waves were suddenly livid against the dark water.
And what if I’m wrong?
The engines answered him.
There was a sharp flash, the sound of a shot, lost in the din of their own approach, and then the glare, like a burning torch in the sea itself.
Kearton held his binoculars as steadily as he could, his muscles raw, expecting the shock of an explosion at any time, or the searing light of a flare.
“Port twenty!” He tore his eyes from the fire, which was already spreading and spitting out columns of sparks. Another vessel, small, and sinking. But enough to trigger off a quick and bloody reprisal.
And enough for us.
“Midships! Steady!” He did not hear Turnbull’s response; he was part of it, like the sea, surging away from either bow, and the faint shape against the dying flames. The lighter was turning now, increasing speed.
“Hold your fire!” He saw the first bursts of gunfire, long bright streams of red tracer, rising so deceptively slowly across the sky before curving down and slashing the water like flails.
The M.T.B. on the port quarter had returned fire, and was increasing speed as well as the sea erupted in further bursts of tracer.
His thoughts kept time with the gunfire. The lighter would be well armed with automatic weapons, if it was anything like the ones they had met in the Channel and North Sea … He felt the bridge jerk and heard the shots hammer against the hull.
“Open fire!”
He heard the instant response from the twin Oerlikons, trained round to their full extent, so the shells seemed to be ripping past the bridge. The two-pounder was also firing, controlled and steady. He knew without looking that the bridge machine-gunner was framed against the flashes, pounding his fist, and cursing because he was out of range.
He held the picture in his mind, shutting out everything else. There had been more hits, shouts below the bridge, the sharp stench of a fire extinguisher.
They said it was always the same, if you survived. They were wrong. Each time was a new test of calculation and endurance.
“Stand by!” He raised his hand like a signal, although no one was looking. The feel of the hull’s trim and stability, the slightly reduced speed to ensure success, all taking second place to the shake and power of the engines.
Turnbull was slightly stooped, behind the wheel. They often joked about it, as if stooping would make any difference. Like the protective steel around the bridge: hammered-out pieces of old biscuit tin, as one coxswain had described it.
He watched the bright tracer, red and green, meeting and ripping in all directions. The smell of cordite and smoke. But nothing but the wheel and compass must matter, and the figure next or beside him.
“Fire!” Both torpedoes together. There was no time left for a second run.
“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 attempting 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.