“PORT WATCH AT defence stations, sir.” Spiers turned away from the voicepipes and glanced across the bridge. He was standing only a few feet away and hardly raised his voice. A formality. Or to make sure that his commanding officer had not fallen asleep.
Kearton pushed himself away from the flag locker, smothering a yawn. Eight o’clock: the first watch. Never popular with sailors, it was neither night nor day.
He leaned against the side and felt the steady, regular motion. A steep swell, but otherwise the same. He had heard the routine reports as the watches changed: four hours on, and four off. Even when you stole an hour or so to sleep, there was always the risk of a sudden alarm. It would be their first night at sea, twelve hours exactly since they had slipped their moorings. After all the noise and bustle it seemed uncanny, the sea empty, disturbed only by their own engines, and the occasional moustache of the bow wave next astern, Geoff Mostyn’s 977. In line ahead, playing follow-my-leader, with one M.G.B. keeping well abeam to starboard as an extra precaution.
The nearest land was the Libyan coast, two hundred miles to the south, a place called Sirte, unknown to most sailors but familiar enough to Montgomery’s Eighth Army in their bloody fighting up to the turning point, the victory at El Alamein. Only months, and yet it seemed like a page of history.
He looked at the evening sky, still clear from horizon to horizon. No haze, nor any hint of cloud. And tomorrow they would meet the small convoy.
Like hearing Garrick’s voice. Nothing earth-shattering. But Special Operations would not be involved if it were so simple. Garrick seemed to have a hand in everything.
How much did he really know, or care, about the people who carried out his orders?
He heard Spiers speaking to the helmsman, whose name was Bliss. He had taken more than a few wisecracks because of it since he had joined up ‘for the duration’. Turnbull had told him that Bliss had been a greyhound trainer at a dog-racing stadium. He wondered idly what Garrick would make of that.
He looked at the sky again. There would be no moon tonight. Useful for the convoy. Unless. “I’ll be in the chartroom, Number One. Want to check a couple of things.”
It must have sounded like a question.
Spiers said, “I’ve got the weight, sir,” and looked abeam. “And we have ‘Red’ Lyon on our flank, so we should be safe enough.” No sarcasm. He did not need it.
Kearton took the short-cut to the chartroom without leaving the bridge structure. Ainslie was sitting on a stool facing the table, his body swaying from side to side as if he, and not the hull, was moving.
“Just tidying up, sir. No point in turning in.” He looked at the cot. “I’ll go, then you can have a break.”
Kearton smiled. “If I fell asleep, I think it might need a depth-charge to wake me up again.” He leaned on the table, and then said, “Put it behind you, if you can.” He did not look at him. “Easy to say, I know. I’ve been there myself … Most of us have, if we’re honest.”
Someone laughed, the sound magnified and distorted. The voicepipe had been left uncovered.
“They depend on you, Toby. So do I.”
Ainslie remained silent, perhaps surprised by the use of his name.
I was with him. We were friends.
He said, staring at the table, “The agent, Jethro—they’re now calling him Captain Howard …” He shook his head. “I’m not making sense, am I?”
Kearton waited. “You’re doing fine. What about him?”
Ainslie looked up. “He was going to shoot himself, when he thought we’d run into a trap. I knew you’d arrived to get us out of it … So I stopped him. Mark One—” He hesitated painfully. “Toby Warren died because of him. I should have let him pull the trigger!”
Kearton held his arm. “But you didn’t, so it’s between us, right? I dropped you in it in the first place. So over to me!”
The voicepipe intruded.
“C.O. on the bridge, please.”
Kearton seized his binoculars. “At least he’s polite!” The stair-hatch slammed shut behind him.
Ainslie did not move. Not an emergency, but whatever it was, it gave him time.
He said aloud, “You were right. They threw away the mould.”
When Kearton reached the bridge it was exactly as he had left it, the lookouts using their binoculars to make regular sweeps of sea and sky, the helmsman relaxed at the wheel, his body moving easily in time with the motion, and someone elevating and depressing the hooded machine-guns as a matter of routine.
And yet he could sense the difference. Expectancy. Something to break the tension and the monotony of watchkeeping.
Spiers said, “Sorry to drag you up here again, sir, but we had a signal from Lieutenant Lyon.” He gestured to starboard with out turning his head. “He reported sighting some drifting wreckage to the south-east. Requests permission to investigate.”
Kearton had already noticed that Weston, one of the telegraphists, was also present, his hands on the signal lamp.
“He didn’t use R/T?”
Spiers looked into the distance.
“Thought this was faster, maybe.”
Kearton glanced astern and saw the next boat keeping perfect station, and the others following. It would soon be prudent to close up; darkness would be sudden. They could not afford to lose one another at any time from now on.
Spiers knew that, and so did Red Lyon.
He said, “Make, Affirmative,” and saw the telegraphist’s fingers working the trigger of the lamp. Ainslie spoke highly of him, and he had behaved well during his first taste of action, cooped up in his little W/T hutch where every sound and shake must have felt aimed personally at him.
Weston said, “Acknowledged, sir.”
One of the lookouts muttered, “Now everyone knows about it!” and his opposite number laughed.
“That’s the idea!”
Spiers said nothing.
Tomorrow might be another routine patrol, an exercise to get them all working together. Not the time for settling old scores or feeding new dislikes. He was calm again. Their senior officer should know that better than anybody.
“Call me if anything turns up, Number One. Otherwise …”
Kearton looked at the sky and toward the horizon.
As he turned his head, he felt his chin rasp against his scarf. Shaving was out of the question. But it reminded him of the moment when she had touched his face. She might not even have noticed, or known what it had meant to him.
That was then …
He paused by the dimly-lit compass and knew the helmsman had tensed against the wheel.
“Your greyhounds will be missing you, Bliss,” and heard him laugh as though relieved.
“They’ll have the hare chasing them by the time I get back, sir!”
The ice had been broken. And the need was his own.
Spiers heard the hatch close and used his binoculars again to check the positions of the other M.T.B.s and the remaining motor gunboat. Lyon’s boat had long since disappeared, and would be nosing amongst the reported wreckage by now, if any was still there. Lyon was probably using it as an excuse to gain some freedom from their necessarily rigid formation. But he had been careful to tell Kearton first what he was doing. Spiers knew why it was getting him down, but it was no help.
He saw another figure framed against the darkening water and tried physically to make himself relax.
“Can’t you sleep, ’Swain? I thought you’d have your head down while it’s still quiet.”
Turnbull touched his cap. “I heard some excitement just now,” and nodded toward the side. “I was on my feet anyway.”
Spiers said, “Probably nothing. It’ll be lively enough later on, though.”
Turnbull said carefully, “Lieutenant Lyon is a bit of a live wire, from what I’ve heard of him.”
“Goes down well in some quarters, I suppose. I can live without it.”
Turnbull watched him move restlessly to the opposite side of the bridge. Spiers was usually better at hiding his feelings. As Jimmy the One, he had to be.
The inner voice warned him again. Stay out of it. But dawn might bring a new challenge, and they should all be used to that, even the new hands. He, as coxswain, most of all.
He asked quietly, “You mean like the bits that get all the headlines in the popular press?”
For a moment he thought he had overstepped the mark, or that his words had been lost in the steady vibration of Laidlaw’s four shafts.
Then Spiers said, “I think it’s often overdone. When Operation Retriever was over, and the survivors brought back to Malta, I saw a press camera at work, and that Hardy chap doing the rounds with Captain Garrick. And later, when ‘Jethro’ was being interviewed—I thought that was going too far.” He moved to the voicepipes and snapped, “Yes?” Then the tension seemed to leave him. “Some fresh ki is on its way.”
Turnbull waited. Maybe he had misheard. “I thought Jethro was snatched off to be grilled by the Intelligence people, V.I.P. treatment. He looked pretty well hemmed-in when I saw him.” Again, he thought he had gone too far. But it mattered, even more than he had realized. The girl standing in the shadows, and the Skipper holding her. Just holding her, when he had probably wanted to crush her in his arms. And the police; the chalk marks where another woman had been killed …
“After that, he was taken out of the base. He must have gathered some useful information for the brass to be so interested!” He touched Turnbull’s arm, which was unusual for him. “I shouldn’t say this, but I thought our friend Lyon was hoping for a little chat with Max Hardy himself!”
Then he was called to the voicepipes, business-like and very formal, the first lieutenant again.
Turnbull climbed down the short ladder to the deck. He would check around the various watchkeepers and make sure the steady, even motion of the hull was not sending them to sleep.
But all he could think of was Spiers’ casual comment. And that last conversation he had had with the Chief Yeoman of Signals. She was raped. A tray of thick cocoa, pusser’s ‘ki’, was passing him, but he scarcely noticed it.
He wanted to tell the Skipper. The man most of the others would never really know. He saved me. I owe him.
Turnbull did not need to look at the sky; he knew what it was going to be like. Tomorrow, when the sun found them again.
It was never easy. You never took it in your stride. The badges on his sleeve were proof of that.
They would all need the Skipper at his best tomorrow. It’s too damned far to swim.
The seaman carrying the tray turned to watch Turnbull stride past, and the lookout, who was cradling a mug gratefully between his palms, chuckled.
“Cox’n’s goin’ aft for somethin’ a bit stronger!”
The seaman balanced his tray against the motion.
“Needin’ a drop of Dutch courage, eh?”
Throughout his long service, good and bad, Turnbull had retained excellent hearing. He turned and said, “Promise me something, Yorke. When they issue new brains, make sure you’re first in the queue, right?”
He continued along the side-deck. Petty and unfair; “pulling rank”, they would say on the messdeck.
But soon they were going to need him, too.
“Rise an’ shine, sir. The birds are all singin’ their heads off!”
“Thanks, Ginger. I’m on my way.”
The hand on his shoulder, the gleam of a shaded torch, was all it took. Now.
Ainslie swung his legs from the wardroom bunk and reached for his boots, which were directly beside it. Automatic, like his response.
“Mug of char, sir. Just like Mum used to make.” He paused by the door, just to be certain he had set the wheels in motion. Ginger was a seaman-gunner, but when he was off watch served as wardroom messman, officers’ lapdog, as he was known, and could do almost anything in return for a few extra shillings. And he seemed to enjoy it.
Ainslie heard the door close and stood up, adjusting to the motion and listening to the sounds beyond the bulkhead and around him. He was wide awake.
So different from those early days, and nights. Aware of each new noise, afraid to close his eyes in case the alarm bells tore his mind apart. He had even slept fully clothed. It was not so long ago.
He tugged on his boots, so soft and supple now that it was difficult to remember them new. But he could still see the old tailor in his thoughts, standing back to observe as he had put on his first uniform. With satisfaction or amusement, it had been hard to tell. But then he had produced the boots. These boots. “Most of our regular gentlemen prefer these, sir. But in wartime, of course, they’re not easy to come by.” He had been right, but a handful of notes had secured a sale.
He peered at his watch. Four o’clock, or would be soon after he reached the bridge, and still pitch dark, but not for long. Their tight little world would come alive again. And all the birds would be singin’ their heads off. But not out here.
He sat down again on the edge of the bunk and went through the usual routine. Notebook and ‘tools’, life-jacket. He patted his breast pocket. His wallet with Sarah’s photograph inside. The photo was looking a little shabby in places, which was not surprising; it was always with him, and he had told her so. She had seemed pleased, and something more. He had thought of asking her for a new one, but had decided against it. It would mean having to get someone to take it. Sharing it …
He smiled to himself, sipping the tea, careful not to spill it as the hull leaned over into a trough. He could see the pencilled figures and notes in his mind as if they were on a chart. Fourteen knots. Until … He licked his lips. Ginger knew his fondness for sugar: you could stand a spoon in this. He touched his wallet again and thought of Sarah’s mother. Difficult to know, and rather severe. It was impossible to see any resemblance between her and her daughter.
He put down the mug, recalling the time she had surprised Sarah putting an extra spoonful of sugar into his cup, on one of his rare, uncomfortable visits to their house.
“Don’t forget it’s rationed, Sarah. I don’t have any friends in the black market!”
Perhaps she disapproved of their relationship. Of him. What would she say if she knew what had happened before he had left to join 992? The only time they had ever been alone together … It had made him go hot and cold with nerves whenever he had thought about it afterwards. Not any more. He wanted her again, and he wanted her openly, now more than ever.
He thought of Peter Spiers, the faint disapproval whenever he had seen him showing her photograph, or writing to her. Maybe because Spiers never seemed to write any letters of his own, nor did he receive them.
Ainslie stood up again and looked around the small wardroom. Empty now. Private. But he could still see those other occasions, the meetings, the humour, and the doubts. And the last one, before they had quit their moorings, when he had clashed with the obnoxious Red Lyon. And Lyon with the Skipper: chalk and cheese.
At least, out here, they had something special. Like Ginger, who was probably still hovering outside the door listening for signs of life, in case Ainslie had fallen asleep again. And the leading torpedoman, Laurie Jay, who had survived the sinking of his submarine and who, in spirit, had never left that elite service. And the telegraphist Philip Weston, who had been dropped from the list of possible candidates for a commission because someone in his family was, or had been, a dedicated Fascist. He thought of the loud-mouthed gunlayer, Glover. He had heard him speak of Hitler while clearing away some of the damage after the action.
“Pity ’e’s not on our side, that’s what I say!”
He picked up his pipe and tapped it into an ashtray. Both were empty.
He heard a discreet cough.
“All set, sir?”
He put the pipe in his spare pocket. “England expects!”
Ginger was just as quick. “That’s why they call it the Mother Country, sir!”
Ainslie punched his arm as he headed for the ladder.
“We don’t need Hitler, with you around!”
Ginger was still staring after him as the hatch clicked shut.
It was dark on deck, but his eyes would soon adjust, and by the time he reached the bridge he could see the low crests breaking away from the stem and surging alongside, and even the mast, like a black pointer against the last pale stars. Nothing else in sight, although he knew he would soon be able to see the next astern. Otherwise, Number One would want to know why, and so would the Skipper.
He heard the murmur of voices, a squeak from one of the voicepipes, the helmsman handing over the wheel. Course to steer, engine revolutions, speed, and the man relieving him repeating them.
Ainslie listened to the last reports coming to the bridge. He was fully awake now, and refreshed by having had nearly a full watch’s sleep below. It had been the Skipper’s idea: he and Number One shared the most testing moments, sunset and daybreak. In most boats carrying only two officers, it was normal. God help them if one officer was taken ill. Or killed.
Spiers said, “Not much to report. Some wreckage was sighted. Nothing useful. A couple of corpses.” He sounded impatient. “It’s all in the log.” His face was still hidden by the darkness, but Ainslie could see his scarf. “The Skipper’s been up and down a few times … I don’t know how he does it. I feel shagged out.”
It was unusual for him to be so outspoken, as if he needed to talk.
He said suddenly, “We’re not meant for this kind of work. I think some self-important brass-hat sitting on his backside in Whitehall must wake up at his desk and peer at all his plans and clever ideas and say, ‘What can I give them to do?’” He stared at the sea, but only the scarf moved. “If they ever got up from their desks, they’d trip over the cobwebs!”
Then he said, “Italy will be the stepping-stone back into Europe—Germany’s Europe. Anyone should be able to see that. And Malta’s the key. Supply and demand …” He broke off, and asked, “Can’t you sleep either?”
It was Turnbull, clad in a black oilskin, like an additional shadow, as if he was about to take over the wheel.
He said, “I was awake, sir.” The oilskin creaked; he must have shrugged. “Just wanted to be on hand.”
The helmsman said, “You can take my place anytime, ’Swain!”
Somebody laughed, but Ainslie could feel the tension like something physical.
Spiers moved toward the ladder. “It’s a fast convoy, so unless there are any foul-ups, we should make our estimated contact as stated.” He swung round. “I’ll be in the galley if you need me. I shan’t be sorry if …”
Ainslie gripped a handrail and watched Spiers’ eyes as they lit up like two tiny flares, then he pulled himself around to stare ahead and saw the horizon come alive, a fiery sunset instead of dawn.
A few seconds, but small, trivial items seemed to predominate. Smears of salt spray on the screen like frost; one of the lookouts pointing toward the glow, his mouth a black hole in his face but making no sound. Then the explosion. It was more of a sensation than a sound, a thunder which seemed to reverberate, reaching the hull, holding it like a threat before passing on.
Just as suddenly the fire was gone, snuffed out, so that even the faint compass light seemed to invite retaliation.
“Check with the engineroom. Sound Action Stations.”
It was Kearton. Ainslie had not seen or heard him arrive on the bridge.
“Not that anybody will be asleep!”
Somebody even laughed. “Me neither, sir, after that!”
Spiers called, “Engineroom standing by, sir. The Chief is in charge.”
Ainslie listened to the brief reports and sensed the urgency. Like the coxswain, the Chief had been on the job. And the Skipper, snatching an hour or two in the chartroom, trying to clear his mind of responsibility and the risks that might lie ahead—how did he stay and sound so calm?
Like now, speaking to Turnbull as if this were part of an exercise, some drill to keep them all on their toes.
“What did you make of it, ’Swain? A tanker?” A pause. “Poor devils!”
“Something heavier, sir. Could have been loaded with ammo, explosives.”
Ainslie loosened his grip on the rail. His hand throbbed, as if he had been using all his strength. His nerve.
He heard the click of the R/T handset and tried to imagine the other boats, out there in the darkness. He bunched his aching fingers into a fist again. He could see the next boat astern, pale against the black water, bows thrusting across her own waves, and maybe the one following closely in her wake. It was not so dark any more.… In an hour, perhaps less. He tried to shut his mind to it. He was here. He was ready … Brace yourself, Mark One.
“All acknowledged, sir.” Even the man’s voice seemed hushed, almost lost in the engines.
“Growler to all units. We will increase speed as ordered.” Kearton paused, and Ainslie wondered if he would add something, advice or encouragement. Kearton had waited for some static to fade. “Together!”
He stepped down from the grating and handed the instrument to another shadow. Except that it now had the outline of a face.
He held up his watch. “Ten minutes, Number One! By the book!”
Then he moved to the forepart of the bridge. He could see the top of the chartroom, a life raft lashed across it, and the twin, power-operated machine-gun turrets on either side. Beyond was the two-pounder mounting, its shield pale against the sea and the horizon. That, too, was visible, the delineation of sea and sky. Most of the stars were gone. And there was a hint of low cloud, or mist.
He readjusted the strap of his binoculars so that they would not bang against the bridge when he moved.
It was neither mist nor cloud. It was smoke.
Like a signal, or as if he had shouted the command himself, the sound and sensation of the engines took on a stronger beat, and he felt the deck lifting in response.
He could see them in his mind’s eye. The three M.T.B.s, 992 in the lead, and by now the motor gunboats would have increased speed to take station, one on either beam. Ready to offer extra firepower once action was joined. But when he stared directly ahead he could have been standing quite alone.
He was not. Ahead lay the enemy.
Turnbull stepped clear of the wheel and waited for his helmsman to take over, then rested both hands on the flag locker and began to perform a series of knee-bends. He felt he had been standing so long stooped over the compass that every muscle had seized up.
“Must be getting past it!”
“You know what they say, ’Swain, never volunteer, ’specially in this regiment!” The bridge machine-gunner was looking on, giving a grin, as if daring to relax for the first time.
They had sighted the convoy, “almost to the cross on the chart”, as Turnbull had heard Ainslie describe it. Less one, torpedoed by a U-Boat which had slipped through the escorts, three destroyers and a sloop. The force of the explosion must have taken the U-Boat commander by surprise, and either damaged his boat or made him drop his guard. Depth-charges had blown him and his crew to the same fate as their target.
Signals were exchanged, and the Skipper had received one himself from the Boss; and the little convoy had divided. Two ships had altered course in company with two of the destroyers and the sloop, which had apparently developed engine trouble and might require a tow for the last leg to Malta. Jock Laidlaw knew the sloop in question from his Atlantic days. She was over twenty years old, like so many of the hard-worked escort vessels.
Turnbull stretched again and shaded his eyes to peer at their only guardian. The third destroyer, Natal, was big, fast and modern, and no stranger to the Mediterranean. Her captain sounded courteous enough over his loud-hailer, but Turnbull had the impression he harboured doubts about the necessity of the additional protection.
Turnbull had borrowed a lookout’s binoculars to see for himself. Oak leaves on his cap, like Captain Garrick, and one of ‘those voices’. He smiled to himself. He was being unfair. But he knew.
The real cause of all the excitement was a new, sleekly designed freighter, more like a liner than a vessel for carrying cargo. Swedish-built and probably scarcely painted or equipped when war had been declared, she could boast a speed of twenty-five knots. She was named Romulus, and appeared to carry her own anti-aircraft guns and the D.E.M.S. personnel to man them. He had overheard the Skipper saying Romulus also had a separate identity and recognition code. So why was she so important?
Even Kearton did not seem to know. “Explosives, something like that,” and he had shrugged.
Turnbull looked toward the destroyer again, leading the pack, as Bliss the helmsman might say. She had radar too, an added protection or warning. Number One would have seen that: he was always beating the drum about radar.
He was here now.
Spiers said, “Go around the boat, will you, Cox’n? They’re getting too sloppy and idle, now they think it’s all going downhill.”
He did not raise his voice, he rarely did, but it sounded like a personal admonishment.
Turnbull straightened his back, wincing. “We’ve been promised air cover for the last bit, sir.”
“Just do it, right?”
So Spiers was worried, too.
Turnbull climbed down to the deck and made his way forward. He was glad to be moving again; it would get his circulation going. Otherwise, he knew it was a waste of time, an irritation. Nobody would fall asleep, no matter how weary he might be.
He watched the water creaming along the side, spray drifting over the deck and glistening in the sunlight. But no warmth, not yet, and he was thankful for his oilskin.
A few nods, or a hand raised as he checked each position and huddled figure. Little else. They all knew why he was passing. At the two-pounder gun, even Cock Glover had little to say, which was unlike him. Wrapped in a duffle coat with a lifejacket tied loosely around it, he had pointed vaguely in the direction of the Romulus and muttered, “I’ll bet they’re ’avin’ bangers an’ mash, an’ all th’ char they want, just by snappin’ their fingers!”
Then Turnbull met Laurie Jay, who had been making a few adjustments to one of the torpedo tubes, seemingly oblivious to the spray that burst over the side with each plunge of the stem.
He gave a quick smile as he picked up his little instrument box.
“Twenty knots, they tell me, ’Swain? Suits me!”
Turnbull liked him, although he still barely knew him. Helpful, good at his work; that would suffice. He had seen him go ashore with Glover. A more unlikely pair it was hard to imagine.
“Not long now, d’ you reckon?”
Jay glanced at the sea, not the sky, like most sailors.
“A few scares maybe.” He nodded. “Sunset. After that, they’ll lose the edge.”
Turnbull was still thinking about it when he returned to the bridge. Kearton was there, an unlit pipe jammed between his teeth.
“I’ve had a signal from H.Q. There was another attack on the rest of our convoy. No damage that time. The change of course must have caught them on the hop. Not for long, I’ll bet.”
Turnbull glanced across the bridge. Spiers was at the voicepipes, gesturing as he spoke to someone, probably the Chief, as if he could see him. Ainslie coming up from the chartroom, yawning hugely as if caught unawares. A youngster again.
Everyone was busy, but the Skipper had still found time to tell him about the W/T signal.
He said, “If we can keep this up, sir …”
Kearton shifted the pipe to the other side of his jaw.
“We can. We will.” He pulled his cap lower across his eyes and stared astern at the other vessels. Then he said, “Open the galley. Something hot.” Their eyes met, and Turnbull sensed that Spiers had looked around from the voicepipes to listen. Maybe to be a part of it.
Kearton had turned away from the sun. Somewhere else.
Turnbull heard him say as if to himself, “While there’s still time.”
Kearton felt something brush against him and pushed himself away from the side of the bridge. He was on his feet, fully conscious, but it was as if he had been rudely awakened. It was dark, and the sound of the engines was regular and monotonous, but it seemed louder because of the stillness and the night. He shook himself.
“What is it, Pilot?”
Ainslie said quietly, “It’s the Chief, sir.”
“Trouble?” He had not heard the voicepipe. And it was about midnight, a warning in itself.
Ainslie must have shaken his head. “No, he just wanted to know if he could ditch some empty fuel cans. Keep his place tidy!”
Kearton reached down to rub his leg, as if the injury was still there.
“No. Tell him …” He stared past him at the tiny green light, the emergency buzzer drowned by the Chief’s Packards.
The W/T office, next to his own empty cabin.
He pressed the instrument to his ear, one hand covering the other.
“Bridge.” He could feel the silence now. “Something for me?”
He heard him clear his throat. “Yes, sir. Natal, repeated H.Q.” It was the other telegraphist, not Weston; the name escaped him, and nothing else mattered now. He imagined him in his small compartment, the signal pad under the solitary light, very aware of its importance, and his own.
“Maintain course and speed. Two bandits closing from due north.” He cleared his throat again. “I am engaging.” He ended with the time of origin, but Kearton scarcely heard him.
‘Bandits’: usually fast attackers, probably Italian, but could be E-Boats. The Germans had been moving them down into the Med and the Adriatic. Natal had been warned. He thought of Spiers again. Radar … She was well armed, with six 4.7s, and a cluster of other short-range weapons, and depth-charges. And two sets of torpedoes, if he could remember clearly.
One of the lookouts broke into his thoughts.
“There goes Natal! Boy, she’s in a rush all of a sudden!”
Kearton waited. “Thank you. Well done. Acknowledge, will you?”
He straightened up and said aloud, “Unidentified fast craft closing from the north.” He saw Spiers’ white scarf beside Turnbull’s shapeless oilskin. “Pass the word, Number One. The waiting’s over.” The destroyer, backed up by Red Lyon’s M.G.B. on their flank, should be more than a match for the ‘bandits’. From Sicily or the Italian mainland; it might take too long to muster an additional attacking force. And at first light there would be air support, if need be from Malta itself.
He rubbed his chin, and only then realized that he still had the pipe jammed between his teeth.
But to be on the safe side … He reached over and encountered Ainslie’s arm, and felt him jump.
“Chartroom, Pilot. Fix our position as best you can in all this flap, in case we have to lay off another course.” He could feel his arm; it was rigid. “A diversion, to keep our prize intact.”
Ainslie said, “They left it too late.” As if he was telling himself, or searching for some flaw.
Spiers said, “I’ve spread the word, sir. A few wisecracks, of course, but I’ve got a good memory for voices.” He walked to the side and stared in the direction of Romulus. “They’ll be damned glad, anyway. I can take over while Pilot’s doing his stuff.” He hesitated, and Kearton could see him, his head cocked on one side. “If you still think—”
He never finished it. There was a thin, high-pitched whistle, which ended abruptly in a scream and a sudden explosion. The night was transformed into searing detail, stark and glacial, all sound quenched by the starshell. The little green light and its attendant buzzer were both trying to raise the alarm, like the starshell, which Natal must have fired immediately after her first sighting.
Kearton rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand and fumbled for his binoculars. Everything was unreal: the voicepipe, and a disembodied voice, surely not still asking about used petrol cans? Turnbull struggling out of his oilskin, as if it was trapping him. And something snapping underfoot. He had dropped his pipe on the deck.
The glare was already fading, but the figures around him seemed frozen by it, incapable of movement. And it was still strong enough to see the other vessels astern, dominated by the Romulus.
He closed his mind to them. Everything had to be concentrated in the small, silent world of his binoculars.
Surrounded by froth, like some enraged sea monster, saddle-tanks shining glassily on the periphery of the glare, the submarine was alive, and moving.
“Number One!” But Spiers was already running to his station. The ex-submariner, Jay, would be with him, overtaken by events.
Kearton stumbled, but someone grasped his arm. He had the intercom in his hand and waited, counting the seconds.
“Growler to all units! Tally-ho! Attacking!”
“Ready, Skipper!” That was Turnbull, formality forgotten.
“Full ahead! Port twenty!” He felt the deck tilt, and heard the binoculars swing against the bridge armour. “Midships!”
He crouched, straining his eyes to hold on to the target, the U-Boat, smaller now without the aid of the powerful lenses.
He saw another M.T.B. sweeping past, shining in the glare, showing her number, 977. It was Geoff Mostyn, known as ‘Geordie’ to his friends; and he seemed to have plenty of those. His two-pounder was already hammering out a steady stream of tracer, and another gun of some kind was quick to follow.
Kearton realized that the submarine was fully surfaced, to obtain the best possible speed, and not only that, her deck-gun was manned and had opened fire. Daring, desperation, or cold-blooded courage, she had shown no sign of turning away or attempting to dive. She was still heading straight toward the prime ship of the convoy, Romulus.
“Steady! Easy! Steady!” He was telling himself: Turnbull, like Spiers, knew what to do. What to expect.
He felt his mouth go dry as something exploded outside his line of vision. The sound was almost swamped by the rising thunder of engines, but he knew it was a direct hit on Mostyn’s boat.
It was now.
“Fire!”
He sensed rather than felt the slight shudder as both torpedoes left their tubes.
“Both running!”
“Hard a-port!” He watched the shadows closing in, like a vast curtain, the sea leaping over the bow as they continued to turn. He had lost count of the seconds, if he had ever begun, but he could still hear them in his brain. Like a giant clock.
“Midships!”
He saw Mostyn’s boat, still moving, but very slowly. No more flames, but a lot of smoke. Some shapes below the bridge, others standing by them. The living and the dead.
He pounded his fist below the screen. He could see the Romulus, at a different angle now, turning, trying to run, when it was too late. They had completed their alteration of course, so that he saw himself starkly against the screen, silhouetted by a livid, contained explosion. It shook the whole hull, and he thought of the Chief and his little crew in their confined world. It must have felt like hitting a mine.
He shaded his eyes, but the sea was almost in darkness again. Blasted apart by the twin explosions, the remains of the U-Boat were on their last dive, to the bottom.
“Half ahead!” The sky held a hint of colour now. The smoke was clearing away and he saw the Romulus, much nearer again; she seemed to tower over them like a cliff. There were people lining the rails, waving, cheers almost drowned out by their combined engines. Cheers …
Kearton raised his arm, and thought how heavy it felt.
Ainslie was beside him. “Shall I take over, sir?”
Kearton stared across the water, rising and falling between the various hulls. He could see a tell-tale patch of oil spreading across a few fragments of flotsam. There was never very much after a submarine had been destroyed.
He realized what Ainslie had said.
“We’ll go and help Geoff.”
Spiers was here, too, and shook his head, only once.
“We’ll stand by, anyway. He would expect it.” No name. ‘Geordie’ was dead.
He heard the banshee screech of a siren. Natal was returning to take charge. The bandits must have fled, once they knew their ruse had failed.
Spiers said, “I’ll go aft and check the towing gear, sir. Just in case.”
He must have stopped below the mast and turned, and his voice was pitched a little louder.
“I hope they’ll all be bloody pleased to see us when we get back, after this!”
Turnbull kept his eyes on the compass. I know someone who will.
They did not need to take the damaged M.T.B. in tow, and, at first light, friendly aircraft flew out to meet them.
Landfall.