THE TWO OFFICERS stood side by side on the edge of the jetty looking down at the smoke-blackened M.T.B. below them. A couple of dockyard officials in stained overalls were beside the bridge, comparing notes and pointing out additional defects; otherwise the boat was deserted, lifeless.
The midday sun was pitiless, but without warmth. Kearton shivered, but the weather was not the reason.
After the urgency and tension of their return, the moorings were deathly quiet and still. Even the usual harbour sounds and movements seemed distant, unobtrusive.
The emergency fire-parties, the pumps, mechanics and men with cutting gear, had long since departed, and so had the medics and stretcher-bearers. Kearton had been here since 977’s small company had gone to temporary quarters ashore. It had been hard to gauge their feelings. As someone had remarked, they had been bloody lucky. Kearton had seen one of them giving a grin and a thumbs-up as he marched past, but he had turned to stare back, as if with a true sense of loss. Perhaps it was gratitude.
Apart from Mostyn, who had been killed outright in the first and only direct fire from the U-Boat’s deck-gun, there had been two more deaths: the coxswain, who had clung to life just long enough for another helmsman to take his place, and a seaman hit by shell splinters.
Her first lieutenant had not only survived, but had refused the offer of a tow, and had conned the M.T.B. and dealt with minor injuries himself until 977’s heaving-lines had been hurled ashore.
He had gone with his men, after a powerful handshake and a smile, and the repetition of his skipper’s last words before the action. “We’ll show those bastards!”
They might never know who he had meant. The U-Boat, or the higher authority which had put him there?
Kearton had gone aboard himself. Reliving it, like all those other times. The smells and the stains, which even the hoses and extinguishers had been unable to disguise. Fuel and ammunition had been spared; even one shell splinter hitting a torpedo would have left nothing but dust on the sea. He had seen where the shell had exploded, in the chartroom directly below the open bridge identical to their own, and the blast had left a jagged hole. Where I would have been standing.
“Take more than a month to patch that up.” Brice had moved nearer the edge. “When I saw them leading the way, I thought for a moment it was you, Bob.” He turned his back on the water, as if he wanted to shut it from his memory.
Kearton fell into step beside him, knowing Brice had not been here waiting since before dawn merely out of friendship or courtesy.
He said, “I told them to lead. They deserved it.”
He glanced up toward the gates and the road beyond. Like the jetty, it looked deserted. Everyone would be at Grand Harbour watching the latest arrival, the Romulus, and her dashing escort Natal, decks lined with men and calls shrilling in salute to her superiors.
He had heard a hooter or tug’s horn, and had been surprised at the force of Brice’s response.
“One bomb on that little lot and there’d be more than a few cracked windows around here! There would be no cheering then!”
Kearton had seen some fighter planes patrolling in pairs, back and forth across the great anchorage, a rare sight at any time.
He realized Brice had stopped outside the wooden hut, and pulled a bunch of keys from his pocket.
It was locked, and there was no patrolman loitering nearby to ward off unwelcome visitors.
Brice gestured toward the main building above the steps.
“I have to make a phone call, Bob.” He pushed open the door. “The Boss has had to abandon this little hideaway, at least for the moment. There’s a flap on.” He swore under his breath as the solitary telephone began to ring. “For Christ’s sake, they know where I am!” He picked it up, and said without inflection, “Brice,” and then, “Yes, I know that. Twenty minutes.” He made a small, impatient gesture. “Fifteen, then.” He put the receiver down and stared at it. “You must be dog-tired. I can’t imagine what you’ve been through … actually, I can.” The strain was clear on his own face, and in his eyes.
Kearton said quietly, “The Boss giving you a rough ride?”
Brice did not respond directly. “I saw your friend, Mrs Howard. It was first thing this morning.” He shook his head. “No, there’s nothing wrong, not like that. She was upset, and I realized why. I wanted to help.” He smiled briefly. “Like me, she saw the damaged M.T.B. leading the way, her flag at half-mast. You can guess the rest.”
Kearton said, “I didn’t think. It’s the custom,” and felt Brice’s hand on his sleeve. “And, thanks. I appreciate that.”
Brice said only, “I was glad I was there.”
“Where were you?”
“On the old balcony. You walk beneath it on the way to H.Q. I go there sometimes, early, before the balloon goes up every morning. My equivalent of the Boss’s little hideaway, I suppose.” He sat down abruptly on one of the two chairs. “Why I wanted to be here when you came alongside. I wanted to see you first.”
“Trouble?”
Brice shrugged, briefly, like the smile.
“You’ll hear it as soon as you make your report anyway. Then you can make up your own mind.” He ticked off each item on his fingers. “Operation Retriever was not only worthwhile and considered a success, but our superiors,” he crossed himself with his free hand, “have announced that it offers the perfect key to the next door for Special Operations. The Boss’s words, not mine!” He was on his feet again, peering through the smeared window. “You must take the credit for its eventual success.” The momentary smile again. “But don’t tell him that.”
The telephone rang, but stopped immediately.
Brice said, “Not fifteen minutes yet. Nowhere near.”
Kearton waited, watching him come to a decision.
“There have been a lot of changes around here, Bob, even since we last met. H.Q. is packed to the rafters, or soon will be. We are now known as A.C.H.Q., Area Combined Headquarters. All three services, with ours running things, of course.” He regarded him intently. “It will mean flag rank for the man in charge.”
“The Boss? I’m not really surprised—” Brice was peering fixedly at his watch.
“A rear-admiral’s flag will be hoisted over our heads. I have a contact at the Admiralty,” the same quick smile, “my cousin, to be exact, and he tells me another name is on top of the list. One you’ll remember, I believe. Captain Ewart Morgan.”
The telephone rang and he put his hand on it. “Fifteen minutes exactly.” He stood up and reached for his cap. “I’ll see you shortly.” This time the smile was genuine. “Give her my love!”
The door squeaked shut, and Kearton snatched up the telephone.
“Hello?” But at that moment another aircraft flew directly overhead, low enough to shake the entire hut, as if it would fall apart. He waited. “Glynis, darling, it’s me.”
A few seconds passed, and for a moment he thought Brice had made a mistake. Or the switchboard.
She said, “I’m here, Bob. I heard that, too.” She must have turned her head away. There was a catch in her voice. “I can’t tell you what it means … just to hear you again. I’ve been hoping, praying …” She stopped, and he could hear the aircraft, or a different one, close by. Then she said, “I know you must be busy.” Another pause, perhaps choosing her words. Or waiting for the click on the line that would mean someone was listening. Careless talk.
He said, “As soon as I can. I’ll call you first.” It was quiet again; he thought he could hear her breathing. “Are you all right?”
She might have laughed, or cried. “Yes, Bob, now I am!”
This time the line was dead.
He waited a few more minutes and then stepped outside into the sunlight; even that seemed warmer. He saluted as two sailors walked past in the opposite direction, and realized that they had either not seen him, or had ignored him.
Brice was waiting at the end of the jetty, shading his eyes.
“Thought I’d lurk here and walk back with you.”
Kearton did not reply. One of the drills had started again and would have drowned his voice.
Brice looked back at the little hut and its single telephone wire. That would be taken down; the Boss would not be needing it much longer.
But he had seen Kearton’s face, and was pleased by what he had done. For both of them.
Captain Dick Garrick was sitting at his desk, a telephone held casually to one ear, but his eyes were on an open file, and a pencil was poised in his free hand. He did not look up as Kearton was ushered into the office, but gestured toward the chair opposite. A petty officer writer was standing beside him, turning the pages of the file slowly and in response to each stab of the pencil. Blackout curtains had been drawn, and there would be shutters in place outside. The room seemed airless, as if the fans were out of action. Again.
Kearton sat down and tried not to lean back. He could already feel his shirt clinging to his spine.
Garrick pressed the receiver against his chest and lowered his voice. “Shan’t keep you much longer, old chap.” He nodded to the P.O. Writer, who quickly turned another page, as if he had been asleep on his feet.
Kearton looked around the room. A different office, larger, but with all the familiar clutter of maps, charts and statistics. It faced in the opposite direction, toward Grand Harbour itself, where the Romulus was still unloading, lighters and barges pressed around her, while guardboats kept all else at a safe distance.
The destroyer Natal lay at the far end of the harbour, awnings spread, and most of her men ashore enjoying themselves.
Kearton controlled his resentment. He knew he was being unfair. Natal had played her part, before and after the first attack on the fast convoy. Without her radar and the vital firing of the starshell, things would have ended differently. Her captain had apparently told Brice as much.
Brice had remarked, “Know him pretty well. A good captain.” And the little smile. “But not renowned for his modesty!”
Kearton looked over at Garrick again, the pencil tapping the file, the eyes elsewhere, impatient now, or on the verge of losing his temper.
Otherwise, he could see no change. Brice had told him the Boss had been at meetings for much of the day, one at Government House with the Chief-of-Staff. Smartly turned out as always, the top button of his reefer unfastened, which seemed to be a habit or an affectation. Hair well-groomed, the same lock loose above one eye, like the photographs. He showed no sign of strain or tiredness.
He thought about Brice’s cousin at the Admiralty, and Captain Ewart Morgan, recalling their meeting as if it were yesterday. His steady gaze as he had outlined the new command, and the conditions of promotion. Acting, of course. Now it was Morgan’s turn, his chance, when all the time he must have thought Garrick would be the next choice for flag rank. They were still rivals; had been, maybe, ever since they were snotties together. A different war. A different world.
Kearton glanced around the room again. The whole place was changing. It was far more crowded; A.C.H.Q. demanded it. Only the old staircase seemed familiar.
Garrick said, “I’m not asking you, old chap. I’m bloody well telling you.” He put down the telephone and breathed out slowly. “I sometimes wonder!” Then, “Sorry to make you hang around like this. You must be feeling bushed, after the last effort.” The barest pause. “Too bad about Lieutenant Mostyn, of course … Leaves us one short again.”
Kearton found he could accept the casual dismissal; it was the Garrick he had come to know. Up to a point. No bullshit, except on his own terms.
Garrick looked over at his assistant.
“You can shove off now.” He closed the file with a snap. “But back tomorrow. First thing, eh?”
He watched the door close behind him. “Should have joined the Wrens, that one!” He grinned. “You didn’t hear that, Bob.”
He leaned back in his chair and studied him across the desk.
“Well, you’ve been through it again. But it was the right decision. And it paid off.” He nodded toward a window, where the curtains had started to quiver. “Fans are running again,” and he laughed. “Like the heads at my little refuge—as I thought it was.”
The laugh was abrupt and short-lived. “Things are moving fast. Too fast for some around here.” He leaned forward, elbows on the file, the lock of hair catching the hard light from overhead. “We may be a boat short, for a few weeks only, but time is getting even shorter in some ways. Retriever was a success—I assume Brice told you. A few setbacks, but you must accept that. Win some, lose some—you know how it goes. Otherwise you’d not be here.” He laid both hands flat on the file.
“Romulus is important, for many reasons, to Special Operations.” He brushed the lock of hair aside. “And to you. She carries all manner of explosives, enough to equip an army. And, tucked away in her holds, she brought a separate cargo of torpedoes. The very latest. You’ll know all about them. Have read about them, in any case. Homing torpedoes … so sensitive they can sniff out a pin on a baby’s bum.” He laughed abruptly at his own joke. “They can’t take prisoners, but they can do just about everything else you might need.” The famous smile, as if, Kearton thought, he had just pulled a rabbit out of a hat. “So how about that?”
Kearton could hear aircraft again.
“Yes. They were talking about them.” He relaxed his right hand, which, unconsciously, had clenched on his knee. “About the time I ended up in the drink.”
Garrick stretched his arms. “Well, they’re here now, ready to do their bit and make life a little easier for us.” He looked at the door, although Kearton had heard no sound. “And for you!”
The door had opened, and a different petty officer was waiting there.
“Sir?”
Garrick got easily to his feet. “Lieutenant-Commander Kearton is leaving.” He thrust out his hand. “You’ve done enough. More than enough. I’ve laid on a car and driver for you,” and as Kearton shook it, “the least I can do.” But Garrick did not release his grip, as if to detain him.
“Major Howard did a fine job—I don’t suppose even he realizes it yet. The Chief-of-Staff is over the moon—and so will A.B.C. be, when he gets to hear all the details. But knowing him, I expect he has already.” He released Kearton’s hand abruptly. “I know about your … involvement. It is not my concern.” His eyes flicked to the file with its red lettering. “That is!”
He did not accompany Kearton to the door, and was already using the telephone as it closed.
A man in a white jacket was standing beside a small trolley, the petty officer as well, hiding a yawn as Kearton passed. On the trolley were a bottle of wine in a frosted bucket and a plate of sandwiches.
When did Garrick ever take time off to relax? No wonder some of his staff looked half asleep. Unlike the Boss … And his casual use of the C-in-C’s popular nickname, ‘A.B.C.’, made it sound as if Admiral Cunningham was a close friend.
The car was waiting in the same place as before. He did not recognize the driver, another Royal Marine.
The sky was much darker, with a few wisps of cloud but, as yet, no stars.
He gave the driver the address.
“No bother, sir. The road’s fully repaired now.” He chuckled. “For the moment.”
Not much traffic, and all military except for a couple of buses, but it was exactly as he remembered it, had seen it in his mind when he had been trying to sleep in the chartroom, afraid he might not hear the call if he was needed.
Even in the hooded headlights he could see the sandbagged barrier, the white belt and gaiters of the patrolman as he walked toward the car. He could not see his face, but heard him say, “Welcome aboard, sir!” The car was enough. Or had he been there during that last visit?
The Royal Marine was out of the vehicle, holding the door.
“Shall I wait, sir?”
“No, I’ll be all right. But thanks.”
The marine was gazing at the main building. “Looks pretty quiet, sir. I was told to …” He stepped aside as Kearton slid out of the car. “I’m on call ’til midnight, sir.”
Kearton could almost feel his eyes on him as he found his way through the other, smaller gate. Only then did he hear him drive away.
The door was open before he could reach it, and he felt her hand guiding him.
She said, “Have to be quick, or they start yelling about the blackout!”
She turned, her hair catching the light from the main room, and he took her by the shoulders gently, feeling her warmth, her stillness, perhaps her disbelief.
“I’m sorry about this. I should have warned you. I could have been anyone.”
“They phoned me from the main gate to tell me you’d arrived. Ever since …” She reached up to return his embrace. “I knew it was you. That you’d come.” She led him into the other room, where she faced him again, dark eyes brilliant with emotion.
“So many things I wanted to ask, to know …” She was pointing to the chair, and he noticed that it had been moved to the opposite corner; the radio, too, was on another table. He could smell fresh paint, and saw a tin with a brush and some stained gloves on the floor beneath an empty shelf. She laughed.
“Just to see you, Bob—I can even read your thoughts. What’s this woman up to now?” Then she came to him and slipped her arms around his neck. “I can’t tell you what this means. I’ve been so worried … Then, when I watched you come into harbour—” She leaned back to look up at him. Her mouth was smiling, but her face was wet with tears.
“Let me.” She did not move, and he dabbed her skin with his handkerchief. “You see? I’m never without it.”
She asked softly, “How long?”
“I’m not sure. Nobody is.”
She touched his face, his lips, her eyes never leaving his.
“How long now?” She put her hand across his mouth. He could smell the paint. “Don’t leave me.”
“Unless there’s an emergency.” Her hand was in his, and he saw her expression as she looked at the paint on her fingers.
“There will be, if you see me like this!” She stroked his face, and the scar above his eye. He could not recall tossing his cap aside.
She said, “Kiss me.”
She was pressed against him, her breathing faster, like his own. She pulled back slightly. “Again.”
How long, he could not imagine. Her lips, her mouth, her tongue were making his mind reel.
He could feel her spine, her skin, where the shirt had worked loose from her belt. He had never forgotten her skin.
Her face was against his shoulder, her voice muffled, unsteady.
“Don’t—” And then, “Don’t stop.”
Then she broke away. “Oh, Bob, I stink of paint! Give me a few minutes!” She was half laughing, still crying.
He said, “I’m sorry, Glynis …”
She put one finger to her lips. “You called me ‘darling’, remember?” She was more composed now, perhaps regretting a momentary impulse.
“I meant it. I know I have no right …”
She grasped his wrists, held them briefly, then moved his hands from her waist. “You have every right.” She stepped a few paces away without turning her back, her face in shadow, her eyes never leaving his. “I want to show you something. Wait a minute, and don’t move.”
She opened the other door and went in, her shirt still hanging over her slacks. He could hear music, but it was muffled, from the adjoining apartment, which must have been repaired and in use once more.
The door was half-open and she was standing just inside the room, watching him intensely.
“Well, what do you think?”
She was wearing a full-length robe that shone in the dim light, dark green; it might have been silk. When she moved closer to the table lamp he could see her feet, small and bare against the floor.
“You look lovely.”
“I meant the robe. My mum and dad sent it to me as a present.” She shook her hair again. “Took ages to get here. I can’t imagine how many clothing coupons it must have needed …”
“They’re still in England? I didn’t realize.”
He felt the tension in her body as he put his arm around her and drew her closer. She said, “This is the first time I’ve worn it,” and let her arms fall to her sides, standing very still. “Kiss me, Bob.”
He tugged at the sash around her waist and uncovered her shoulder and kissed it, until she struggled to free herself, clinging to the robe, her breasts completely naked.
“No. Not here. Not yet …” She was holding him now, taking her mouth from his to whisper, “Every minute … every second …”
They were in the adjoining room, the only light being that which they had left behind them. The music had stopped. It seemed very quiet.
There was a tall mirror on the opposite wall. She was facing it, her back to him, her shoulders bare and burnished by the light.
“I never thought I …” She must have moved slightly, and the robe dropped to her ankles. “I can’t wait!”
The bed seemed to be the only furniture in the room. But nothing was real except the girl who lay on it, naked now, watching him stripping off his uniform and tossing it to the floor, where it lay with the robe and the tissue wrappings. She said again, “I can’t wait,” but he felt her body stiffen, her nails pressing into his skin, heard her gasp or sob as she arched her back to resist, and then to receive him.
He heard and saw nothing else. There was nothing else.
Eventually they both slept, but awoke together and talked, and rediscovered one another.
It was almost dawn when he opened his eyes and found he was alone.
But she was standing by a window he had not noticed in the night, her body motionless, holding the faint light of dawn like a statue. Then she pulled the curtain and fell beside him again. She pushed the hair from her face and leaned across him.
“I can’t believe it. I forgot to clean the paint off my hand!”
He stroked her shoulder and the back of her neck, and they kissed again, deeply and without urgency.
He said, “If …” but she covered his lips with her fingers.
“No, darling. When.” He could taste the tears on her skin.
She showed him where he could wash and helped him collect his scattered uniform; all the time, she barely spoke. The first hint of daylight was touching the sides of the curtains when the telephone rang.
She reached for it, but glanced over her shoulder as if to reassure him.
“It’s all right, Bob. They check every call.” She said a few words, and then handed it to him. “It’s time, darling.”
She had put on her robe again, and was looking away. Like the night, it was over.
“Yes? Kearton.” He reached out and squeezed her hand, and could see the dried paint on her fingers. He would never forget.
“Mornin’, sir. Corporal Marlow.” A pause, then, patiently, “Your driver, sir. Standin’ by.”
“On my way. Thank you.”
They walked through the other room, past the desk. The wastepaper basket was empty.
She pulled back a bolt and opened the door a couple of inches. The air seemed cold, and he could smell the salt.
She looked at him without speaking. Holding his hand, then pressing it against her breast.
“The car’s here.” She dabbed the corner of her eye and held up the handkerchief. “I have this now. It’ll be like new when I give it back to you!” The mood could not last, and she held him as if she would never let him go. “Promise me.” She made another attempt. “I’ll be waiting.” She kissed him quickly. “Take care.” She stepped away. “Darling.”
She closed the door behind him, and whispered, “Don’t leave me.”
Some impulse made her reach for the door again, but the driver must have kept his engine running. The car had already gone.
Turnbull walked across the deserted bridge and rested his hand on the wheel. It was still strange to feel it stiff, unmoving. Like the deck under his feet. Today was the third since they had returned to harbour, and it seemed they had never stopped for breath. Cleaning up the hull and taking on stores and ammunition. Topping up the fuel, and having more ‘experts’ checking for electrical or mechanical faults. There were none; Laidlaw had been outspoken on the matter. It was more than enough without the arrival of the torpedoes, not merely replacements for those fired at the surfaced U-Boat, but of an entirely new design. “You can’t miss,” as one mechanic had remarked. But he did not have to use them.
He peered at the sky and felt the sun on his face. And it was still early morning. He had heard bugles in the distance: it was Sunday. But not just that. He moved to the side and stared along the jetty. The damaged M.T.B. was gone, in dock somewhere being repaired, or so they said. A good thing. Nobody needed reminding.
He licked his lips but it made no difference; his mouth tasted foul. He had lost count of the mugs of tea or coffee since he had hoisted himself from his bunk. He could only blame himself. And the Chief, although he had managed to stay out of sight, with his engines.
And not only bugles; there had been bagpipes as well. Some Scottish troops must have arrived, or been moved from another part of the island.
Laidlaw had said, “Oh, Christ, a lament. That’s all I need!”
He was obviously not as deaf as Turnbull had thought.
977’s C.O. was being buried today, or what was left of him. And his coxswain. Turnbull glanced at the wheel again. Nice bloke, he thought; they had met at Chatham a couple of times.
Yes, it had been a long three days. He heard feet on the bridge ladder and frowned.
More than enough, without this.
“You sent for me, ’Swain?” It was Able Seaman Glover.
“I meant now, and not when you happen to feel like it!” But he was wasting his time, and they both knew it. “You were brought aboard last night by the shore patrol.” Turnbull did not need to pull out his notebook. “Disorderly and insulting behaviour. Cautioned by the patrol, but it seems you persisted. A woman, was it?”
Glover shrugged. “She seemed to think I was made of money. I told ’er straight out, I wanted to rent it, not buy it, th’ slag!”
There would always be a Glover in every ship. A good gunlayer, none better, and always ready to lend a hand in his mess. But get him ashore … Turnbull said, “First Lieutenant’s report. I’d watch my step, if I were you!”
Glover sauntered away, unconcerned. He would never learn.
He saw the gangway sentry leaning out over the guardrail to catch his eye, making a quick gesture with his fist. The first lieutenant was on his way. And from the look of another pile of crates on the jetty, so was more work. Spiers was already in a bad mood. One of the stewards at the base wardroom had told him Red Lyon had been throwing his weight around about the convoy and the U-Boat’s sinking. Our U-Boat. Or maybe it was because 977’s first lieutenant was being given command when the repairs were completed. Spiers was only human, so Glover might not get off so lightly this time.
Turnbull heard another bugle call and looked at his watch. Eleven o’clock. Up Spirits. Where had the forenoon gone?
Three days since their return, and all very busy. The Skipper had been with them for much of the time, dealing with their various official or technical visitors, but for that one night ashore. Nobody knew for certain, but Turnbull had no doubts. Good luck to them.
But today was different. He had been propped on his elbows at the mess table when he had heard the scuffle of feet, and Lieutenant Ainslie’s voice: he, too, had been caught unawares. Not even a bugle from the harbour, but the Skipper was already going ashore. It had to be urgent. They had sent a car for him, and its shielded headlights were still switched on when Turnbull had reached a scuttle to see for himself.
He hurried along the deck and saluted as Spiers stepped off the brow. As usual, his eyes were everywhere as Turnbull made his report.
“Defaulters? Glover?” But he was looking at Pug Dawson, who was busily mustering another working party. And then he said something so uncharacteristic that Turnbull was shocked. “Postpone it, will you? I think we’re going to need him. And soon!”
Kearton came out of his cabin and saw Ginger, their acting-messman, standing by the wardroom door, unconcerned, as if he was there by accident. The door was partly open and he could hear their voices, and a short, barking laugh, which he knew was Red Lyon’s. He had heard them coming aboard, almost together. As if they had all been poised, waiting.
The rest of the boat seemed unnaturally quiet; most of the hands were ashore for a well-earned break after their extra work. But confined to the base this time, which meant the canteen bar.
He himself had been on his feet since dawn, and some instinct had warned him: he was shaved and half-dressed when the sentry had brought a message from the gate: a car with Garrick’s badge on it had arrived to collect him.
Ginger was saying cheerfully, “All present and correct, sir,” and trying to keep a straight face. “I told the other gentlemen, try and leave the place like you found it. Clean and tidy!” He did not succeed. He knew more about his own three officers than anybody.
They were all sitting at, or near, the wardroom table, and Kearton waved them down as they attempted a more formal greeting. There was one face missing, and it would be hard to forget him, with that last meeting still so fresh in his mind.
He nodded to Ainslie, who was sitting in a corner against the bulkhead, his chart and sketches and a clip of signals arranged between his hands. He would be remembering it, too, perhaps more than anyone. Geordie’s humorous defences against Lyon’s sarcasm and hostility, and the new pipe lying on the table …
He felt in his own pocket, and stopped himself; his pipe was finally beyond repair.
He said, “We are under orders. Again.” He saw Ainslie passing round the typewritten lists; they would not reveal much more than they already knew, or had guessed.
Red Lyon said loudly, “Back to the war again!”
John Stirling did not look up.
“Some of us never left it.”
Kearton waited for silence. “Over the next month or so, probably sooner, naval and military reinforcements will begin to arrive here in Malta. Not for survival now, but to attack. We all knew it was coming, once things began to shift in our favour.”
He could see Garrick’s face, hear his voice. They had been standing on a stone balcony outside his office; it was a miracle that it had survived the bombing, as most of the buildings opposite were in ruins.
Garrick had waved his arm toward the harbour. “Big units will be arriving. Battleships, maybe a carrier or two. This will be so bloody busy you won’t be able to pull a dinghy between them!”
“They won’t be able to keep that a secret.” That was Chris Griffin, the other motor gunboat’s commanding officer. And he was from Cornwall: Fowey, which Kearton remembered vividly from the one time he had been taken there for a holiday. He had been about eight years old.
He tapped the rough chart.
“You’re right, Chris. They won’t, and they haven’t. The Germans have been moving their own forces. They don’t miss much.”
Lyon said, “Maybe they don’t rely too much on their Italian allies?”
Kearton looked past him: a scuttle was open, and he could see a crane moving slowly up and down, or so it appeared, as another vessel stirred the hull with her wash.
He said quietly, “Well, they should. Some time ago they began to bring new weapons, overland, or perhaps in so-called neutral ships. That, we don’t know.” His finger stopped on the chart. “First seen or suspected here, at Taranto. Then moved or separated. And now we know they’re here.”
Ainslie saw his eyes, and elaborated. “Sicily, north-east corner, near the Messina Strait.” He paused. “A place called Penta. I’ve marked it. Not much bigger than a parade ground. Used to be popular with yachtsmen, and other small craft.”
Griffin said, “Lucky buggers,” but he was tracing the coastline with his fingertip. “Small. But too close for comfort, if.…’ He did not finish.
Kearton glanced along the table. “One-man, explosive motor-boats. We don’t know how many, but we do know they are there. Intelligence seems to think their next move will be to Pantelleria.” He looked at Griffin. “You’re right, Chris. Too close for comfort.”
Stirling said as if to himself, “It must have been around two years ago—I’d just arrived in the Med. Things were bad everywhere. Our forces were pulling out of Greece.”
Lyon murmured, “In retreat!”
The Canadian ignored him, or perhaps he was somewhere else, in another time.
“The navy was standing by—to check the enemy’s progress, they said—and evacuate our troops if it was necessary. And it was. But the Italians had some explosive motor-boats—first we knew of them. One man, one attack. They put the cruiser York on the bottom—others too, before anybody knew what was happening. Brave guys, or suicide jockeys—” He slapped his hand on the chart. “But those sons of bitches did the trick. Crete, Suda Bay … And I bet York’s still lying there.”
It was suddenly quiet again. Even the sentry, who had been pacing back and forth above them, had stopped.
Kearton looked at each man’s face.
“It’s not settled yet. I’ll know tomorrow. We’re on stand-by. But be ready to slip and proceed at sunset.”
Lyon said, “Makes a change from dawn.” But there was no laugh.
Kearton stood. “Tomorrow, then.” Short notice. But waiting, like doubt, could kill.
He followed them on deck and watched them depart. The sky was still cloudless.
He thought of Garrick. It had already been decided.
We’re on our way.
He might have spoken aloud. Telling her.