The Glory Boys

by Douglas Reeman

  Throughout the four days he had been aboard he had kept mostly out of the way as the ship’s company went through all the usual drills and exercises: action stations, defence against possible air attack, submarine alert. Even abandon-ship instruction, if only for the benefit of new hands like the youth who had shared the motor-boat at Portsmouth.

  Out into Western Approaches, then south into the Bay of Biscay. It had seemed Kinsale would have the sea to herself. There had been an alarm when an unidentified aircraft had been sighted off the Isles of Scilly, even as they caught a final glimpse of England, but nothing worse. The last sight of home had had far more emotional impact, even if the old Jacks made light of it.

  He sometimes wondered what the commanding officer was thinking about it all. Back to the Med. After a brief visit to England, new radar equipment fitted, a boiler-clean, and maybe a scrap of leave for the lucky ones. They had rarely met during the passage. He was a commander in rank, and obviously proud of his ship, but he remained aloof, spending most of his time on the bridge either sitting on a tall, rigid chair, which was bolted to the deck and in full view of the other watchkeepers, or snatching a few minutes alone in his hutch-like sea cabin, also on the bridge.

  Kearton clambered from the bunk and waited, testing the motion. To give himself more time, delay the inevitable.

  In many ways it would have been easier to take up his new appointment directly from the home base. He had read and reread his orders, if only to stop himself finding flaws in the concise wording. He could almost hear Captain Morgan’s voice dictating them. There would be no flaws.

  He could see the three boats in his mind, ‘D-Boats’, they were termed. Larger and more powerful than all the other motor torpedo boats. He had served very briefly in one as part of a passage crew, while his own command had been undergoing repair.

  He saw his new working rig, battledress, some still called it, swaying from a rail on the bulkhead, replacing the gear he had been wearing when they had fished him out of the drink.

  He heard a clatter from the wardroom pantry: a mug of tea would soon be arriving to start the day. This day. And somebody was laughing.

  After Gibraltar, Kinsale was going back to the war.

  He had never left it.

  The three M.T.B.s were moored well clear of the main anchorage and away from the comings and goings of various harbour craft, isolated, if that were ever possible at Gibraltar. Two lay alongside an elderly supply ship, and the third rested against a battered pontoon, rubber fend-offs squeaking now as a small launch ploughed past. There were plenty of ships at anchor or alongside, but a distinct lack of the usual bustle and activity. It was Sunday, and war or no war, routine took first place.

  The biggest warship visible was a cruiser, quiet now after the bugle calls and shouts of command. The church pendant had been hoisted while Divisions and Inspections were carried out, and a commodore’s broad pendant at her masthead left nothing in doubt. The M.T.B. settled against the pontoon again as the wake rippled along the cruiser’s waterline.

  Petty Officer Harry Turnbull turned his back and stared aft, along the full length of his own boat: M.T.B. 992, the numbers bright on either bow, like everything else above and below deck. Or he would soon know why. He was the coxswain, and he could still feel something like pride. She was his boat.

  He walked a few paces, past the two-pounder pom-pom cannon, neatly flaked mooring lines, and freshly cleaned decks. Nothing left sculling about to offend the eye, or give a bad impression. No matter who was at fault, the coxswain always carried the can.

  He looked up and over the low bridge at the clear sky beyond. The locals thought the wind unusually cold, blowing in from the Atlantic. They should be in England right now, in January: that would stop them moaning about the bloody weather …

  Turnbull was twenty-nine years old, and had been in the Royal Navy for eleven of them. He saw his shadow pass across the machine-gun mounting below the bridge; there was a matching pair on the opposite side. He could not help comparing her with a couple of his previous boats: one gun, if you were lucky. Speed and agility had come first. And there was a pair of Oerlikons aft, ’ooligans, the gun crew nicknamed them. Like an M.T.B. and motor gunboat combined. He glanced at the White Ensign, scarcely moving now, and never used since the day they had steered out of the builder’s yard. Brand new, like everything else. He wanted to look at his watch, but knew the gangway sentry would see him. Dressed in his best Number Twos, with a freshly blancoed revolver belt and holster at his waist, he was living proof of the significance of this day. For all of them.

  Even that brought it home to Turnbull. 992, like her two sisters, was double the size of those earlier boats: one hundred and fifteen feet on the waterline and over one hundred tons displacement. And four Packard engines to move them. The tanks had been refilled and you could still catch the stench of their 100-octane petrol. Ten fuel tanks, he had checked each one, holding five thousand gallons all told. It was something best not thought about. A burst of tracer and you would go up, not down. It happened to others. Not to you.

  He stared at the gangway sentry again. Glover, a Londoner. Nothing much else known, yet. But the faces and the names would become individuals, personalities, some more quickly than others, and there were thirty of them in this company, which he would soon know inside out. It was a coxswain’s job, or part of it.

  He heard a footstep and the quiet cough that always seemed to precede the man. It was the Chief, who took charge of all those dials and machinery, the very power of the boat. Jock Laidlaw seemed too tall for a cramped, noisy existence between decks. He had a narrow, intelligent face and keen eyes that always watched your mouth when you were speaking. It had become a habit after months of reading his mechanics’ or stokers’ lips when the competition from the engines was too overwhelming, and Turnbull suspected he was probably a little deaf as well, for the same reason. Not an easy man to know, but if you ever managed it, you found a friend you could trust.

  He was looking up at the supply ship, where a head wearing a chef’s hat was peering through an open scuttle.

  “D’ ye think he’s been delayed?” He did not need to elaborate.

  Turnbull shook his head. “There was a signal about it. Jimmy the One told me to carry out the instructions.” He ticked them off on each finger of his strong, square hands. “Coming aboard at three bells. No ceremonial, and no change to harbour routine. Local leave if arranged. That’s all I know.”

  Laidlaw said, “Jimmy th’ One’s probably still brooding.” He might have smiled, but it only made him look sad. “What might have been his, gone for a Burton.”

  Turnbull had thought much the same. But the first lieutenant had to put up with it, no matter how he felt about the orders.

  The Chief came to the point.

  “Our new skipper—what d’ you know about him?”

  Turnbull considered it. Some people never made a mark, unless they were listed as a bad lot, or promoted unexpectedly. Or killed in action.

  He said, “Kearton? First ran into him a couple of years back. Same flotilla, but not the same boat.” He knew the eyes were watching his mouth, and was surprised that it came out so easily. “Good officer, no bullshit. Ready to listen, not like some.”

  Laidlaw grimaced. “Like a lot!”

  “No slouch, either. D.S.C. and mentioned in despatches. Twice, I think. In several big dust-ups in the Channel and off the Hook of Holland.” He grinned and punched his arm. “Christ, I sound like the bloody Daily Crapsheet!”

  Laidlaw said expressionlessly, “Good bloke, then?”

  Turnbull did not reply directly, surprised that he could still be caught off-guard, when it was something which had never left him.

  “It was about a year ago. We were working our way along the Dutch coast. Winter, and bloody cold.”

  He knew exactly when it was. The day, even the hour.

  The Chief said nothing, waiting. Understanding, perhaps.

  “We’d
received reports of some German lighters in the area, running supplies close inshore. They hardly drew any water, y’ see, and like as not a tin fish would’ve run cleanly underneath ’em.”

  He looked up at the old supply ship; the chef’s hat had disappeared, and there was the sound of music, a woman’s voice. The ship’s company taking it easy. Sunday … It had been a Sunday then.

  “So we closed the range and opened fire.” He smiled a little, reminiscently. “The skipper never hung about. A bit of a lad. Still at school when I signed on.” He paused, and felt the hull nudge against the pontoon again. Another small craft passing, but he did not turn to look.

  The music and the singer’s voice continued, undisturbed.

  “We’ll meet again, don’t know where, don’t know when/ But I know we’ll meet again some sunny day …”

  He said, “Then the E-Boats came out of nowhere, five or six of ’em. There were just four of our boats, Vospers. We caught a packet right away. That’s about all I remember. I was in the drink.”

  He wanted to stop, but something was driving him. Why? After all this time?

  Laidlaw murmured, “But you made it.”

  He shrugged. “The rest scattered. It was as black as hell and there were flares, tracer … I can’t really remember.” He hesitated, and then went on. “Still a lot of flak flying about, but one of our boats turned back to search for us. Just in case. Took guts to do that.” He nodded, seeing it. “Yes, he is a good bloke.”

  Someone had appeared around the bridge. “First lieutenant’s come aboard, ’Swain!”

  Turnbull waved. “Thanks, I’m on my way!” He stared after him. He had forgotten his name.

  Laidlaw tapped one of the engineroom vents with his foot.

  “Don’t you worry, Harry. Old Growler’ll give you all the knots you want. Just ring down Full Ahead!”

  He watched him stride away. “You’re not so bad yourself, laddie.”

  The music had not stopped, nor had the singer.

  Laidlaw came originally from Dundee, although he had not been back there for several years.

  He reached for the hatch, to shut out the music and the memories. To feel safe.

  Lieutenant Peter Spiers saw the coxswain waiting by the brow from the pontoon, relaxed and apparently unconcerned, as if nothing would ever take him by surprise. A good man; 992 was lucky to have him. He had heard that several times, even today, when he had been in somebody else’s wardroom for a quick ‘wet’. A Horse’s Neck, or two; he imagined he could still taste the brandy on his tongue. Maybe it had been unwise, today of all days.

  He returned Turnbull’s salute and looked along the deck, checking each item. Take nothing for granted. Spiers was twenty-four, the first lieutenant and, to some, a veteran. He could feel the coxswain watching him, probably gauging their immediate future together in the light of this unexpected development.

  “Any signals? Messages?”

  “As before, sir. Any minute now, I’d say.”

  Spiers pointed toward the gangway sentry.

  “What about that?”

  ‘That’ was a smudge of white blanco from the sentry’s pistol holster down one side of his jumper.

  Turnbull said, “See to it—jump about!”

  Spiers cleared his throat. “Not now. Too late. What’s his name?”

  Turnbull replied patiently, “Glover, sir,” and dropped his voice. “He’s a good lad.” The first lieutenant had bent his head to hear him, and he could smell the wardroom brandy on his breath. Number One was taking it badly.

  “Oh, very well. But next time—” He did not go on. He could still feel it, despite all he had tried to do to control it. Disappointment, resentment, even anger. It had all been just a dream to begin with, and then suddenly it had seemed right there in his hands. A command of his own, even if it would have meant having a senior officer breathing down his neck occasionally when one chose to cadge a lift. Now, a new scheme of things, to suit the bigger boats and those who were chosen to lead.

  The boat’s other lieutenant, Ainslie, a navigation specialist, had laughed outright at him.

  “Take it off your back, Peter. We’re in for something big and dangerous, if you ask me. Hit ’em hard, where it hurts most!”

  Ainslie never seemed to take anything seriously for long, except his bloody charts, and some girl he was always going on about. A nice enough chap, but he had never been in action, so what did he know?

  Turnbull was still observing him, without showing it. Get today over with, and then … He and the Chief might have a few quiet drinks themselves, down aft in the petty officers’ mess, separated from the rest of the hull by the engines, and, of course, those five thousand gallons of fuel.

  Able Seaman Glover called, “Comin’ now, ’Swain!” and looked down at the offending stain. Bloody officers …

  He felt the deck move evenly under his feet, another launch passing through the anchorage, and standing well clear of the cruiser with the commodore’s flag. Probably full of libertymen going for a run ashore, looking for some fun, if there was such a thing in Gib on a Sunday. He thought of his own home in Bethnal Green, in London’s East End. The area had been badly bombed, they said, but he could picture his mum and dad lifting a few jars in the old Salmon and Ball pub, if it was still standing. Always lively, with a knees-up or a fist-fight to round off the evening.

  He brought his heels together and straightened his back. They’d be really proud if they could see him now.

  “Attention on the upper deck!”

  Turnbull saw the new White Ensign lift in the breeze for the first time.

  He watched the salutes and the handshakes, and the eyes, which said more than words.

  The strain lifting, lightening into a smile. The face he remembered after that night in the Channel, when, as he thought of it, life had been reissued. Bob Kearton had come to visit him in the R.N. hospital. Now he, too, had been through that nightmare.

  He heard the first lieutenant saying, “Welcome aboard, sir.” He was hiding his feelings remarkably well.

  Now Kearton was here. The same smile: no salute but a handshake. Turnbull returned it, looking straight into the grey eyes, too immersed in the memories to grin back. There might have been just the two of them on the deck.

  “Welcome back, sir!”

  Kearton stepped over a coaming and paused as if to get his bearings, although it was not that. He had been on his feet since he had first come aboard, and this was the first time he had been alone. He was surprised that he was not exhausted: it was nearly midnight.

  The cabin was neat and unlived in, the bunk and shelves above it uncluttered; even his own suitcase and baggage had vanished. The cabin itself was almost square, the side slightly sloped, with one scuttle, at a guess directly below the starboard torpedo tube. A table, two chairs, and a hanging space of sorts, and that was all.

  He tossed his cap on to one of the chairs and closed the door behind him. After the other M.T.B.s he had known, this seemed spacious. And it was his own.

  He moved to the scuttle and raised the deadlight. It was very dark, more so because the side of the old supply ship seemed to be towering directly above him.

  He closed the scuttle and allowed the sounds and smells around him to excude everything else. The gentle vibration from a generator, an occasional movement of the hull against the moorings, someone coughing, probably on the crew’s messdeck in the forward part of the hull. The tiny galley and a W/T office shared the rest of the space with the wardroom, and storage for food and ammunition.

  He sat down and looked at the gleaming paintwork, so fresh that it almost hurt the eye in the reflected deckhead lights.

  He reached out absently and tapped the sloping side, the diagonal layers of wood. It was something he could never resist. He could see his father doing the same in the boatyard on the Thames that bore the family name. Power-boats and sailing dinghies had been his trade. Nothing vast, but situated just above the big lock at Teddington,
it was known and respected by many yachtsmen and other, part-time sailors.

  Those old customers would hardly recognize the yard now. His father had been forced to take on more workers to keep pace with the growing demands of war, building motor-boats similar to those carried by warships like Kinsale and other, barge-like craft for the army.

  The yard had owned a little, outdated tugboat, the Ruffian, which his father or the foreman would use for hauling fresh timber from another yard in Kingston, or for collecting boats in need of repair or overhaul, and sometimes, as a boy, Kearton had been allowed to head up or downriver as an eager passenger. Maybe that was when his interest, even love for the sea had begun. He had been invited to join a local sailing club, and in no time had been sailing in regattas and winning prizes.

  That had been when he had first met Julie. They had sailed together, danced together, and sometimes imagined a future together. And sometimes she told him he was too serious; she was frivolous and lively, full of fun, and always wanted to share it with him. When he had signed up to join the Supplementary Naval Reserve, she had encouraged him in his part-time studies of seamanship and navigation, and forgiven him his occasional trips to sea with the navy whenever the chance came his way.

  And all the time the threat of war had been mounting. Some people had dreaded the possibility, but Kearton had been in uniform before the reality hit him. It was another world. And Julie believed she had no part in it.

  He could still recall every word of the letter he had received when he had been in his first ship on active service, the old V & W Class destroyer Viper.

  Three years ago. It did not seem that long.