It had been like looking at himself.
He had heard that the skipper had been in the drink, and saved by the skin of his teeth. That might explain a lot, and why he had acted without hesitation.
He could remember Saturn’s commander quite clearly. Saying good-bye to his young wife within a few weeks of the war, which everybody knew was coming. She had been smiling, but dabbing her eyes at the same time. His son, a small child, laughing and trying to salute everybody.
Again, leading the wild cheering after their torpedoes had sent two freighters to the bottom.
And the last time, at the periscope and shouting, “Dive! Dive! Dive!” Like a scream. When it was already too late.
Another world. He could still strip or activate a torpedo in the dark, or with his eyes shut if necessary, but it was all so different.
He thought of one of the doctors at the naval hospital, so young that he must have been a medical student before he had put on a uniform. The red cloth between his two wavy stripes had obviously convinced him he was God.
“You’ll have to learn to adapt, Jay. Or you’ll go under!” He had not even recognized his own stupid joke.
“You’re a bit off the beaten track, chum! Nothin’ up here but the smell!”
Jay turned, caught unawares, but managed to smile. “Just stretching my legs.”
It was Glover, a tough, experienced seaman, and the gunlayer on their two-pounder. Nicknamed Cock on the messdeck, probably because he was a Londoner and a true Cockney, or maybe for more personal reasons. From some of the yarns Jay had heard around the messdeck table, Glover always enjoyed a run ashore in the fullest sense.
Cap at a rakish angle, and a bright new gunnery badge on his sleeve, Glover was most people’s idea of ‘Jack’.
Glover kicked some gravel into the water and grinned. “Thought you was thinkin’ of doin’ yerself in!”
Jay tensed, and allowed himself to relax.
He said, “Do you fancy a wet?”
Glover looked at him thoughtfully. He half wondered what he was doing here, and why he had caught up with Jay. They lived side by side on the messdeck: in M.T.B.s and most small craft you expected that. Jay was a leading hand, friendly enough when you could drag a few words out of him. But still a stranger.
Jay looked back along the jetty. Men were still working aboard and alongside their boat. Noise, questions that needed answering. The duty hands would deal with those.
He said, “The canteen? I’m not sure. I’ve heard …”
Glover shook his head.
“Nah! Full of bloody pongos and so-called sailors who’ve never been to sea since they joined!” He shrugged. “You’re a regular—you must ’ave bin ashore in Malta in the good old days?”
Jay looked toward the gates and the road.
“I was here a couple of years back. It’s all changed since then. The bombing. Shortages.” He could feel Glover’s eyes on him. Offering something. “If you like, we could take a look. There was one place …” He broke off. He was already out of his depth.
It made him think of that young doctor again, and he found that he was smiling in earnest.
“Might be lousy.”
Glover’s grin widened in anticipation.
“A few jars, maybe some music.” He gestured rudely with his forearm. “Maybe a bit of the other to round things off!”
They walked toward the gates where a regulating petty officer, one of the Jaunty’s little team, was already watching their approach.
Jay said, “We have to be back aboard by twenty-two hundred.”
Glover straightened his cap.
“No problem. On an’ off like a fly, that’s me!”
Jay pulled out his makeshift leave pass, and saw the R.P.O. glance from it to the anchor on his sleeve.
But he could still hear the pompous young doctor.
You’ll have to learn to adapt.
He wanted to laugh, for the first time since he could remember. But he knew he would be unable to stop.
The location chosen for the meeting with the V.I.P. from London was not what Kearton had expected. He thought of his father: it was more like one of the building sheds back at the boatyard, long and low, with one end just a few feet from the water.
Captain Garrick returned some salutes, and remarked, “You’d think Churchill himself was coming. Maybe he has!”
There were plenty of vehicles, too. Staff cars, and jeeps, and a larger van with scarlet-painted wings: the bomb-disposal squad. Not much evidence here of a fuel shortage.
Kearton glanced over at Garrick, fresh-faced and smartly turned-out, his fine cap at a slight angle. Alert and apparently untroubled. Only once, when a man in civilian clothes who was standing with two redcaps stepped forward to mutter something about Kearton’s identification, did he display any irritation.
“He’s with me, for God’s sake!” The man vanished.
Inside the building, it was already difficult to move. There seemed to be dozens of officers, blue and khaki, and even a sprinkling of R.A.F. types. Some were quite senior, managing to keep a little apart from the rest. Kearton saw the same loud-mouthed brigadier, but he was quiet this time, almost subdued in the presence of his superiors.
Chairs had been arranged in rows, according to rank, or the relevance of this meeting. Most of the chairs were labelled. Garrick’s was in the second row, and the one beside it was marked with a number.
Garrick waved casually to a couple of uniforms, and nodded to a few others, then he sat down, tapping the other chair. “Hope this doesn’t take all day. The gunners have their mess next door … This crowd would drink the place dry in no time!” He laughed and hung his arm over the chairback. Relaxed but in control: how most people saw him, remembered him.
Kearton looked down. There were still flakes of sawdust on his shoes. He wondered how Spiers was coping with the clutter and the noise, all the reminders of that swift, devastating encounter.
Someone cleared his throat noisily, like a signal, and everybody stood.
Sir Piers Lampton was slightly built, and flanked by the Chief of Staff and a major-general he looked almost frail. Very tanned, a neat military-style moustache white against his skin; voice clipped, incisive. He was well known on the wireless in times of crisis or triumph, and seen in the more popular newspapers, often depicted amongst uniforms of all three services, as well as with civilians at war. A rising star in government circles, it was said, especially by the press.
Kearton had already seen Max Hardy in the room, near the front. Security did not apply to him, apparently.
The Chief of Staff murmured a brief introduction and Lampton stood up. He leaned slightly forward, his knuckles touching but not resting on the prepared lectern.
He had come a long way, from London and, someone had mentioned, Cairo, but his well-cut grey suit was not even creased. He might have just stepped out of his office, or a club in Mayfair.
“Gentlemen.” He smiled. “You may smoke.”
He did not add, if you must, although Kearton had heard that on other occasions. Garrick had slipped one hand into his pocket. It stayed there.
Kearton recalled his delight when he had returned the lighter; it had been one of those rare moments.
“God, I thought I’d lost it! She’d never forgive me!”
Who, he wondered? Garrick was not married, although it had been a close thing once or twice, or so he had heard.
The clipped voice was saying, “Here, in the Mediterranean theatre of war, and now, for the first time, we can forget hopes and fears of survival.” He had paused, and his eyes, very pale against the tan, seemed to traverse the room. “Now, we can plan progression and attack.” He tapped the table very lightly with his knuckles. “The road to Europe, and victory!”
There was an outburst of clapping, tentative at first, and then deafening. Kearton heard Garrick murmur, “For Christ’s sake get on with it!” although he had seen him initiate the applause.
Lampton
continued, and Max Hardy had opened a pad and was scribbling what might have been shorthand.
Lampton touched loosely on the campaign in North Africa, and the vital role of the Eighth Army, holding the Afrika Korps almost at the gates of Cairo before tipping the scales into a retreat. Somehow he managed to include all three services, even the Merchant Navy, when he mentioned the convoys, and Malta’s triumph over overwhelming odds. “There was a time when we believed, feared—”
Kearton did not hear the rest; Garrick had tapped his arm and was whispering loudly, “They thought Malta had had it, and would have left ’em to it!”
A colonel with red tabs on his tunic twisted round in his chair and glared.
Garrick muttered, “You, too!”
It was soon over, more applause, and the flash of a camera, although not Hardy’s. The Chief of Staff waited while a few introductions were made. The names were all on a typed list.
Lampton shook Garrick’s hand, looking steadily up at him.
“The First Lord speaks highly of you, Captain Garrick. When I return, I intend to speak with the P.M. at the earliest opportunity …” He smiled as the Chief of Staff murmured something. “Would that I had more time, Captain Garrick. However …”
Garrick said, “I’d like to introduce one of my team, Sir Piers. Lieutenant-Commander Kearton is very experienced in close action.”
Lampton smiled again, dismissing him.
“Another time, perhaps. I am already hard-pressed.” He held out his hand. “Remember, attack!”
The Chief of Staff said, “This way, Sir Piers. The Admiral, remember?” He looked quickly at Garrick. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Dick. Big day.”
He turned and steered Lampton past another group of officers.
Garrick picked up his cap angrily.
“Silly bastard! What does he mean, attack? What the hell does he imagine we’ve been doing?” The mood passed, and he was outwardly calm again; like a sudden squall, Kearton thought. “I’ll tell Brice to chase up the repair work. In the meantime, you’ll be on call for the new arrivals.” He looked at him sardonically. “And any sudden flap which may arise to disrupt Sir Piers’ vital visit!”
A lieutenant who had been hovering on the fringe of the V.I.P.s’ reception committee hurried through the departing uniforms.
Garrick recognized him.
“Changed his mind, has he?”
The lieutenant said formally, “The Chief of Staff sends his compliments, sir.”
Garrick gave a little, ironic smile.
“And wants me to join him and Sir Piers right away?”
He put on his cap, and adjusted it with care.
“One of these days …” He nodded to the lieutenant. “Be honoured!” And winked. “England expects!”
He was halfway to the door when he turned and looked back.
“Make contact with Brice for me and put him in the picture, will you? Don’t want him getting in a sweat. You can use my driver. It’ll save time.”
Kearton looked at his watch. Most of the others had already gone, glad it was over. Some were still loitering by the main entrance, undecided, or unwilling to return to duty. The senior officer of one of the established M.T.B. flotillas caught his eye and said, “Pity we can’t take him out on patrol with us. Might buck his ideas up a bit!”
Kearton thought he knew him. Another place, another time.
The driver had seen him coming and seemed unsurprised that he was alone, or by the change of orders. After Brice, what then? He was on stand-by, ‘on call’, as Garrick had said. The two motor gunboats would soon be here, and so, it seemed, would the convoy.
The car moved out into a street he did not recognize. A few potholes, otherwise it had been repaired very well. Only the buildings and the rubble along one side showed evidence of recent air raids.
He must send her a message, even if he was unable to speak to her.
Sliema, or anywhere else outside the base, was impossible. It had been casually said, but ‘on call’ meant just that.
She might be relieved, anyway. For both their sakes.
The car stopped and he saw the gates, now familiar, and some sailors thumbing a lift from an army truck. Two others, arm in arm, were returning from their run ashore, very much the worse for wear; they would find the steps a real challenge. He saw two naval patrolmen watching them, then purposely looking in the opposite direction. Neither the Jaunty nor his R.P.O.s would be so sympathetic.
The driver got out and studied the buildings as if to reassure himself, and Kearton realized that there had been no air raid sirens all day. But the battery of heavy anti-aircraft guns at the end of the road were fully manned and pointing at the sky, perhaps for Sir Piers Lampton’s benefit.
“I’m not sure how long this will take.”
The driver, a Royal Marine as usual, almost clicked his heels. “I’ll wait, sir!” He seemed surprised that he had been offered an apology.
The same entrance: a few ratings carrying messages, one with a tray of teacups. And the curving staircase he remembered.
The petty officer was a stranger, but he ushered him to the main office without hesitation.
Two other naval officers were already in the adjoining room, but neither of them moved or looked up as he walked past. They were apparently used to waiting.
Lieutenant-Commander Eric Brice looked tired, even rather dishevelled, but was obviously pleased to see him, and the warmth of his handshake was genuine.
“This is just great, Bob! After what you’ve been through, and having the Boss leaning on you, the V.I.P. thing must have just about put the lid on it.” He laughed, “But no, you’re bright as a button and ready for more!”
He sat back down at the desk. “Been like a bloody madhouse round here.” He ruffled some papers without looking at them. “The repair work should be finished in three days, four at the most. So in the meantime, while you’re on stand-by, I could fix you up with a bed over here.” He paused. “I wouldn’t advise it, though. There’s no escape in this place. Believe me, I know.”
The door opened an inch.
“They’ve gone, sir. I suggested they try again later.”
Brice said, “Good man. Not important, anyway.” Then, “Pass the word, Harris. I don’t want any incoming calls for ten minutes or so.” He looked at Kearton. “Probably all over at the V.I.P.s’ party at Government House anyway. There’ll be a few sore heads tomorrow, of all days!”
The door closed and he stood up abruptly, as if he were uncertain about something, perhaps the frustrated visitors. “There was a call earlier for you. I wasn’t sure if you would be here, or if the Boss had other ideas.” He gestured to the telephone. “She called before, I believe.”
He was on his way to the door.
“Remember this, Bob. The convoy is due to signal tomorrow.” He opened the door. “And it’s thanks to you.”
Kearton heard him speaking to someone in the other room, then there was silence. There must be over a hundred people working in the building, but even that seemed quiet.
He picked up the telephone, noticing that the ashtray was back in its place.
The operator answered immediately, as if he had been waiting for a call from this office. He did not ask him to repeat the number.
“Putting you through, sir.”
No clicks or voices this time. There was nothing.
“I’m sorry, sir. There seems no one …”
Then she said, “Hello? Hello, Bob—is that you?”
“Glynis. I just got your message. I wanted to explain.” He paused; she sounded out of breath, as if she had been running.
“I thought I’d missed you. That you might ring and wonder what had happened.” He heard the quick breathing. “I wanted you to know I was leaving. I was on the road when I heard the phone.” She gasped, “Out of condition!”
“Leaving?” Like a door slamming. “Is something wrong?”
“I knew you’d be busy.” She halted, but there
were no warning clicks; the line remained silent. “I have to move some things from the old address.” She paused again, and he heard the breathing. “You know the one. It’s not so far … and I thought it might be easier for you. I’ll have some friends with me. Helping me … I’ll understand if you can’t make it.”
He thought he heard a car door, and the sound of an engine.
She had covered the mouthpiece but he heard her call, “I’m just coming!” Then, “Are you still there?”
The folded window blind rattled suddenly; the outer door had just opened.
He said, “Can I come now?” She would know exactly where he was.
“If you’re sure?” Then, “Yes. I’d like that.” Another pause. “A lot.”
The line was dead, or she had hung up, perhaps already regretting the impulse.
The outer office was still empty, but not for long. He could hear Brice holding the fort.
He was at the top of the stairs, comparing notes with one of his staff, but he waved a sheaf of papers and called, “All OK?”
Kearton looked down the stairs and saw the driver waiting patiently by the entrance. There were so many things he wanted to know, should have asked, if only to put her mind at rest.
“I hope so. Thanks for your help.”
Brice watched him leave.
For your sake, I hope so, too.
He pushed open the door; the telephone was ringing. Ten minutes exactly. Most people in Malta would give anything to be connected to a telephone, even an official line like this one. He thought of the voice, her voice. He had met her several times in one building or another, and had spoken to her once or twice; he had thought her attractive, but wary. She needed to be round here, married or not. He wondered if the Boss knew anything about it. No shred of gossip was likely to slip past Garrick.
Brice stifled a yawn. He felt as if he had not slept properly for weeks, but when Garrick eventually returned from the reception, the booze-up, as he had heard the yeoman of signals crudely call it, he would, as usual, want all the answers.
He reached for the telephone, pausing as he heard the car drive away, and was surprised to find that he cared.
The Glory Boys Page 15
