“The glove makes it more presentable when I’m saluting my betters!” He had obviously made the remark often, with pain now of a different sort.
Like Kearton, he wore the ribbon of the D.S.C. on his jacket. They were perhaps the same age but Warren, not surprisingly, looked much older. Now he was attached to Special Operations, so he must have volunteered for this latest mission, and was in charge of the captured Italian torpedo boat.
Ainslie had seen some of the Canadian sailors watching him, surprised or pleased when he had thrown them a friendly greeting, and thought of the unknown man who had died, gripping his wrists, his eyes so desperate as he had breathed out the name. Jethro. Warren was different. He looked the part, whatever ‘the part’ was. So why did he and men like him continue to take such risks?
Spiers was glancing at his watch. He had been scheduled to go to a party aboard Geoff Mostyn’s boat this evening. That, too, would have to go by the board.
Lieutenant Stirling entered the wardroom, a tall, lean man whose hair seemed almost to touch the deckhead. He had a good reputation, and had already served in the Med before transferring to his own command via England. But Kearton was the S.O. of their little group, and Ainslie wondered if Stirling resented taking second place in this new operation.
He recalled the first lieutenant’s wry comment. Don’t trust us, eh?
Kearton was here now, frowning at something Mostyn was saying to him, then leaning over to flatten a chart on the table.
Ainslie realized that Warren’s gloved fist was beside his own on the chart, and he murmured politely, “Sorry, I forgot to ask.” He saw the glove tighten, almost imperceptibly. “What’s your first name?”
The glove relaxed, and the smile became genuine.
“Another Toby, I’m afraid.”
Ainslie stared at the chart.
“I’ll call you Mark One, if that’s O.K. with you?”
“Very well, Mark Two. That’s soon settled!”
He had made a friend. And it mattered.
Kearton said abruptly, “All right, gentlemen. There’s no time to rest on our laurels. The convoy is due to arrive in the forenoon, and there may be air attacks.” He looked around the wardroom. “So we shall begin Operation Retriever at four in the morning. I don’t have to remind anyone, this is Top Secret.” He looked at Mostyn. “You’re on stand-by, Geoff,” and smiled. “And it means just that. So be ready.”
Ainslie watched him with something like admiration. On the bridge and all hell breaking loose, caring about his crew, and even the man who had died after the explosion … then getting them all back to base, only to be ordered to some damned meeting. And now this …
The others were standing around the table. They had their written orders, not that those would tell or prepare them for much.
He started as the glove tapped his hand again.
“Operation Retriever. That’s a dog, isn’t it?” He stood up as Kearton beckoned to him, but added softly, “It should be a rat!”
Mostyn and his Number One were leaving, no good-byes, no “good luck”. Ainslie wondered if he would ever get used to it: the casualness, the apparent indifference.
Spiers was the last to leave.
“I’ll chase up the repairs, sir.” He seemed to falter. “This doesn’t seem right. I should be here, with you.”
Stirling watched him go and waved.
“Don’t wait up for us! This one’s ours!”
Ainslie heard him, and knew it was the worst thing he could have said.
Kearton stood in the forepart of the bridge and watched the sea opening on either bow. A grey, almost colourless morning, with low cloud, and windless, apart from their own progress. The experts had predicted fine weather and no rain.
He had heard Stirling, the C.O., remark, “Don’t the lazy buggers ever look out of their windows?”
He did not glance astern. Nothing had changed. The captured Italian boat was still following obediently at the end of the tow, showing her sleek, graceful lines, although regarded and spoken of by Stirling’s crew as a bloody menace.
Few of them cared much about the need to conserve her fuel. The tow had reduced their own speed to ten knots. They would be a ready target if anything hostile chose to appear.
Five hours since they had slipped their moorings, and with a dimly lit pilot boat had headed out into open water. That, too, had been strange, almost uncanny. Pitch dark, and so still behind the ancient walls and ramparts it seemed the whole of Malta was asleep.
And yet, when they had left the pilot and steered past the headland, they had been conscious of the silent crowds, dark and unmoving, revealed only by an occasional cigarette, or someone lighting a pipe. So much for secrecy. The convoy was on its way. What had once been the margin between survival and surrender was now a stepping-stone to revenge and, eventually, victory.
Few may have noticed the ill-assorted vessels, leaving nose-to-tail without fuss or ceremony. They might have to depend on that.
Stirling joined him now, one hand resting on the flag locker. He gestured toward the pale shape astern, weaving slightly in response to both rudder and tow-line.
“That guy, Warren—I gather you served with him before? What he’s doing now must be a different kettle of fish. Rather him than me.”
Kearton knew it was a question.
“I thought he was dead. It was pretty grim in the Channel at the time. Not enough boats, the usual thing … He wouldn’t be here with us, if he hadn’t been vetted for the job.”
Stirling looked at the sky, then the horizon, what there was of it.
“So after we break the tow, he heads for the islands, right? Pantelleria—our old stamping ground.” He rubbed his chin. “From then it gets a little bit dicey … I mean for him and his crew. Can he rely on the rendezvous?”
Kearton tried to relax. It was far better to get it out into the open. And how did they know, anyway? It would have begun with a brief message from some agent or collaborator. Then the faces around a table. An improbable plan. A decision.
But instead, he saw Garrick. I’m depending on you.
He turned and looked at Stirling, bare-headed against the clouds. Close by he could see one of the lookouts, glasses trained but unmoving, trying to hear what his C.O. was saying.
“The rendezvous is that small island, south-east of the main one. Just a cluster of rocks according to the Pilot’s Guide, for what it’s worth. Volcanic. God knows how anyone can exist there for long. But that’s all we’ve got.” Then he did glance astern. “This unexpected ‘gift’ was a godsend.” He felt his mouth crack into a smile. “Someone would have been sent, anyway. The luck of the game!”
Stirling watched a flash of white on the dull water. A sea bird.
He said, “That gull will sleep ashore, while we’re still plodding up and down out here.”
Kearton said, “I’ve been promised air cover for the home run!”
Stirling laughed. He had heard that one before. But the lookout seemed satisfied, and his binoculars began to move again.
There were more voices now; they were checking the tow-line, preparing to cast off. One was the coxswain, a solidly built petty officer who sported a thick black beard with eyebrows to match. He had heard Turnbull speak of him a few times with admiration, if not awe. That in itself was unusual.
His name was Cossette, and he came from St John’s. A Newfie, Turnbull had called him. He was standing just below the bridge, the NEWFOUNDLAND flash clearly visible on his shoulder. He saw Kearton looking down and beamed, his teeth bared in a grin. “Ready to go, sur!” Even his accent was different from the others’.
Kearton raised his own binoculars to watch the Italian. A few figures on deck, near one of the empty tubes: volunteers, probably chosen by Warren himself.
He said abruptly, “I’m sending Ainslie. Can we get alongside, or will the dinghy be needed?”
Stirling said only, “Does he know?” Then, “I can go along-side—seems calm enough
.” He repeated, “Does he know?”
Kearton remembered the moment. Stirling needed his full crew, in case it took longer than planned, or they had to fight; and Stirling was experienced. He knew.
It went deeper than that.
It had been in 986’s chartroom an hour ago, when he had been examining the calculations and courses on the charts, the timing and recognition information in the log. And all the while, although it had probably only been minutes, aware of Ainslie’s face. Intent. Older in some way.
“Standing by, Skipper. Mark Two to the rescue!”
As if he had known from the beginning.
“Signal, sir! Ready to start up!”
Kearton had seen the brief blink of light from the other boat.
“Cox’n on the wheel, sur!” But the Newfoundlander was reporting to Stirling, not the senior officer. He was only a passenger, until proven otherwise.
The engines coughed twice, three times, and thundered into life, fumes spiralling over the hull until the beat steadied in response to unseen hands below deck.
Someone exclaimed, “Sounds good. Sweet as a nut!” Relieved, like the rest of them.
Stirling said, “Looks about right, sir. Just say the word.” He sounded tense, conscious of the moment.
Kearton saw the seamen lowering rope fenders to reduce the impact when the other craft came alongside. No time for mistakes: they were all waiting for his command. No time to show the hesitation that might be mistaken for doubt.
“Cast off.”
He climbed down from the bridge and joined Ainslie by the guardrail. It was one thing to face danger or to go into action together, but somehow this was different. He heard a shout, and the squeal of wire as the tow-line was hauled inboard at full speed to avoid fouling the screws. Someone slithering and falling on the wet deck, followed by a few insults and curses. But the job was done, and the Italian was already moving out, foam surging away astern as her own power revealed itself for the first time.
Ainslie stood with the familiar satchel across one shoulder and a carefully wrapped chart shielded against the spray, watching the activity. He seemed very calm, or he was hiding his true feelings well.
Kearton touched his arm and thought he felt it jerk.
“Sorry to do this to you, Pilot.” He gripped his elbow. “Mark Two. You know what’s needed. In and out, no unnecessary risks. We’ll be waiting.”
The deck quivered as the two hulls lurched together. The Italian boat seemed even smaller alongside. He saw some of the crew, a handful of men, a couple in battledress but without rank or distinction, some in shabby overalls.
He heard one of the Canadians remark, “Which side are they on?” But nobody laughed.
Lieutenant Warren was on the low bridge, the only one in regulation uniform.
Ainslie gripped the rail and watched the hulls slide together again.
“Wish me …” He stopped in mid-sentence and jumped down to the Italian’s deck, where he was helped by two of the crew.
Kearton waved. He knew what Ainslie had been about to say. He was learning, the hardest way of all.
He murmured, “I do. And I’ll be waiting.” But it was lost in the roar of engines, the sound trapped between the hulls until they veered apart in a great burst of spray. In a few minutes they were well clear of one another, even as the tow-line was still being stowed away.
Kearton shaded his eyes to watch the other boat turning, showing her narrow stern, already shrouded in foam or surface haze. Only one vivid patch of colour, the red, green and white Italian flag, which had been hoisted to enhance the deception.
Stirling was waiting for him.
“Well, that went smoothly enough!” He seemed glad to be moving again. “I never get used to these hole-in-the-wall jobs.” He peered astern, but the sea was already empty. “Rather him than me … but I said that, didn’t I?”
Kearton said, “I’ll be in the chartroom. Any problems, call me.”
Stirling watched him climb down the forward ladder directly from the bridge, just a few feet away. He would not get much peace there.
He glanced at the compass, half-listening to the steady revolutions of the engines. Not dragging their heels any more, a target for any unseen enemy. He could feel the coxswain’s eyes on him. Wanting some excuse to talk, or swap experiences. He wanted neither right now.
Instead, he thought of the man who had just left him, and was alone now with the consequences of his decisions. And his regrets, if he allowed for such things. Bob Kearton was the senior officer.
His mind repeated the same stubborn defence. Rather him than me.
Ainslie wedged himself against the table and made another attempt to tighten the deckhead light, and restrict its so far lively response to the thrust of engines and rudder.
It seemed easier, or maybe he was becoming accustomed to the sounds and motion. He glanced around the ‘chart space’ as Toby Warren had described it, like a large cupboard. The table filled most of it.
He swallowed hard as the hull dipped beneath him again, although he knew the sea was still as calm as when he had climbed, or rather dropped, from the Canadians’ bridge. He was not going to be sick … and he had nothing to throw up anyway. He could not remember when he had last eaten a proper meal.
He rearranged his chart beside those already stowed here, and touched his instruments; they, at least, were familiar. Reassuring.
There was a narrow bunk of sorts across the end of the ‘space’, like a wire cot. Better than nothing if the going got a bit rough, but a Bren machine-gun and several magazines of ammunition already filled most of it. It made the M.T.B.’s chartroom seem vast by comparison.
He stared at the charts again, his mind clearing. The twist of apprehension he had felt when he had jumped aboard was under control. He was here, like it or not. But he would never belong.
He listened to the powerful Isotta-Franschini engines, recalling Kearton’s instant reaction to their distinctive sound before that first deadly encounter. They were doing a steady twenty knots at the moment, but could increase to nearly forty at the turn of a switch. It was hard to believe he could still be excited by the speed and grace of this unfamiliar boat, even in the face of real danger, and the others were the same. He had even heard someone laughing.
He thought of the crew, twelve in number although the original complement would have been eighteen or nineteen. But they were not going to fight. The tubes were empty, and although the depth-charges had been replaced and arranged on their racks, they hardly seemed to fit their new role.
He bent over the chart table again. It was pointless to hope or regret. This was real. Now.
He studied the pencilled lines and bearings, the islands, and the smallest one of all, La Roccella del Diavolo, marked with a final cross. Someone, probably Warren, had written the translation starkly and clearly. Devil’s Rock.
They would make their landfall at dusk. To do so later would be to invite disaster.
And when Operation Retriever was over, what then? A fast run back to rejoin Kearton, or would they have to fight their way out?
He recalled Warren’s quiet sarcasm, or was it anger? Operation Rat. He, better than anyone, knew what they would be up against.
He swore under his breath as the point of his pencil snapped, and looked at the notes and recognition signals clipped beside the charts. Like a giant puzzle waiting to be solved.
He started as a panel slid back at the top of the ‘cupboard’. He could smell the sea, feel it on his skin.
Warren was peering down at him, his gloved hand around the panel.
“All done?” He did not wait for a reply. “I’m glad you’re aboard, Mark Two. I’m more used to matchbox navigation than your way of doing things!”
Ainslie said, “It’s the best I can do,” and found he was able to grin back at him. “Devil’s Rock—that’s all I need!”
Warren called something to the helmsman and turned back, reaching down to grip his shoulder.<
br />
“Here we go. As they say in this outfit, No Guts, No Glory!”
Ainslie retrieved the broken pencil, remembering one of his old instructors. Never put it off until tomorrow. He heard the change of beat as they reduced speed again. To look and to listen … It was hard to think of all those other times. When you had been so certain there would be a tomorrow …
He touched his chin. Maybe he would have another go at growing a ‘set’. He had not yet told Sarah about it … He could imagine her laughing at him.
He must write to her.
He heard feet moving, forward of the bridge, he thought. He glanced at the Bren gun on the bunk. Preparing for trouble. The letter would have to wait. He could still feel the claw-like hand on his shoulder.
Until after tomorrow …
The final approach to the island seemed slow beyond measure, and even with the engines throttled down to offer only a few knots the sound mocked all their attempts at caution.
Ainslie stood side by side with Warren in the forepart of the small bridge, conversation at a minimum, hardly daring to use binoculars in case they missed some isolated sign or movement.
Nearer and nearer, the hump-backed island eventually reaching out across either bow, more like a giant shadow than solid rock.
Closer still, and Warren took the wheel himself. He had already mentioned a previous visit to Devil’s Rock, in an old fishing boat, on another unspecified mission to land or remove some agents. His description had been terse, almost fragmented. Rocky bottom. No good for anchoring if a wind got up. Easy to run aground at the southern side of the entrance. An old wreck still there when they found the place. Most skippers kept well clear of it, if they had any sense.
Ainslie saw the forward gun, a slim-barrelled, quick-firing cannon, not unlike an Oerlikon, training around now as if to smell out the first hint of danger.
So slowly now that hardly a crest broke away from the stem, but the echo of their approach stayed with them.
Ainslie saw the faint outline of their Italian flag, lifting and dropping, although he could feel no breeze. He knew that one of the crew was ready with a White Ensign, and had heard another snap, “You’ll look great when they wrap you in that!”
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