No humour that time, only tension, as sharp as a blade.
Ainslie wanted to move, to speak, anything to break the relentless stillness.
No sudden challenge, or cluster of flares like those listed in the captured log book. No burst of gunfire as they headed into a carefully prepared trap …
It was clear enough on the chart, an inlet widening into a flask-shaped little bay, the only possible anchorage of this bleak landfall. He heard the wheel move again, Warren’s feet shifting as he peered into the shadows. Time had almost run out. They must turn and attempt a different approach, or stand well clear of the island until dawn, despite the vital need to conserve fuel.
Someone shouted and Warren said quietly, “Got you, you bastard.”
Ainslie saw it, too. A solitary spire of rock that marked one side of the inlet. Whoever had discovered it and marked it on the first chart had left it unnamed. Ainslie took a deep breath and saw Warren waving to one of his crew. The light was going, but he might have been grinning.
The land was already moving out to surround them, quieter than ever … but the sky was still clear enough to give shape and substance to the anchorage.
“Stop engines!” Warren turned the wheel and watched the rock spire move steadily across the stern until it, too, was lost from view. “Let go!”
The anchor hit the water and in a few moments the silence was complete.
Warren walked out on to the side-deck and gripped a rail with the claw. Then he looked at Ainslie.
“Made it!”
“Thanks to you.”
Warren shook his head. “You got us here. I just have a good memory for the last nasty bit.”
Some of his men were checking their weapons. A few had stationed themselves by the small capstan, to pay out more cable, or cut it in an emergency.
Ainslie said, “They all know what to do.”
Warren was gesturing to one of them.
“That’s why they’re still alive.” His mood changed. “Now we wait. But we leave at dawn, no matter what, see?”
Ainslie stared into the darkness, surprised that he felt no fear or doubt. Because of the man beside him.
“Anything I can do?”
Warren had dragged off his glove and was opening and closing his fingers.
“Nothing much, Mark Two. Me, I’m going to have a drink.” He punched his arm lightly. “Don’t worry, I’ll be all about when they get here.”
“Do you know any of them?”
Warren looked round instantly as a fish jumped and splashed alongside the hull.
Then he said, “Doubt it. Safer not to, in this game.”
They walked a few paces aft and Ainslie saw an open hatch, felt the warm breath of the engineroom. Standing by, ready to move when the call came. He wondered how they felt, with so much depending on them, in a vessel they scarcely knew and might never see again after Operation Retriever. He thought of Laidlaw, his own Chief, who somehow managed to make his massive machinery seem almost human. Old Growler …
He said, “The one they call Jethro. What about him?”
Warren turned toward him. His features were in shadow now.
“Of course, you were with him on that other operation, weren’t you? Said to be one of the best. I’ve worked with him a couple of times … I think. He gets results.” He peered at his watch. “You stick with Bob Kearton while you can. He’s special, believe me. They broke the mould after they made him.” He sounded as if he might have been smiling. “They tell me you were a schoolmaster in civvy street. Good for you.”
Ainslie said, “I’m still learning,” and could feel it like a barrier between them. “What about you?”
“I don’t see what—” Then his voice softened. “I was a draughtsman, as a matter of fact. Pretty good one too, they told me.” He held up the gloved claw and shook it slowly. “But I taught myself to shoot with my left hand, so it’s not all a dead loss!”
He patted Ainslie’s arm. “They should be making contact in a couple of hours, at the most.” He moved to the side and seemed to be staring at the dark water. “Then we’ll get out of here, as fast as you like, eh?”
Ainslie could feel the silence, as if he were hesitating, contemplating the consequences of breaking or dishonouring some code.
“As I said, Mark Two, Jethro’s one of the best. But don’t ever turn your back on him.”
Kearton levered his body forward in the canvas chair and sat quite still while his mind came back to awareness. The chartroom was in darkness save for a small light, almost hidden by the charts he had been scanning. How long ago? A few seconds, an hour; nothing seemed clear. But he was instantly awake.
So many watches, all times and in all weathers. The engines, steady, unhurried, the hull lifting and dipping, but no more than might be expected in the open sea.
The usual sounds, or those to which he had become accustomed in an unfamiliar boat. An occasional creak of the wheel, feet, the helmsman’s or a lookout, above and behind him.
He found he was gripping one arm of the chair, tensing his entire body as if to withstand something. But there was nothing.
How long? How many miles? He could see the notepad beside the dividers and parallel rulers. He did not need to look at it; the sight of those ordinary instruments was more than enough to remind him of Ainslie and the satchel he always kept close by, a little memento of his last school.
In his mind he could still see the Italian boat heading away, see their faces as he outlined their new assignment, the degree of interest or concern reflecting each man’s experience and involvement.
He had thought of little else. Now the worst was over. Either the agents had been recovered, or they had been directed to a different rendezvous. Time or fuel would decide.
If he had been there with them, it might have been different …
He stood up slowly, finding his balance, as he had done every day at sea. And he thought of Ainslie, young, light-hearted, embarking on something that was a far cry from the navigation school, or, for that matter, his earlier days in front of a class. He switched off the light and uncovered one of the ports. Darkness: not even a star. He closed it.
He heard someone stamping his feet. It would be cold on watch, even here.
Only half the hands were at their defence stations; John Stirling saw no point in keeping everyone on watch. In the Channel or North Sea, you would expect it. Here … in his mind, he pictured the Sicilian coastline and scattered islands. Human endurance took first place.
He heard another sound, like a hatch or door slamming. He knew it was close to midnight: the middle watch was taking over. Perhaps some tea or coffee was on its way.
He raised his hand to stifle the yawn, but found it frozen in mid-air. He was wide awake, and even as he groped for the intercom he heard it come to life.
It was Stirling himself. Unwilling or unable to snatch some rest.
“What is it, John?”
Stirling sounded disconcerted. Because the senior officer was unable to sleep, or because he had been expecting it, despite all the restrictions on unnecessary signals. The enemy had ears too, and used them.
“Urgent, sir.” He paused, and in the silence Kearton could hear somebody humming a little tune close by.
“Bring it, will you?” The humming stopped.
He looked at the chair, but remained standing. Stirling was an old hand and knew all the guises. He heard more feet, men going on watch. Everything normal, war or no war.
Stirling came into the chartroom and shut the door behind him. He had spray on his jacket, and probably come along the side-deck to avoid going through the bridge, with its eyes and unspoken questions.
“Priority.” He half smiled, but it did not reach his eyes. “Bet that got Cap’n Garrick out of the sack!”
“He never sleeps.” Kearton opened the signal and held it to the light. “You’ve got a good telegraphist on watch, John. Neat and clear, no matter what.”
Something to say
, to give himself time. When there was no time …
“Operation Retriever is aborted.” He looked at the signal again, the phrases as devoid of emotion as his own voice. It had to be like that, when it should have been written in blood.
Stirling said, “You knew, didn’t you? I can’t believe …” He broke off as Kearton leaned over the table and moved one of the charts.
“They’ll be there, on that godforsaken island right now.” He looked up. “Waiting for us.”
“Something must have come up …” But he knew Kearton did not hear him.
Kearton screwed up the signal flimsy and banged it on the table.
“We can still reach the rendezvous on time.” He stared at the door, and sensed someone was standing just outside, listening. It was so quiet; everything was quiet, even the sea and the hull.
He tried to sharpen his mind, outline the next move. Stirling was waiting to carry out the necessary instructions from his senior officer.
He said, “Alter course now, John. Retriever.”
Their eyes met.
“And the signal, sir?”
“What signal?”
Stirling breathed out slowly.
“If it’s OK with you, sir, I’d like to tell the boys myself.” Impetuously, he held out his hand. “They’ll want to share it.”
Kearton picked up his binoculars.
“I’ll be on the bridge.”
When he reached the bridge, his eyes slowly became accustomed to the shadows. Most of the watchkeepers had donned oilskins as protection against the cold, and the occasional clouds of drifting spray. He had heard Stirling’s voice, unhurried, calm. Like his crew, he was obeying orders. My orders. But it would take more than a handshake when the real truth hit them.
A fist came from somewhere with a mug of something hot.
“Best I can do, Skipper.” The flash of a grin. “All drinks on the officers when we get back to Base, eh?”
So be it. We’re coming.
11
Those in Peril
AINSLIE TUGGED OFF his cap and pushed his fingers through his hair, if only to break the oppressive stillness. He looked up at the sky, and felt something click in his neck. He had lost all sense of time and thought it was lighter, with a few faint stars showing between the clouds. But he knew it was only in his imagination. In his hopes.
He could have been alone on the little bridge, but he knew someone was crouching by the motionless wheel, and there was another at the machine-gun mounting below the mast.
The hull was barely moving, the water black and silent alongside. He was surprised that he was not tired by the waiting and the tension. He was beyond fatigue: drained would be a fairer description.
He knew Warren was standing on the opposite side of the bridge, although he had hardly spoken, except briefly and softly into a voicepipe. Only once had he revealed any sign of nerves, when one of the crew had complained about the empty torpedo tubes and lack of weapons.
“This is a bus, not a bloody battleship! You of all people should know that!”
The shadow had muttered something, but said no more.
Ainslie loosened the watch on his wrist. There was no point in looking at it; there was no luminous dial. He moved it again; the strap needed tightening. It had been a Christmas present from his parents, the first year of the war.
What would they think if they could see him now?
“I’m going round the boat. Take over, will you?” Warren, beside him, but he had not seen or heard him move.
“D’you think it will be much longer …” He got no further.
“How the hell—” Warren stopped abruptly. “Sorry, Mark Two. I must be getting past it.” He stared outboard, at the dark water or the black edge of land.
He said, “One of my last jobs involved an old fishing boat. I told you. It was all we could do to keep the thing afloat most of the time.” He might have shrugged. “Here, we’ve got W/T we mustn’t use, and forty knots at the turn of a switch, and we’re still bloody helpless.” He turned away. “I’d better show my face and make sure everyone’s still awake.” He paused, and Ainslie knew he was fastening the glove. Then he said, “Another hour and we get our skates on. Can’t risk waiting any longer. No matter what.”
Somehow, Ainslie sensed it was a question, and how out of character it was for this strong, driven man.
He answered, “My skipper will be waiting,” and tried to find the words. “Maybe there’ll be new orders.”
“Very likely. Bloody typical.” He swung round, even as the sound of a shot echoed in the anchorage.
At sea it would have passed unnoticed, but here and now it was like a clap of thunder.
Ainslie remained motionless, expecting more shots, imagining them hitting the hull and worse. Far worse … There was nothing.
Other sounds now, the scrape of a hatch: the engineroom ready to go. A cocking-lever being pulled, then released. The wheel moving only slightly as the shadow nudged against it.
Warren said softly, “Be ready with the flag. Haul the raft alongside.”
The raft was a small inflatable affair, which required only one brave man to paddle it ashore.
Someone muttered, “They’re comin’. I wonder how many?”
Warren did not turn.
“One less than expected, by the sound of it.”
Ainslie was shivering, shocked by the brutal truth.
Warren pushed past him and called to the men on deck, “Stand by, lads! Don’t move until I give the signal!”
The raft was already well away from the side, the twin-bladed paddle hardly causing a ripple, and Ainslie sensed that the gun was moving, the slender barrel trained over and beyond it.
Warren said, “Now or never.” He could have been remarking on a drill or exercise.
It was all taking too long. Ainslie did not have to look at the sky to sense the closeness of dawn. When it came, it would be sudden. Like the springing of a trap.
“There it is!” A tiny flash, low down. Almost touching the water, unless his eyes were playing tricks.
The man at the wheel said, “What kept you, matey?”
Ainslie saw another faceless figure hurry past the bridge, some rope, a heaving-line, looped over his arm and shoulder. And another man lying prone on the deck, a gun already propped and aimed toward the shore. It was the Bren he had seen in the chart space. Now, like parts of a machine, Warren’s team was ready for the next move, as if they had been working together aboard this boat for months, not hours.
He heard Warren mutter, “Easy now. Easy,” perhaps only to himself. Then he said sharply, “Stand by. Pass the word!” and Ainslie heard the click as he unfastened his holster, and remembered what Warren had said about learning to shoot with his left hand. He was suddenly, nauseatingly alive to the presence of danger. Of death.
He heard the raft before it appeared, almost alongside. Extra paddles this time, and someone half in the water like a corpse, who managed to reach up with one hand as the heaving-line fell across them.
They were being hauled aboard now. Only three of them, one obviously injured or wounded.
A blur of face peered up from the deck.
“That’s the lot, sir!”
Warren said curtly, “Hope it was worth it,” but again, maybe only to himself.
Then he called, “Get the raft inboard!” He reached out to touch Ainslie’s arm without taking his eyes from the activity below the bridge. “Take care of them, Toby. I’ll get the show on the road again.”
Afterwards, Ainslie was aware of the concern in his voice, and the fact that he had used his name instead of the slightly mocking ‘Mark Two’.
As he jumped down to the deck, small things stood out in his mind, and he would never forget them. One of the crew helping the solitary oarsman from the raft. Saying nothing, but hugging him, excluding everybody else. Then one of them gasped, “One more bloody time, eh, Tom?”
And the injured man, who had apparently taken a
fall during the final, almost sheer descent to the water’s edge, by his accent an Australian, or perhaps a New Zealander: Ainslie could never tell the difference. “It had better be worth it!” Then he had fainted.
Below decks, still unfamiliar and blinding in the sudden glare of lights, Ainslie recognized the third agent, despite the beard and filthy clothing, or maybe because of them. And the pale eyes, keen and clear, as if the rest were merely a mask.
The voice was as he remembered it, clipped and assertive. “We meet again. Makes a change from the blackboard, I imagine?”
Ainslie saw the dark stain across his arm and hip, but when he offered assistance it was declined, almost angrily.
“Not my blood. He tried to change sides, the little bastard. Picked the wrong moment.”
And then the engines coughed and roared into life, the hull quivering around and beneath them as if it had been unleashed. Ainslie tasted the fuel, and felt the sudden urgency. After the silence and the strain of waiting, it was almost unnerving.
He said tentatively, “We have some blankets, and hot drinks …”
The man he knew only as Jethro was not listening. He was watching his injured colleague being carried past on a makeshift stretcher.
“I shall come on deck in a moment.” He turned sharply as another sound cut through the surge of power. The cable had been broken. They were under way.
Ainslie said, “I hope it was all worthwhile.”
The eyes flashed with a sudden, cold hostility in the deckhead light.
“Hardly your concern, is it, Lieutenant?” Someone shouted through the hatch and he added, “I think you’re wanted.” Then he smiled again, disarmingly, and moved aside as Ainslie made for the ladder.
He was grateful for the cool air on his face, the sound of the sea breaking away from the bows, the boat alive again. It would soon be time to alter course and use that pinnacle of rock to guide them through the narrow entrance and out into open sea. He stared at the broken cliffs, still in complete darkness. Away from this evil place. No matter what might still be waiting for them.
The Glory Boys Page 18
