He thought of the man he had left below. What reaction had he expected? He had been under great strain, and always at risk.
Better to die than to be captured. Like the bloodstains on his clothing … It was a different sort of war. The word ‘unclean’ came to his mind, and he dismissed it hurriedly.
Warren was on the bridge, arms folded, watching the strengthening light on the water. His part was almost finished, until the next rendezvous. Unless he chose to quit. And somehow, Ainslie knew he would not.
Warren greeted him quite cheerfully.
“Another half hour and we’ll be clear of this place. Then you can take over the con, right?” He grinned. “You must open the throttles and see what speed this little box of tricks can do.”
He gestured toward the main hatch.
“Now you know what a real-life hero looks like. I’ll lay odds he gets another gong after this little lot. Bloody well deserves it, too.” Something caught his attention and he moved away, leaving the words hanging in the air.
But Ainslie could not forget the other words, spoken almost as a warning.
Don’t ever turn your back on him.
A different war, a covert war, which only those who were directly involved in might understand. Any kind of success must always be measured against the brutal penalities for failure.
He listened to the engines, louder and more compelling as the land moved closer on either beam. He could see it as if it were on the chart, and in his rough sketches. The narrow entrance to this bleak volcanic refuge, which must have claimed so many victims over the years.
“Starboard fifteen. Midships. Steady.” Warren seemed calm, absorbed, as if he were responding to the compass and rudder, and not the other way round. Ainslie uncovered his binoculars and lifted them carefully to study the first gleam of water, and the prevailing barriers of land. And there, fine on the port bow, was Warren’s pinnacle of rock, like a stark marker, moving away from the headland to be left undisturbed.
He raised the binoculars very slightly, his wrists trembling to the vibration of the engines. The tip of the pinnacle was painted a sudden gold against the sky.
Warren was passing orders to the helmsman, and he wondered what he was thinking. Pride, or relief? He could have been speaking to the vessel beneath his feet.
Ainslie saw the nearest spur of rock sliding abeam, and imagined he could already feel the difference in the motion as they headed into deeper water. He had heard the skipper describe it as ‘room to breathe’. He wanted to remark on it to Warren, but for some reason it remained unspoken. Personal.
He peered over the screen and saw the deck, and the arrowhead of the forecastle, the shine of falling spray.
He raised the binoculars and watched the bare hills moving apart, the sky gaining colour and warmth, the first shafts of sunlight. Astern, the sea was still in darkness, as if a curtain remained drawn. The wine-dark sea … He moved the binoculars again. Operation Retriever was almost over. Others would decide …
He tensed, unable to move, the binoculars focused, unwavering.
In a patch of clear sky between the hills there was a flaw. An intruder. Tiny and slow-moving, like a moth on a sheet of glass.
He swung round, but someone else had already seen it.
“Aircraft! Port bow, moving left to right!”
They were no longer alone, and the buzz of alarms below deck dispelled all doubts.
Warren spoke tersely into a voicepipe. The gun was already training round, seeking the solitary aircraft still invisible to most of the men on deck.
Warren was peering up at the Italian flag, its colours harsh now in the early light.
He allowed his own binoculars to fall to his chest and wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. “Seaplane, probably local patrol. Might give us a miss.” He looked at the flag again. “Unless this boat has already been reported captured.” He raised the binoculars once more, taking his time. “In which case, old son …”
Someone said, “They might not have spotted us.”
Ainslie steadied his binoculars again. The aircraft had disappeared, hidden behind the second hill. Beyond it, the light was clearer, like water against a dam. And within minutes, details of the land had emerged. Rough scrub or gorses, gnarled and bleached by wind and sun, where he had thought there was only bare rock. Where a man, and perhaps others, now lay dead.
His fingers, now sweating slightly, tightened their grip on the metal as the aircraft reappeared, apparently on the same course as before, but lower, a wing shining as it tilted in the strengthening light.
Warren said, “He’s turning. That might be the limit of his patrol.”
Ainslie licked his lips, tasting the salt, and tried to hold the glasses steady, but the motion was more lively now as they drew closer to the entrance, the echo of the engines louder in the throwback from these treacherous rocks, like black teeth laid bare in the new sunlight.
It was a float-plane, the first he had ever seen, except in the recognition manuals, and of pre-war design, slow by today’s standards, and lightly armed. But adequate for short, local patrols.
He watched it turning until it seemed to be flying straight toward him. Enough for today. Please, God …
Warren called, “Stand clear of the gun!” He was watching the aircraft, but his mind was with the boat and his small crew at their various stations. He had donned an oilskin to conceal his uniform if the plane came too close, and Ainslie fumbled at his own jacket. If it was not already too late.
Much closer now. Ainslie could hear it above the mutter of the engines.
Lower too, its shadow flashing across the water as if it were alive.
“Probably from Trapani. I heard there were a few based there.” It was Jethro, one hand resting on the top of the bridge ladder, the other holding an empty mug. The ice-clear eyes rested on Ainslie. “How far do you estimate that is, Pilot?”
Ainslie stared at the plane, surprised that he could come to terms with the question when the grim reality was hurtling over the sea toward them.
“Trapani? A hundred miles, give or take …” The rest was drowned by the staccato roar of twin engines, then the shadow was past.
“Thought as much.” Jethro put down the mug. “Needed that. Rainwater laced with spoonfuls of brandy is not to be recommended!”
Ainslie watched the plane; it helped to keep his nerves under control. How could the man remain so composed, unmoved by the seaplane’s sudden arrival, and what it might mean for all of them? For him?
Warren was at the compass, stooping over it as the land drew away on either quarter. The sea was open. It was theirs.
He said, “Take over, Pilot,” and stared at the sky without shading his eyes. “He’s coming back for another look.” He might have snapped his fingers; the sound was lost in the echo from the engines. “Josh, be ready with the lamp! The signal may have been ditched, but it’s all we’ve got.”
Jethro moved across the bridge without hesitation, as if he were used to it. He was watching the sailor by the signal lamp, waiting for the plane to begin another approach. He said almost casually, “If he swallows it, we can head for Base at full speed.”
Warren did not turn toward him, or look at him, as if every nerve were focused on this single moment.
But he said deliberately, “You are my responsibility, sir, and I am ordered to get you to safety.” He broke off to jab the man by the lamp. “Now, Josh!” and continued, “But don’t bloody well tell me how to do it!”
Ainslie forced himself to concentrate on the clack—clack—clack of the signal, slow and unhurried, as if the man called Josh were totally absorbed by the accuracy and importance of the task, perhaps oblivious to the exchange behind him and the threat it implied. The aircraft was holding its course, the green and red markings on the tail very visible, like the flag flying from their mast.
“Signal’s acknowledged, sir.” He could not conceal his satisfaction. “Sharp an’ clear—not bad for an Eye-Ti
e!” He was grinning.
Warren crossed the bridge, his binoculars trained to follow the aircraft as it continued into the lingering darkness astern, to Pantelleria, or to Sicily.
He said briskly, “Time to alter course. But we’ll remain at half-speed in case that pilot has second thoughts and comes back for another look.”
Ainslie listened intently. Warren was very calm again, as if nothing had happened. But what if the recognition signals had been updated, or this boat was known to be missing, and in enemy hands? Signals would already be on their way to the desk of some Italian or German version of Garrick.
He shook himself mentally. The constant strain was having its effect.
He said, “I’ll take over, Mark One. South-east, all the way to the rendezvous!”
Warren nodded. “Fingers crossed. Bob Kearton won’t let us down. I’m just damned glad to be out of that place.” He looked astern, but Jethro was on the ladder, blocking his view.
He stood beneath the flag, one foot poised in the air. No anger; he might even have been smiling, but his face was in shadow.
“I think I smell fresh coffee.” Then he looked directly at him. “As you said, Mister Warren. It’s your decision!”
They watched him leave the bridge and waited until the hatch slammed behind him.
Warren said in an undertone, “One of these days …” and did not finish it. Then he said, “I’ll be in the chart space.” He gave a mock bow. “Your domain, I believe. Call me. Anything—call me, right?”
Ainslie watched him go, pausing on his way to speak to some of the men on deck.
He pulled on his jacket and looked at his wrist for the first time since dawn. The memory was like a hand reaching out, and he thought of his girl and the letter he would write.
He gazed at the horizon, shining now in full daylight, showing the way, and he understood. Toby Warren had nobody, and nothing beyond this moment.
He tugged out his rough logbook and strode to the compass.
And the moment was now.
“Ring down, full ahead!”
Kearton heard a sudden click and knew it was the chartroom door. Not loud, but he had been expecting it. And, from the first hint of daylight, dreading it.
Everything was visible now: shadows, gun crews and lookouts had become people again, faces and expressions he recognized.
He stared at the sea in the strengthening light, the swell unbroken, lifting occasionally as if it were breathing.
In a few more hours … he stopped the thought. It had been a dangerous risk from the start, from the moment Garrick’s signal had been decoded.
He saw the seaman at the wheel, moving occasionally with the spokes, and the bearded coxswain standing nearby, immobile, as he had stood since they had all been called to their action stations. Ready to take over the helm and, if necessary, the bridge. Outwardly watching and listening, but, like the others, hoping, maybe praying, for another chance. They had trusted him. But there had been no choice.
Lieutenant John Stirling was here now, his eyes everywhere, strained but alert. His boat. His men.
“Time to alter course, sir. Make another sweep to the nor’west. I was thinking …”
Kearton looked at him.
“This is all a waste of time? That we’ve risked too much already? Is that what you think, John?”
Stirling shook his head. “We both knew the risk—I guess we all did. Choice never came into it.” He glanced at the sky. “But time is against us, and we’re like sitting ducks out here.”
Kearton moved to the opposite side, and knew one of the lookouts had turned. Waiting. They all were.
Stirling joined him and lowered his voice. “Something must have misfired with Retriever. A last-minute change in the pickup, or maybe they had engine trouble—ran out of gas?”
Kearton touched his arm. “Or were captured.” But he knew Stirling had already considered the possibilities, and what it was costing him right now. He glanced up at the flag, scarcely moving in the damp air. Sitting ducks.
But instead he saw Ainslie’s face. Young. Determined. Trusting.
He turned abruptly.
“Make a signal, John. Returning to base. Give our approximate position, and estimated time of arrival. And let me know when it’s coded up and ready to go.”
“I’ll deal with it myself.” But Stirling did not move. “Nobody will blame us, sir.”
Then he walked to the ladder which led directly to the deck. Cusack, his first lieutenant, had already appeared to take his place. Nothing was said, but the whole boat would know by now. There were very few secrets in ‘the little ships’.
Stirling was feeling it badly. He had wanted to share all the responsibility from the beginning. But only one could carry it.
Kearton walked to the forepart of the bridge and saw the low bow wave curling away from the stem, the only visible movement. The sea was empty, shining from horizon to horizon, but without warmth.
Or is it me?
He had his hand in his pocket and could feel his pipe there, the one which had been repaired. Not to impress or gain favour. And folded against it, the same handkerchief, still unused since she had returned it.
Small, unimportant things.
And yet … Like the moment when Garrick’s signal had arrived. Half asleep in the chartroom chair, mind tense but empty. Then suddenly wide awake, as if he were being summoned.
He saw Cusack swing round, and the coxswain pushing himself away from the voicepipes, as if he had shouted at them.
“Call Number One! Belay that signal!”
He heard someone call out from the deck and saw the burly coxswain respond with a thumbs-up.
But nobody spoke. They probably thought their senior officer was having a mental breakdown. Most of them would know of his experience prior to this appointment, and that story would have lost nothing in the telling.
Stirling was here; he must have run all the way from the W/T office.
They faced each other across the bridge.
“Told Sparks to hold fast, sir.”
Kearton stood by the compass. How many times? How many miles? Like hearing a strange voice; but it was his own.
“Stop engines!”
He heard the muffled response from the engineroom, and felt the deck shudder as the shafts spun to a halt. The silence was immediate, the hull swaying, slower to respond, gear and fittings clattering as the way fell off completely.
The coxswain cleared his throat. “All stopped, sur.”
Kearton stood by the screen and stared through the dried salt stains, toward the bows. Beyond the two-pounder, its crew on their feet, looking aft toward the bridge. At him, and at the horizon line, etched sharply now, tilting from side to side as if in an attempt to dislodge this small, unmoving and solitary vessel.
The silence was complete, closing over him like the sea.
Stirling was waiting. Maybe thankful that it was all over, or soon would be.
He looked at the opposite horizon, still a fraction darker, or some distorted reflection of the island.
“Should I carry on, sir?” Stirling sounded hoarse, as if he had been holding his breath.
They were all waiting. Down in the engineroom the Chief would be itching to throw the switches, sick of the motion. And of the man who was causing it.
He blinked, but there was nothing. He knew Stirling had spoken again, but that, too, was lost.
He had cupped his hands around his ears and heard the sea slopping against the hull. He stood on one of the gratings, as if to gain a few more inches. It was pointless.
“Very well, John—” and froze, unable to move. Like those long-lost nights with his father, waiting, staring at the sky, for the fireworks at a local regatta. Just be patient, Bobby.
His feet hit the deck and he almost fell.
“Tell the Chief to give me all he’s got!” He saw Stirling swinging round toward him. “Gunfire! Stand by to alter course!”
He shouted as the
engines roared into life. “Make this signal! Operation Retriever. Enemy north-west. Am attacking!”
Stirling had gone, and men were standing or crouching at their stations again, as if suddenly brought back to life.
He wedged his elbows against a rail and tried to hold his binoculars steady against the motion as the boat gathered speed, all else drowned by the roar of her engines.
He saw another flash, on a different bearing as they ploughed across their own wash and picked up the new course. It was hidden immediately by the spray bursting over the bows, and sweeping the bridge like tropical rain.
It was enough. Am attacking.
Petty Officer Harry Turnbull reached the top of another flight of stone steps and paused to draw breath. It was not far from the moorings to the various official buildings, but he had lost count of the times he had done it, as if he had been walking for miles. Out of shape. Common enough when you served your time in Coastal Forces, where there was not enough space to stretch your legs, or a deck you could call your own. It was an excuse, anyway.
He glanced at the steps, worn down over the years. Centuries of feet. Different voices, strange uniforms. It would be good to get back to sea. For a bit of peace.
His mouth lifted at the absurdity of the thought.
He looked at the sky, overcast again. It might invite another sneak raid, but they weren’t quite so cheeky now, despite the shortness of the flight from their bases in Sicily. He saw one of the heavily sandbagged pillboxes, guns pointing across the bombed building toward the harbour beyond. There were more fighter planes on the repaired airstrips as well, and he had heard that others had arrived with the convoy.
He loosened his cap. The convoy. Like some miracle everyone had been hoping for, but had been afraid to mention. Just in case …
He had been on his feet since its arrival, and earlier, when they had watched the Canadian M.T.B. slipping out past the old fortress with the captured Italian in tow. He thought of all those other times. Ships you had known, faces remembered. You tried to keep it all at a distance, if only for your own sanity. But this was different. It was personal.
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