The work of unloading was in full swing, the harbour alive with lighters and countless local craft, and the repairs to vessels damaged already under way.
The work on 992 was almost finished, although, as with all dockyard mateys, you had to make sure they weren’t dragging their feet, war or no war. He saw some men lounging by one of the ancient walls: soldiers, sailors, or civilians, it was often hard to tell in the overalls, boiler suits and odds and ends they wore. Pausing for a cigarette, one already puffing at his pipe, at ease, with nobody yelling orders to shatter the moment.
Turnbull walked past them. The rolled stretchers, still bloody, told the true story.
But now all he had to do was round up the last of their working party, who had been clearing space, not for stores from the convoy, but for beds.
He quickened his pace. A petty officer was standing with some of them, and glanced up from his list.
“All yours, Harry. Time for a tot. At last!”
Turnbull was looking past him. There was a van standing between the open gates, the bonnet still shimmering with heat, and a sentry talking to the driver. It was an ambulance.
The other P.O. said, “Some of our lot. The convoy. One of the escorts caught it.”
Turnbull nodded non-committally, ashamed that he felt something like relief.
“Which one, d’you know?”
The ambulance was moving away.
“Destroyer, the Kinsale. Tin-fished, then bombed, poor bastards.”
Turnbull pushed open the double-doors. The air was cool, even fresh, so the power was operational again. Someone had said it had been knocked out in the last hit-and-run air raid.
It was wrong, but he hated hospitals. Ever since … He made himself relax, unwind.
So, back to the boat, maybe a tot with Jock Laidlaw. And try to be patient …
Then a woman’s voice.
“I’m not a nurse, but I’ll stay with him.”
Another door swung open and a soldier ran past them. He was wearing a Red Cross armband, and had what appeared to be a loose dressing trailing from his jacket.
Turnbull said, “Here, let me!” His mind was completely clear, conscious of the urgency and of the girl who was crouching beside the only bed that was occupied. She was holding one of the man’s hands, the other resting on his hair or forehead.
“Try to lie still. Help is coming.” A pause, and she glanced up over her shoulder at Turnbull. “It’s going to be all right.”
He was young, very young, and his face was the colour of the crumpled sheet. A sailor’s blue jersey lay on the floor where it had fallen.
Turnbull said, “I’m here.” It was something to say, an offer of reassurance when he knew there was none.
The same dark hair and profile, even the voice he remembered when he had seen her with the Skipper, walking with him on the ramp.
She said, “They’re coming now.” But she was still looking at Turnbull, and her eyes were pleading.
The young sailor gazed up at her, as if seeing her for the first time.
“Sorry—about—this.” He reached out as if to touch her face, but his hand fell against her breast. Then he said, “My first ship,” and his hand dropped.
Turnbull put his arm around her and helped her to her feet. There were blood smears on her breast, and she covered them with her hand.
She said, “He’s off the Kinsale,” then she stared at Turnbull with recognition. “I didn’t realize. You’re back.”
There were more voices now, the sound of running feet. He wanted to explain, but all he saw was the old-fashioned clock above the door. The time … He had thought of little else since the Skipper had left harbour, without him.
“We’ll go somewhere. Where we can talk in peace.”
She did not protest as he walked beside her, holding her arm, but at the door she stopped, and looked back toward the bed.
He saw that her eyes were wet, but her voice was very calm.
“Safe voyage,” she said.
For one of them, it was over.
12
Nowhere to Hide
LIEUTENANT WARREN STOOD at the rear of the bridge with one arm wrapped around part of the tripod mast in an attempt to train his binoculars. Apart from clambering up to the top, it was the highest point on the boat.
“Same bearing. Port bow. Altered course.” He swore under his breath as the hull dipped steeply in the swell, and he almost lost his balance. “We might give it the slip.”
Ainslie knew it was pointless to try and use his own binoculars. He watched the compass, and the helmsman’s hands easing the wheel this way and that to compensate for speed and rudders.
One of the bridge lookouts had sighted it first, like a tiny flaw in the glare of the horizon. Always a threat here in the Sicilian Channel, hated and feared by the precious Malta-bound convoys at its narrowest part between the enemy coast and Tunisia. The sea bed must be littered with wrecks; so every new sighting was marked down as an enemy until proven otherwise.
At first they had thought the vessel might be a survivor of that last, vital convoy, damaged but trying to finish the last leg of the journey without coming under further attack. Or even an enemy supply ship, attempting to boost stores and morale for the retreating Afrika Korps.
Warren jumped down to the deck.
“Alter course.” He leaned over the compass. “Steer South-thirty-East.” And to Ainslie, “She’s all yours again.” He smiled, but his eyes and thoughts were elsewhere. “Lay aft, Jumper, and check the smoke floats. We might need ’em.”
“Already done it, sir.”
Warren said, so quietly that his voice was almost lost in the sound of engines, “Do it again.” He joined Ainslie near the compass. “I just hope you’re right.”
“About the Skipper?”
“About every bloody thing.”
The helmsman said, “They won’t be able to catch up with us!”
Warren shifted his binoculars, but held them very still.
“They won’t need to!” He reached out. “Port twenty! Pass the word!”
Ainslie saw the spokes spinning, the helmsman’s shoulders bent to prepare his body as the deck swayed over.
“Midships!”
Ainslie heard the shot, but his mind refused to identify it. A sharp, abbreviated whistle, and then the roar. As if a shell had exploded alongside, against the hull itself. It was like a body-blow. He stared abeam across the shining water and saw a column of spray falling gently around the site of the explosion. Well clear. And yet …
Warren said, “I’ll take over until we can lose him.” He stepped on to the grating as the helmsman stood aside. “Go and keep an eye on things down aft.”
He saw the protest in Ainslie’s eyes, but gave it no time for expression.
“You know what they say about keeping all your eggs in one basket.”
He blinked, and turned to the wheel again. He must have seen the flash.
Ainslie heard the shot and ducked as the whistle cut through all other sounds. Then the deafening sound, but with hardly any shock against the hull.
He gripped the side of the bridge and saw the spray tumbling down, and spreading across into their wake. Well clear this time, but where they might have been, but for rudder and speed.
It was already far astern, but he could feel it. Taste it.
He grasped the handrail at the bottom of the bridge ladder, and saw the sea surging past and, in places, on to the deck itself. The helm was hard over, and everything was shaking, as if one screw were almost out of the water.
Someone shouted, “Bloody hell, look at that!”
Ainslie twisted round, afraid of what he might see.
He stared up at the bridge, and the small tripod mast where Warren had watched the enemy. For a second his mind did not register its significance, and then he saw the flag lifting and streaming out to the extra speed.
Not the Italian flag, but the White Ensign. It should not have mattered. But it did.
At any moment another shell might find its target: something they all knew, but never accepted. He could see one of the sailors he recognized, recalled the gesture made behind Warren’s back after his sharp retort: This is a bus, not a battleship! Now he was laughing, shaking his fist.
“Turnin’ again, sir!” Somebody slithered past him and called, “Stand by to make smoke!”
Ainslie pulled himself to his feet. The deck was level, the sea dashing past, as if it and not the hull was moving.
“Down!” He felt someone thrust him hard against a winch. “Get down, for Christ’s sake!”
Like a shadow. And then the explosion.
For a moment longer he lay where he had fallen, his mind reeling from the shock, unable to move. Perhaps it was fear that brought him to his senses, and with it came hearing, and pain.
He rolled over and felt water on his face, then his hands, as he dragged himself against the winch. A direct hit. It was over.
It was like a hand gripping him, shaking him. But there was no one.
He could hear the engines now, and felt the deck quivering as he lurched to his feet. They were still afloat and under way. He held on to the winch and stared toward the bridge. There was some smoke, but the flag was still flying. And the pain in his ribs would be no more than a bruise, caused by the impact when he had been pushed against the winch.
His hearing was returning, and with it came a sense of urgency. Someone had been calling out, screaming, or had that been part of the shock? He stared outboard, at the wave cutting away from the bows, and toward the horizon, but there was too much smoke.
He strode toward the ladder, his mind suddenly clear.
A direct hit would have blown us apart.
Something made him turn, and he saw one of the seamen on his knees, trying to cradle another in his arms as if to shield him from the spray bursting over the side. The boat was turning again. All that mattered.
“Hang on, Steve! We’ll get you below. You’ll be OK again!”
Ainslie called, “Leave him! Come with me!”
Just a few seconds. All it took. The man’s shock, desperation, perhaps hatred as he had stumbled after Ainslie toward the bridge. His friend lay with the spray washing over him, his features like a mask, feeling nothing.
Ainslie gripped the top of the ladder and tried to find the necessary strength. The shell must have exploded in mid-air, the blast hitting the hull like a giant fist. Otherwise the screws would be out of action, and the rest in pieces.
But his mind refused to listen. The bridge was in chaos, made worse by the colourful tangle of bunting that plastered most of it. The flag locker had been blasted from its stand, and the thin steel plating along the side was punctured by splinters, or twisted inboard like wet cardboard where he had been standing only a few minutes ago.
There was blood, too: the man who had been acting as helmsman, before Warren had taken his place. He remembered his warning about ‘eggs in one basket’. The helmsman’s head had been smashed like one when he had been hurled against the side.
But Warren was alive and at the wheel, leaning over to wipe some torn bunting from the compass, even as he completed another change of course.
He saw Ainslie for the first time and bared his teeth in a hideous grin.
“Come to share the sport?” He stared over his shoulder. “Where’s that bloody smoke?” He was wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “We can still shake this bastard off, if …”
Ainslie did not hear the rest. Warren was wearing the same leather glove. Always there, part of him. Of his strength. It was soaked with blood, and had left smears on his face.
He said, “First one’s started now.” He saw the smoke streaming astern across their curving wake, clinging to it, spreading. Then another. It no longer seemed to matter.
He covered the hand on the wheel with his own. “Where is it? Let me get a dressing. I’ll take over—”
“Like hell you will!” Warren shook his hand away. “After all the shit I’ve taken—d’you think I’m going to crack up?” He winced as another explosion shook the hull.
Then he shouted, “Lost the fucking range, have you?” and broke off, coughing, the glove pressed against his mouth.
He said, “Looks like you were wrong, Toby. So was I.”
His eyes focused, concentrating, as if he had heard something. “Port engine’s missing a few beats. Had about all she can take.” He seemed to falter, and took a deep breath. “I must tell ’em …”
Ainslie followed his gaze to the voicepipes, one of which was sheared off at deck level, as if by a shell splinter. The mechanics must be wondering what the hell was happening.
He saw the seaman who had been nursing his dead friend standing by one of the machine-guns, watching the smoke drawing a curtain astern, even as two more floats added to the cover.
With men like these …
Warren said, “I still think we did the right thing. No matter what …’
Ainslie had been pressed beside him, feeling his pain and his anger, but scarcely able to hear his words above the beat of the engines. What now? Surrender, or wait for the inevitable climax when the smoke cleared away? Just let it be quick.
And he thought of Sarah, who would be waiting for his letter, and of the first and only time they had made love, when he had received his orders to join the M.T.B. which was now lying at Malta. How it might have been …
He flinched as Warren grasped his wrist, and stood swaying with the deck, hardly breathing.
“Look! Look, Mark Two, and tell me I’m not round the bend!”
Ainslie turned and stared across the bows toward the horizon. No longer clear, but not with haze. It was smoke. And above it, falling slowly like a vivid green star, was a flare.
“We weren’t wrong—” He tried again. “It’s the Skipper!”
For a moment longer he was not sure if Warren had heard above the roar of the engines, or if the words had ever left his mouth. Then he felt the grip release his wrist, and Warren dragged himself firmly against the wheel.
He shouted, “I told you! They threw away the bloody mould!” There was another explosion, but it was almost lost in the surge of sea and power as the helm went hard over again. “He can’t do it on his own!” His teeth were clenched, biting into his lip to control the pain.
Ainslie stared past him, at the changing pattern of clouds. They were turning completely, on to their original course, toward the Devil’s Rock.
He staggered against the violent motion, but managed to join Warren at the wheel.
“Let me …” But Warren shouldered him away as he stooped over to apply opposite helm.
“Just this once!” He broke off to rub his face with the glove. When he spoke again, his voice was very calm. “I’ve worked with Bob Kearton before. A lifetime ago.” He peered at the compass and repeated, “Can’t do it on his own.”
Ainslie saw smoke parting across the bows; the gun appeared to be cutting through and above it.
Then he felt Warren’s left hand on his arm, heard the slow determination in his words.
“Tell the others. You know the drill. Life-jackets. While there’s still time.” He took a deep breath, and regarded him steadily. “Be ready to bale out.”
Ainslie wanted to protest, but knew it was pointless. As he moved away from the wheel he saw Warren nod, perhaps twice, and heard him say, “Just do it!” He might have been smiling.
The boat was turning again, another zig-zag, but this time there were no flashes or explosions. He held on to the ladder, looking back at the solitary figure in the black oilskin, framed against the smoke and the scattered, shredded flags. Just do it.
He realized that the same man was still crouching behind the bridge machine-gun. That he was gesturing with one arm, shouting, his voice lost in the din.
Then he saw the Canadian M.T.B., a vague outline, a shadow revealed only by the mounting crest of her speed. He could feel it as if he were there, sharing it. Going
in to attack.
Somehow he reached the hatch, and saw the injured agent, already sitting propped against a locker, managing a thumbs-up despite the motion and the noise, and hung about with life-jackets.
Ainslie dropped on his knees beside him. “We’re baling out, OK?” He touched his shoulder. “Don’t worry, you’ll see Sydney Harbour again before too long.”
He nodded, croaking, “Bugger that! I’m from Auckland!”
Someone in overalls had appeared through trapped smoke.
“Ready for the word, sir!” His eyes shifted to the deckhead. “From the bridge!”
Ainslie said sharply, “Be ready to leave! Now! That’s an order!”
He seized a bracket to steady himself as the helm shifted again.
What was the point? A narrow door had swung open to the sudden lurch, and he saw Jethro standing at the far side of the cabin or storage space. There was light coming from somewhere. Nothing made sense.
It was the shadow etched against a bulkhead that emptied his mind of everything else. Motionless, erect, one hand raised as if in salute.
“What the hell!”
Ainslie said, “We’re baling out. But we’re not alone any more.” He was shocked that he could speak so calmly. Hear his own voice, and know each second that passed was like a thread. “Let me take that.”
He could hear voices, shouts, tackle being dragged across the deck directly overhead. But if he moved …
“Something going right for a change? According to plan?”
The man they knew only as Jethro had turned to stand directly beneath one of the deckhead lights. Amused, sarcastic; there was no time to judge or react.
But one wrong move … Ainslie repeated, “Let me have that.”
Surprisingly, he laughed and held out the heavy pistol. The same one he had been carrying when they had hauled him from the raft. Not a salute. He had been about to kill himself.
The deck shivered and bucked violently beneath their feet. Lights flickered, and the pace of the screws had slackened.
“You lying bastard! I’ll show you …”
Ainslie retained his grip on the pistol, the barrel cold in his hand. If he pulls the trigger now …
The Glory Boys Page 20
