He said, “A torpedo.” He tensed, the pistol rigid. “One of ours.”
He could hear shouting, cheers. Warren would need all the help he could get.
“In that case.” The pistol seemed suddenly heavy in his hand. “We’d better get things moving.” Irritable, nothing more.
“Ready, sir?” A seaman pushed the door aside, facing Ainslie, but his eyes on the gun in Jethro’s hand. “I think you’re wanted up top.”
He stepped between them, and added, “I can take that, sir.”
As Ainslie moved past him he said, “Looks like you won’t be needing it.”
Ainslie almost laughed, but knew it would finish him.
Even the upper deck seemed different. Useless to look at the clouds now, or attempt to gauge the horizon. There was smoke everywhere, from the floats or the M.T.B. it was impossible to tell. And a thicker, taller column, unmoving. The death of a ship.
He recovered his balance as the deck swayed over again. Altering course, but slower this time to obey the helm. The port engine had stopped altogether. Warren must have known what had to be done, what was coming, and had acted immediately, no matter what he was suffering. He glanced at the dead man by the guardrail, rolling to the motion, as if he had been awakened from a deep sleep.
Ainslie stepped over one outflung arm and ran to the ladder, mind closed to everything else.
“Hold on, he’s coming now!”
Warren was still by the wheel, but sitting now on the upended flag locker. He twisted round as Ainslie’s shadow fell across his own.
“That showed them, eh?” He began to laugh, but the sound strangled in his throat. “What wouldn’t I give for a drink!”
His oilskin was unfastened, and he was tugging at his collar with his free hand.
“Like a bloody oven up here!”
Ainslie saw one of the seamen look across at him and shake his head.
“Let me take over now. I’ve told the others.”
Warren shook his head. “How many?”
The seaman held up three fingers.
“Killed.” Warren sighed. “Better that, than …” He opened and closed his gloved hand. “Left like a puppet!”
Ainslie saw the blood on the grating, and soaking into the flags beneath his feet.
Warren asked, “What about him?”
No name. Ainslie said, “Came through it in one piece.”
“He would.”
Then he stood up and gestured to the seaman.
“Take the wheel. Shiner, that’s what they call you?” He nodded. “Thought so. We’ve not had much time to—” Then he seized Ainslie’s arm. “Feast your eyes on that! Just like old times!”
He tried to wave, but the pain made him gasp, and he slid his arm around Ainslie’s shoulders.
He murmured, “Look at us, like a couple of drunks at closing time.”
Ainslie held on to him and watched the Canadian’s raked bows carving through the criss-cross of waves as she turned to steer on a parallel course. Like that very first time under training, or when he had been allowed to take over a bridge, and had heard his own voice giving the orders. The hull was shining like glass, her number vivid despite the clinging smoke. The flag, and the Maple Leaf painted on the low bridge. And the empty torpedo tubes. Maybe it was pride; but his eyes betrayed him, and were becoming blurred.
He said, “Let me.”
Warren cleared his throat.
“Stop engines! Get ready to help the injured hands across. The others will have to stay aboard.” He tightened his hold on Ainslie’s shoulders. “My job, remember? Can’t leave her now.”
“I’ll be standin’ by, sir.” It was the seaman who had taken Jethro’s pistol.
And now the sound of different engines, the smell of fuel trapped between the two hulls as they drew together.
Ainslie stood at the side of the bridge, watching the narrowing strip of water, the rope fenders and ready hands poised to withstand the first impact.
He saw Kearton directly opposite him, and heard the Canadian C.O. using a megaphone to keep contact with his men on the forecastle. Every man seemed to be waiting, eager to make it as quick and as painless as possible. Every man. Even the guns were abandoned.
The hulls lifted and then staggered together, the sea trapped between them and bursting over the decks and bustling sailors like white spectres.
Now there was another officer beside him: the Canadian first lieutenant. At that last meeting, before … Ainslie took another grip on himself. When he and Warren had met, and talked together.
Lieutenant Tom Cusack saw the signal from someone on the other deck, and said, “All across. Time to go.” He watched the hesitation; had seen it before, too many times. He saw Ainslie’s eyes, and one of his own men shaking his head. Eager to leave.
Ainslie barely heard him. He gripped the wheel to steady himself, and knelt down by Warren and one of the Canadians.
“I’m here. We’re going to move you.”
Warren looked at him steadily. “There’s nowhere to hide, is there?” He pushed his hand inside his oilskin, but it fell back limply against Ainslie’s arm. He had been trying to say something, but the words had been drowned by the chorus of voices from the boat alongside.
Cusack snapped, “He’s dead. We’d better get going, before—”
He did not finish, but stood by the ladder, waiting.
The sailor scrambled to his feet and said to Ainslie, “Did all we could, Lieutenant.”
Ainslie lingered, gazing down.
“Did you hear what he was saying?”
The Canadian stared toward his own boat, at the men who were struggling to control the increasing motion between the two hulls. Faces he knew … He was getting scared, but something held him here.
He said, “He was talking to you, sir. He called you ‘Mark One’.”
Ainslie was the last to leave. When he looked back across the widening panorama of broken water, he saw that Warren’s flag was still flying.
“Cox’n on the wheel, sur!”
Kearton seized his binoculars to prevent them swinging against the side of the bridge and thrust them inside his coat, surprised that he could still be caught unawares as the hull swayed into another trough and steadied on the new course.
He heard the acknowledgment, and someone shifting his position, as if nothing had happened. Routine taking over. Gun crews and lookouts at their proper stations. How long? Maybe half an hour since they had grappled with the Italian boat, rescuing their own men, and then casting off again. The bearded coxswain from Newfoundland had been down on deck with his men then, guiding the dazed or injured to safety, with an encouraging word or a threatening fist to mark every minute of the struggle.
He stared across the quarter and saw the other vessel lying motionless on the water. Lifeless. There were still a few traces of smoke, but beyond her the sea and the horizon were empty.
And very soon they would be alone. Like that last desperate hour, seeking and then sighting the enemy. Even that was blurred. Maybe you never got used to it. If you did, your own guard would be lowered: as someone had once said, a victim, not a victor.
There was always the moment of doubt. A lot of them had known it, but could never describe it.
He stared at the Italian, apparently unchanged, but that too was an illusion. Already lower in the water. She was small, and when she sank it would be suddenly.
Both torpedoes had been fired at the enemy patrol vessel. Only one had scored a hit. Always the possibility of a miss, or of the torpedo running deep, and passing beneath the target without scoring. Like all those times in the Channel and North Sea; the anger and derision which had greeted the Admiralty’s words of caution about wasting torpedoes on small targets. Cost, not risk, had been the message.
He dragged out his binoculars, maybe because of the memory. Warren had learned those same hard lessons well. Better than many.
One direct hit would have ended it. For both of us.
Warren had known exactly what he was doing, turning as if to retrace his course to the island, into the trap.
The enemy captain had reacted immediately, and had altered course to tighten the noose. In doing so, he had exposed his own broadside. Only a few minutes, and the torpedo had found its mark. There had been an explosion, and a lingering flash, which had shone through the smoke like a torch. Then a second, probably her magazine. Maybe she had been carrying depth-charges.
He looked away and saw that Stirling had joined him. He was remembering it, too. The enemy’s bows appearing through the smoke, as if their attack had failed. Smart, rakish bows … just long enough to see that there was nothing else left, before they rolled over and disappeared.
Warren must have seen it also. Shared it.
Stirling said, “Ready, sir.” He looked up at the sky. “No time to hang around, I’d say.”
“I’ll make a signal.” Kearton walked to the rear of the bridge and stared astern, at the wake surging toward the horizon.
Ainslie was standing by the twin Oerlikons, with some of Stirling’s seamen and a couple of others he did not recognize, watching the Italian’s final seconds. But Kearton knew he was completely alone.
Like the moment when he had climbed aboard. His own, “Well done,” and Ainslie’s, “Perfect rendezvous, Skipper.” Not even a handshake. He had had enough. And he was not the only one.
He felt the warning vibration through the bridge as the revolutions increased.
“There she goes!”
He watched the sleek hull settling deeper in the water, exposing one of the motionless screws, and a small raft sliding from the deck and floating free.
Stirling said, “A couple of the depth-charges will explode. At minimum setting, I’m told. The others might blow, too. We’ve done all we can.”
Kearton looked again. She was only a shadow in the water now, and a few pieces of flotsam swirling around, caught in the sudden pressure.
They had the sea to themselves.
Stirling’s first lieutenant had joined them on the bridge, wiping his hands with a piece of rag.
“He wasn’t married, was he?” No name. They all knew.
“What the hell does that have to do with it?”
Kearton waited, counting the seconds. He did not turn. He knew the voice.
The familiar, muffled explosion now, almost subdued, followed a moment later by a bursting pinnacle of water. And another, shaking the hull, then discarding it. It was over.
Kearton saw some of the sailors going back to their stations, but one or two still hesitating, shading their eyes to peer astern, as if they expected the shattered hull to reappear.
“Make the signal, John. Retriever terminated.” He could feel Stirling’s eyes on him. Perhaps expecting something more dramatic.
He looked across the bridge and saw the other face watching him: Jethro, eyes almost colourless in the glare, with little sign of exhaustion or emotion.
“You should get some rest while you can. It’s a straight run now. Grand Harbour. No matter what.”
Just words, the first since he had watched him abandon the Italian boat, seen him shake off any assistance almost with contempt. Now it was almost over. A few lines in the log. Mission completed. And on to the next operational duty.
“A drink of some kind would go down well.” Jethro smiled, but the cold eyes were on the bearded coxswain, who was replacing his cap. He had removed it and wedged it between his knees as the Italian sank, as his own private mark of respect. Without relinquishing control of the wheel, and without taking his eyes from the compass. “Feel better now?”
The Newfoundlander shrugged. “Do you, sur?”
Ainslie stepped into the bridge and said, “I’m going to check a few things, Skipper.” He nodded toward the chartroom. “I’ve got to keep my hand in.” Then he touched his shoulder unconsciously, and Kearton saw the pain in his eyes. The old satchel he always carried, his navigator’s ‘tools’, was missing. It was still aboard the Italian boat. “I’ll manage.”
Kearton saw that at no time had he looked at, or spoken to, the man who was standing beside him.
“Aircraft! Green—four-five!”
Kearton did not hear the rest. The guns were already swinging round, men ducking for cover or reaching for ammunition and magazines. A team again, minds slammed shut against memory.
Penalty or reprisal?
Ainslie was halfway to the chartroom, although Kearton had not seen him move.
But he was looking up, his eyes watering as he stared into the sun.
Someone was yelling, cheering, as the wafer-thin shapes turned in a tight formation, three of them, and another flying low, chasing its own shadow across the sea.
Seafires, perhaps from the carrier which had been part of the convoy’s powerful escort.
Nothing mattered. They were here now.
Stirling lifted his binoculars to watch the formation begin to turn for another approach.
Then he looked at Kearton. “We made it!”
Kearton tugged out his own binoculars and trained them with care.
The sea was empty, like dark glass.
He knew he was tired, drained. Waiting was the hardest part.
He said quietly, “We had plenty of help.”
Maybe, somehow, Lieutenant Toby Warren might know.
13
Victim
KEARTON CLOSED THE cabin door behind him and pressed his back against it, to give himself time to settle his thoughts. To recover. Everything seemed to have changed during his absence. Like this cabin: the bunk neat and ready, and the brass shell-case emptied. He thought it was from an old destroyer, like his first ship; they were popular and safe places to tap out a pipe or dump the ashes, and could be tipped over the side with all the other gash when nobody was looking. It had been here, tarnished and unused, when he had arrived. Now it was brightly polished.
He pushed himself away from the door and moved to the sloping side, and peered through one of the scuttles. All that was visible was part of the jetty, and a small hut which had not been there when he had left harbour with the Canadians.
He touched his chin, still sore where he had cut himself shaving aboard 986, in John Stirling’s cabin. A twin of this one, but completely different.
The sky looked darker. So soon … It was difficult to keep things in order, as if the events of the past few days were merely something which had been described to him, instead of having been there every step of the way.
He sat down at the little table, where Spiers had arranged some letters beside his own handwritten log. Three days: less. It felt like weeks. He looked around the cabin again. Spiers would have sat here, listening to the dockyard men clattering over and throughout the hull. Maybe imagining himself …
He stood up, dismissing it impatiently. These same moorings were unchanged, but had been made more crowded by the arrival of the two promised motor gunboats. He tried to bring them into focus. One of the commanding officers he already knew, at least by name, and Spiers had mentioned something about him, but he would meet both of them tomorrow.
He recalled the last minutes as Stirling had conned his command alongside. A thrust astern, then ahead on the other screw while heaving-lines snaked ashore, and then the silence as they came to rest.
The other boats had been fully manned, but their companies had broken ranks and run to cheer and shout, as if they had all been waiting. Familiar faces, and others which were new and unknown. Men peering at the bridge or hull, expecting to see damage or worse.
Otherwise, it had been a quiet return. A few people by the old fortress, and a solitary angler who had pulled in his line as they had passed abeam. He had grinned, and waved at them.
So unlike their departure, that other morning before dawn, when the waterfront had been packed with silent, hopeful crowds. The convoy was still being unloaded, its precious cargo dispersed. The memory of two small vessels, one towing another, would be quickly
forgotten.
And he thought of the silence which had fallen when Captain Garrick and some of his staff had appeared at the foot of the steps. Smart, correct, perhaps rehearsed.
Kearton was on his feet again. Restlessly, he made himself look through the pile of letters. Two from his mother: her round handwriting had followed him everywhere. Even to … He shut it from his mind. He could still feel the injuries, unless they, too, were only in his memory.
The men from the Italian boat had been met, and guided to waiting vehicles. Some had looked back. Most had not.
And the agent from Auckland, propped in some kind of folding stretcher like a chair, with a man in a white coat looking anxious and irritated as his patient had wriggled round, laughing, when he had seen Kearton on the jetty.
“See you Down Under some day, Skipper!”
The doctor must have given him a jab, but the Kiwi was still grinning when he was lifted into the ambulance.
And another man, one of Warren’s crew who had been wounded by a shell splinter, staring up at the sky and the faces around him, then at Garrick as he knelt beside him to shake his hand. But the flashgun and the click of the shutter had told the real story; and the aide had immediately snatched away the cushion on which Garrick had been kneeling.
He felt the cabin shiver slightly as something smaller passed silently abeam. And he thought of Jethro, the face in the discarded photograph, the cold, colourless eyes and the almost casual gesture toward Stirling’s men, who were already preparing to top up the fuel tanks. First things first, no matter how weary or elated they might be feeling.
“Something they’ll not forget in a hurry!” Then he had looked away, and Kearton thought he had seen Ainslie. “That’s what it’s all about!”
Garrick had hardly spoken, except to offer a brief handshake and the familiar, photogenic smile.
“Good to see you. We’ll talk tomorrow. Brice will put you in the picture.”
Then he had walked with Jethro to another car and driven away. He could still see it. Feel it … He must be more exhausted than he had realized. Even the name ‘Brice’ had not registered immediately.
It was over. There would be new orders. Tomorrow …
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