He saw the frothing water, suddenly alive, the jetty slowly edging away.
“All gone aft, sir!”
He heard Ainslie call, “All clear aft, sir!”
“Slow ahead. Midships.”
The land was moving.
The rest was a dream.
15
The Hunted
“PORT WATCH AT defence stations, sir.” Spiers turned away from the voicepipes and glanced across the bridge. He was standing only a few feet away and hardly raised his voice. A formality. Or to make sure that his commanding officer had not fallen asleep.
Kearton pushed himself away from the flag locker, smothering a yawn. Eight o’clock: the first watch. Never popular with sailors, it was neither night nor day.
He leaned against the side and felt the steady, regular motion. A steep swell, but otherwise the same. He had heard the routine reports as the watches changed: four hours on, and four off. Even when you stole an hour or so to sleep, there was always the risk of a sudden alarm. It would be their first night at sea, twelve hours exactly since they had slipped their moorings. After all the noise and bustle it seemed uncanny, the sea empty, disturbed only by their own engines, and the occasional moustache of the bow wave next astern, Geoff Mostyn’s 977. In line ahead, playing follow-my-leader, with one M.G.B. keeping well abeam to starboard as an extra precaution.
The nearest land was the Libyan coast, two hundred miles to the south, a place called Sirte, unknown to most sailors but familiar enough to Montgomery’s Eighth Army in their bloody fighting up to the turning point, the victory at El Alamein. Only months, and yet it seemed like a page of history.
He looked at the evening sky, still clear from horizon to horizon. No haze, nor any hint of cloud. And tomorrow they would meet the small convoy.
Like hearing Garrick’s voice. Nothing earth-shattering. But Special Operations would not be involved if it were so simple. Garrick seemed to have a hand in everything.
How much did he really know, or care, about the people who carried out his orders?
He heard Spiers speaking to the helmsman, whose name was Bliss. He had taken more than a few wisecracks because of it since he had joined up ‘for the duration’. Turnbull had told him that Bliss had been a greyhound trainer at a dog-racing stadium. He wondered idly what Garrick would make of that.
He looked at the sky again. There would be no moon tonight. Useful for the convoy. Unless. “I’ll be in the chartroom, Number One. Want to check a couple of things.”
It must have sounded like a question.
Spiers said, “I’ve got the weight, sir,” and looked abeam. “And we have ‘Red’ Lyon on our flank, so we should be safe enough.” No sarcasm. He did not need it.
Kearton took the short-cut to the chartroom without leaving the bridge structure. Ainslie was sitting on a stool facing the table, his body swaying from side to side as if he, and not the hull, was moving.
“Just tidying up, sir. No point in turning in.” He looked at the cot. “I’ll go, then you can have a break.”
Kearton smiled. “If I fell asleep, I think it might need a depth-charge to wake me up again.” He leaned on the table, and then said, “Put it behind you, if you can.” He did not look at him. “Easy to say, I know. I’ve been there myself … Most of us have, if we’re honest.”
Someone laughed, the sound magnified and distorted. The voicepipe had been left uncovered.
“They depend on you, Toby. So do I.”
Ainslie remained silent, perhaps surprised by the use of his name.
I was with him. We were friends.
He said, staring at the table, “The agent, Jethro—they’re now calling him Captain Howard …” He shook his head. “I’m not making sense, am I?”
Kearton waited. “You’re doing fine. What about him?”
Ainslie looked up. “He was going to shoot himself, when he thought we’d run into a trap. I knew you’d arrived to get us out of it … So I stopped him. Mark One—” He hesitated painfully. “Toby Warren died because of him. I should have let him pull the trigger!”
Kearton held his arm. “But you didn’t, so it’s between us, right? I dropped you in it in the first place. So over to me!”
The voicepipe intruded.
“C.O. on the bridge, please.”
Kearton seized his binoculars. “At least he’s polite!” The stair-hatch slammed shut behind him.
Ainslie did not move. Not an emergency, but whatever it was, it gave him time.
He said aloud, “You were right. They threw away the mould.”
When Kearton reached the bridge it was exactly as he had left it, the lookouts using their binoculars to make regular sweeps of sea and sky, the helmsman relaxed at the wheel, his body moving easily in time with the motion, and someone elevating and depressing the hooded machine-guns as a matter of routine.
And yet he could sense the difference. Expectancy. Something to break the tension and the monotony of watchkeeping.
Spiers said, “Sorry to drag you up here again, sir, but we had a signal from Lieutenant Lyon.” He gestured to starboard with out turning his head. “He reported sighting some drifting wreckage to the south-east. Requests permission to investigate.”
Kearton had already noticed that Weston, one of the telegraphists, was also present, his hands on the signal lamp.
“He didn’t use R/T?”
Spiers looked into the distance.
“Thought this was faster, maybe.”
Kearton glanced astern and saw the next boat keeping perfect station, and the others following. It would soon be prudent to close up; darkness would be sudden. They could not afford to lose one another at any time from now on.
Spiers knew that, and so did Red Lyon.
He said, “Make, Affirmative,” and saw the telegraphist’s fingers working the trigger of the lamp. Ainslie spoke highly of him, and he had behaved well during his first taste of action, cooped up in his little W/T hutch where every sound and shake must have felt aimed personally at him.
Weston said, “Acknowledged, sir.”
One of the lookouts muttered, “Now everyone knows about it!” and his opposite number laughed.
“That’s the idea!”
Spiers said nothing.
Tomorrow might be another routine patrol, an exercise to get them all working together. Not the time for settling old scores or feeding new dislikes. He was calm again. Their senior officer should know that better than anybody.
“Call me if anything turns up, Number One. Otherwise …”
Kearton looked at the sky and toward the horizon.
As he turned his head, he felt his chin rasp against his scarf. Shaving was out of the question. But it reminded him of the moment when she had touched his face. She might not even have noticed, or known what it had meant to him.
That was then …
He paused by the dimly-lit compass and knew the helmsman had tensed against the wheel.
“Your greyhounds will be missing you, Bliss,” and heard him laugh as though relieved.
“They’ll have the hare chasing them by the time I get back, sir!”
The ice had been broken. And the need was his own.
Spiers heard the hatch close and used his binoculars again to check the positions of the other M.T.B.s and the remaining motor gunboat. Lyon’s boat had long since disappeared, and would be nosing amongst the reported wreckage by now, if any was still there. Lyon was probably using it as an excuse to gain some freedom from their necessarily rigid formation. But he had been careful to tell Kearton first what he was doing. Spiers knew why it was getting him down, but it was no help.
He saw another figure framed against the darkening water and tried physically to make himself relax.
“Can’t you sleep, ’Swain? I thought you’d have your head down while it’s still quiet.”
Turnbull touched his cap. “I heard some excitement just now,” and nodded toward the side. “I was on my feet anyway.”
> Spiers said, “Probably nothing. It’ll be lively enough later on, though.”
Turnbull said carefully, “Lieutenant Lyon is a bit of a live wire, from what I’ve heard of him.”
“Goes down well in some quarters, I suppose. I can live without it.”
Turnbull watched him move restlessly to the opposite side of the bridge. Spiers was usually better at hiding his feelings. As Jimmy the One, he had to be.
The inner voice warned him again. Stay out of it. But dawn might bring a new challenge, and they should all be used to that, even the new hands. He, as coxswain, most of all.
He asked quietly, “You mean like the bits that get all the headlines in the popular press?”
For a moment he thought he had overstepped the mark, or that his words had been lost in the steady vibration of Laidlaw’s four shafts.
Then Spiers said, “I think it’s often overdone. When Operation Retriever was over, and the survivors brought back to Malta, I saw a press camera at work, and that Hardy chap doing the rounds with Captain Garrick. And later, when ‘Jethro’ was being interviewed—I thought that was going too far.” He moved to the voicepipes and snapped, “Yes?” Then the tension seemed to leave him. “Some fresh ki is on its way.”
Turnbull waited. Maybe he had misheard. “I thought Jethro was snatched off to be grilled by the Intelligence people, V.I.P. treatment. He looked pretty well hemmed-in when I saw him.” Again, he thought he had gone too far. But it mattered, even more than he had realized. The girl standing in the shadows, and the Skipper holding her. Just holding her, when he had probably wanted to crush her in his arms. And the police; the chalk marks where another woman had been killed …
“After that, he was taken out of the base. He must have gathered some useful information for the brass to be so interested!” He touched Turnbull’s arm, which was unusual for him. “I shouldn’t say this, but I thought our friend Lyon was hoping for a little chat with Max Hardy himself!”
Then he was called to the voicepipes, business-like and very formal, the first lieutenant again.
Turnbull climbed down the short ladder to the deck. He would check around the various watchkeepers and make sure the steady, even motion of the hull was not sending them to sleep.
But all he could think of was Spiers’ casual comment. And that last conversation he had had with the Chief Yeoman of Signals. She was raped. A tray of thick cocoa, pusser’s ‘ki’, was passing him, but he scarcely noticed it.
He wanted to tell the Skipper. The man most of the others would never really know. He saved me. I owe him.
Turnbull did not need to look at the sky; he knew what it was going to be like. Tomorrow, when the sun found them again.
It was never easy. You never took it in your stride. The badges on his sleeve were proof of that.
They would all need the Skipper at his best tomorrow. It’s too damned far to swim.
The seaman carrying the tray turned to watch Turnbull stride past, and the lookout, who was cradling a mug gratefully between his palms, chuckled.
“Cox’n’s goin’ aft for somethin’ a bit stronger!”
The seaman balanced his tray against the motion.
“Needin’ a drop of Dutch courage, eh?”
Throughout his long service, good and bad, Turnbull had retained excellent hearing. He turned and said, “Promise me something, Yorke. When they issue new brains, make sure you’re first in the queue, right?”
He continued along the side-deck. Petty and unfair; “pulling rank”, they would say on the messdeck.
But soon they were going to need him, too.
“Rise an’ shine, sir. The birds are all singin’ their heads off!”
“Thanks, Ginger. I’m on my way.”
The hand on his shoulder, the gleam of a shaded torch, was all it took. Now.
Ainslie swung his legs from the wardroom bunk and reached for his boots, which were directly beside it. Automatic, like his response.
“Mug of char, sir. Just like Mum used to make.” He paused by the door, just to be certain he had set the wheels in motion. Ginger was a seaman-gunner, but when he was off watch served as wardroom messman, officers’ lapdog, as he was known, and could do almost anything in return for a few extra shillings. And he seemed to enjoy it.
Ainslie heard the door close and stood up, adjusting to the motion and listening to the sounds beyond the bulkhead and around him. He was wide awake.
So different from those early days, and nights. Aware of each new noise, afraid to close his eyes in case the alarm bells tore his mind apart. He had even slept fully clothed. It was not so long ago.
He tugged on his boots, so soft and supple now that it was difficult to remember them new. But he could still see the old tailor in his thoughts, standing back to observe as he had put on his first uniform. With satisfaction or amusement, it had been hard to tell. But then he had produced the boots. These boots. “Most of our regular gentlemen prefer these, sir. But in wartime, of course, they’re not easy to come by.” He had been right, but a handful of notes had secured a sale.
He peered at his watch. Four o’clock, or would be soon after he reached the bridge, and still pitch dark, but not for long. Their tight little world would come alive again. And all the birds would be singin’ their heads off. But not out here.
He sat down again on the edge of the bunk and went through the usual routine. Notebook and ‘tools’, life-jacket. He patted his breast pocket. His wallet with Sarah’s photograph inside. The photo was looking a little shabby in places, which was not surprising; it was always with him, and he had told her so. She had seemed pleased, and something more. He had thought of asking her for a new one, but had decided against it. It would mean having to get someone to take it. Sharing it …
He smiled to himself, sipping the tea, careful not to spill it as the hull leaned over into a trough. He could see the pencilled figures and notes in his mind as if they were on a chart. Fourteen knots. Until … He licked his lips. Ginger knew his fondness for sugar: you could stand a spoon in this. He touched his wallet again and thought of Sarah’s mother. Difficult to know, and rather severe. It was impossible to see any resemblance between her and her daughter.
He put down the mug, recalling the time she had surprised Sarah putting an extra spoonful of sugar into his cup, on one of his rare, uncomfortable visits to their house.
“Don’t forget it’s rationed, Sarah. I don’t have any friends in the black market!”
Perhaps she disapproved of their relationship. Of him. What would she say if she knew what had happened before he had left to join 992? The only time they had ever been alone together … It had made him go hot and cold with nerves whenever he had thought about it afterwards. Not any more. He wanted her again, and he wanted her openly, now more than ever.
He thought of Peter Spiers, the faint disapproval whenever he had seen him showing her photograph, or writing to her. Maybe because Spiers never seemed to write any letters of his own, nor did he receive them.
Ainslie stood up again and looked around the small wardroom. Empty now. Private. But he could still see those other occasions, the meetings, the humour, and the doubts. And the last one, before they had quit their moorings, when he had clashed with the obnoxious Red Lyon. And Lyon with the Skipper: chalk and cheese.
At least, out here, they had something special. Like Ginger, who was probably still hovering outside the door listening for signs of life, in case Ainslie had fallen asleep again. And the leading torpedoman, Laurie Jay, who had survived the sinking of his submarine and who, in spirit, had never left that elite service. And the telegraphist Philip Weston, who had been dropped from the list of possible candidates for a commission because someone in his family was, or had been, a dedicated Fascist. He thought of the loud-mouthed gunlayer, Glover. He had heard him speak of Hitler while clearing away some of the damage after the action.
“Pity ’e’s not on our side, that’s what I say!”
He picked up his p
ipe and tapped it into an ashtray. Both were empty.
He heard a discreet cough.
“All set, sir?”
He put the pipe in his spare pocket. “England expects!”
Ginger was just as quick. “That’s why they call it the Mother Country, sir!”
Ainslie punched his arm as he headed for the ladder.
“We don’t need Hitler, with you around!”
Ginger was still staring after him as the hatch clicked shut.
It was dark on deck, but his eyes would soon adjust, and by the time he reached the bridge he could see the low crests breaking away from the stem and surging alongside, and even the mast, like a black pointer against the last pale stars. Nothing else in sight, although he knew he would soon be able to see the next astern. Otherwise, Number One would want to know why, and so would the Skipper.
He heard the murmur of voices, a squeak from one of the voicepipes, the helmsman handing over the wheel. Course to steer, engine revolutions, speed, and the man relieving him repeating them.
Ainslie listened to the last reports coming to the bridge. He was fully awake now, and refreshed by having had nearly a full watch’s sleep below. It had been the Skipper’s idea: he and Number One shared the most testing moments, sunset and daybreak. In most boats carrying only two officers, it was normal. God help them if one officer was taken ill. Or killed.
Spiers said, “Not much to report. Some wreckage was sighted. Nothing useful. A couple of corpses.” He sounded impatient. “It’s all in the log.” His face was still hidden by the darkness, but Ainslie could see his scarf. “The Skipper’s been up and down a few times … I don’t know how he does it. I feel shagged out.”
It was unusual for him to be so outspoken, as if he needed to talk.
He said suddenly, “We’re not meant for this kind of work. I think some self-important brass-hat sitting on his backside in Whitehall must wake up at his desk and peer at all his plans and clever ideas and say, ‘What can I give them to do?’” He stared at the sea, but only the scarf moved. “If they ever got up from their desks, they’d trip over the cobwebs!”
Then he said, “Italy will be the stepping-stone back into Europe—Germany’s Europe. Anyone should be able to see that. And Malta’s the key. Supply and demand …” He broke off, and asked, “Can’t you sleep either?”
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