He heard the banshee screech of a siren. Natal was returning to take charge. The bandits must have fled, once they knew their ruse had failed.
Spiers said, “I’ll go aft and check the towing gear, sir. Just in case.”
He must have stopped below the mast and turned, and his voice was pitched a little louder.
“I hope they’ll all be bloody pleased to see us when we get back, after this!”
Turnbull kept his eyes on the compass. I know someone who will.
They did not need to take the damaged M.T.B. in tow, and, at first light, friendly aircraft flew out to meet them.
Landfall.
16
Commitment
THE TWO OFFICERS stood side by side on the edge of the jetty looking down at the smoke-blackened M.T.B. below them. A couple of dockyard officials in stained overalls were beside the bridge, comparing notes and pointing out additional defects; otherwise the boat was deserted, lifeless.
The midday sun was pitiless, but without warmth. Kearton shivered, but the weather was not the reason.
After the urgency and tension of their return, the moorings were deathly quiet and still. Even the usual harbour sounds and movements seemed distant, unobtrusive.
The emergency fire-parties, the pumps, mechanics and men with cutting gear, had long since departed, and so had the medics and stretcher-bearers. Kearton had been here since 977’s small company had gone to temporary quarters ashore. It had been hard to gauge their feelings. As someone had remarked, they had been bloody lucky. Kearton had seen one of them giving a grin and a thumbs-up as he marched past, but he had turned to stare back, as if with a true sense of loss. Perhaps it was gratitude.
Apart from Mostyn, who had been killed outright in the first and only direct fire from the U-Boat’s deck-gun, there had been two more deaths: the coxswain, who had clung to life just long enough for another helmsman to take his place, and a seaman hit by shell splinters.
Her first lieutenant had not only survived, but had refused the offer of a tow, and had conned the M.T.B. and dealt with minor injuries himself until 977’s heaving-lines had been hurled ashore.
He had gone with his men, after a powerful handshake and a smile, and the repetition of his skipper’s last words before the action. “We’ll show those bastards!”
They might never know who he had meant. The U-Boat, or the higher authority which had put him there?
Kearton had gone aboard himself. Reliving it, like all those other times. The smells and the stains, which even the hoses and extinguishers had been unable to disguise. Fuel and ammunition had been spared; even one shell splinter hitting a torpedo would have left nothing but dust on the sea. He had seen where the shell had exploded, in the chartroom directly below the open bridge identical to their own, and the blast had left a jagged hole. Where I would have been standing.
“Take more than a month to patch that up.” Brice had moved nearer the edge. “When I saw them leading the way, I thought for a moment it was you, Bob.” He turned his back on the water, as if he wanted to shut it from his memory.
Kearton fell into step beside him, knowing Brice had not been here waiting since before dawn merely out of friendship or courtesy.
He said, “I told them to lead. They deserved it.”
He glanced up toward the gates and the road beyond. Like the jetty, it looked deserted. Everyone would be at Grand Harbour watching the latest arrival, the Romulus, and her dashing escort Natal, decks lined with men and calls shrilling in salute to her superiors.
He had heard a hooter or tug’s horn, and had been surprised at the force of Brice’s response.
“One bomb on that little lot and there’d be more than a few cracked windows around here! There would be no cheering then!”
Kearton had seen some fighter planes patrolling in pairs, back and forth across the great anchorage, a rare sight at any time.
He realized Brice had stopped outside the wooden hut, and pulled a bunch of keys from his pocket.
It was locked, and there was no patrolman loitering nearby to ward off unwelcome visitors.
Brice gestured toward the main building above the steps.
“I have to make a phone call, Bob.” He pushed open the door. “The Boss has had to abandon this little hideaway, at least for the moment. There’s a flap on.” He swore under his breath as the solitary telephone began to ring. “For Christ’s sake, they know where I am!” He picked it up, and said without inflection, “Brice,” and then, “Yes, I know that. Twenty minutes.” He made a small, impatient gesture. “Fifteen, then.” He put the receiver down and stared at it. “You must be dog-tired. I can’t imagine what you’ve been through … actually, I can.” The strain was clear on his own face, and in his eyes.
Kearton said quietly, “The Boss giving you a rough ride?”
Brice did not respond directly. “I saw your friend, Mrs Howard. It was first thing this morning.” He shook his head. “No, there’s nothing wrong, not like that. She was upset, and I realized why. I wanted to help.” He smiled briefly. “Like me, she saw the damaged M.T.B. leading the way, her flag at half-mast. You can guess the rest.”
Kearton said, “I didn’t think. It’s the custom,” and felt Brice’s hand on his sleeve. “And, thanks. I appreciate that.”
Brice said only, “I was glad I was there.”
“Where were you?”
“On the old balcony. You walk beneath it on the way to H.Q. I go there sometimes, early, before the balloon goes up every morning. My equivalent of the Boss’s little hideaway, I suppose.” He sat down abruptly on one of the two chairs. “Why I wanted to be here when you came alongside. I wanted to see you first.”
“Trouble?”
Brice shrugged, briefly, like the smile.
“You’ll hear it as soon as you make your report anyway. Then you can make up your own mind.” He ticked off each item on his fingers. “Operation Retriever was not only worthwhile and considered a success, but our superiors,” he crossed himself with his free hand, “have announced that it offers the perfect key to the next door for Special Operations. The Boss’s words, not mine!” He was on his feet again, peering through the smeared window. “You must take the credit for its eventual success.” The momentary smile again. “But don’t tell him that.”
The telephone rang, but stopped immediately.
Brice said, “Not fifteen minutes yet. Nowhere near.”
Kearton waited, watching him come to a decision.
“There have been a lot of changes around here, Bob, even since we last met. H.Q. is packed to the rafters, or soon will be. We are now known as A.C.H.Q., Area Combined Headquarters. All three services, with ours running things, of course.” He regarded him intently. “It will mean flag rank for the man in charge.”
“The Boss? I’m not really surprised—” Brice was peering fixedly at his watch.
“A rear-admiral’s flag will be hoisted over our heads. I have a contact at the Admiralty,” the same quick smile, “my cousin, to be exact, and he tells me another name is on top of the list. One you’ll remember, I believe. Captain Ewart Morgan.”
The telephone rang and he put his hand on it. “Fifteen minutes exactly.” He stood up and reached for his cap. “I’ll see you shortly.” This time the smile was genuine. “Give her my love!”
The door squeaked shut, and Kearton snatched up the telephone.
“Hello?” But at that moment another aircraft flew directly overhead, low enough to shake the entire hut, as if it would fall apart. He waited. “Glynis, darling, it’s me.”
A few seconds passed, and for a moment he thought Brice had made a mistake. Or the switchboard.
She said, “I’m here, Bob. I heard that, too.” She must have turned her head away. There was a catch in her voice. “I can’t tell you what it means … just to hear you again. I’ve been hoping, praying …” She stopped, and he could hear the aircraft, or a different one, close by. Then she said, “I know you must be busy.” An
other pause, perhaps choosing her words. Or waiting for the click on the line that would mean someone was listening. Careless talk.
He said, “As soon as I can. I’ll call you first.” It was quiet again; he thought he could hear her breathing. “Are you all right?”
She might have laughed, or cried. “Yes, Bob, now I am!”
This time the line was dead.
He waited a few more minutes and then stepped outside into the sunlight; even that seemed warmer. He saluted as two sailors walked past in the opposite direction, and realized that they had either not seen him, or had ignored him.
Brice was waiting at the end of the jetty, shading his eyes.
“Thought I’d lurk here and walk back with you.”
Kearton did not reply. One of the drills had started again and would have drowned his voice.
Brice looked back at the little hut and its single telephone wire. That would be taken down; the Boss would not be needing it much longer.
But he had seen Kearton’s face, and was pleased by what he had done. For both of them.
*
Captain Dick Garrick was sitting at his desk, a telephone held casually to one ear, but his eyes were on an open file, and a pencil was poised in his free hand. He did not look up as Kearton was ushered into the office, but gestured toward the chair opposite. A petty officer writer was standing beside him, turning the pages of the file slowly and in response to each stab of the pencil. Blackout curtains had been drawn, and there would be shutters in place outside. The room seemed airless, as if the fans were out of action. Again.
Kearton sat down and tried not to lean back. He could already feel his shirt clinging to his spine.
Garrick pressed the receiver against his chest and lowered his voice. “Shan’t keep you much longer, old chap.” He nodded to the P.O. Writer, who quickly turned another page, as if he had been asleep on his feet.
Kearton looked around the room. A different office, larger, but with all the familiar clutter of maps, charts and statistics. It faced in the opposite direction, toward Grand Harbour itself, where the Romulus was still unloading, lighters and barges pressed around her, while guardboats kept all else at a safe distance.
The destroyer Natal lay at the far end of the harbour, awnings spread, and most of her men ashore enjoying themselves.
Kearton controlled his resentment. He knew he was being unfair. Natal had played her part, before and after the first attack on the fast convoy. Without her radar and the vital firing of the starshell, things would have ended differently. Her captain had apparently told Brice as much.
Brice had remarked, “Know him pretty well. A good captain.” And the little smile. “But not renowned for his modesty!”
Kearton looked over at Garrick again, the pencil tapping the file, the eyes elsewhere, impatient now, or on the verge of losing his temper.
Otherwise, he could see no change. Brice had told him the Boss had been at meetings for much of the day, one at Government House with the Chief-of-Staff. Smartly turned out as always, the top button of his reefer unfastened, which seemed to be a habit or an affectation. Hair well-groomed, the same lock loose above one eye, like the photographs. He showed no sign of strain or tiredness.
He thought about Brice’s cousin at the Admiralty, and Captain Ewart Morgan, recalling their meeting as if it were yesterday. His steady gaze as he had outlined the new command, and the conditions of promotion. Acting, of course. Now it was Morgan’s turn, his chance, when all the time he must have thought Garrick would be the next choice for flag rank. They were still rivals; had been, maybe, ever since they were snotties together. A different war. A different world.
Kearton glanced around the room again. The whole place was changing. It was far more crowded; A.C.H.Q. demanded it. Only the old staircase seemed familiar.
Garrick said, “I’m not asking you, old chap. I’m bloody well telling you.” He put down the telephone and breathed out slowly. “I sometimes wonder!” Then, “Sorry to make you hang around like this. You must be feeling bushed, after the last effort.” The barest pause. “Too bad about Lieutenant Mostyn, of course … Leaves us one short again.”
Kearton found he could accept the casual dismissal; it was the Garrick he had come to know. Up to a point. No bullshit, except on his own terms.
Garrick looked over at his assistant.
“You can shove off now.” He closed the file with a snap. “But back tomorrow. First thing, eh?”
He watched the door close behind him. “Should have joined the Wrens, that one!” He grinned. “You didn’t hear that, Bob.”
He leaned back in his chair and studied him across the desk.
“Well, you’ve been through it again. But it was the right decision. And it paid off.” He nodded toward a window, where the curtains had started to quiver. “Fans are running again,” and he laughed. “Like the heads at my little refuge—as I thought it was.”
The laugh was abrupt and short-lived. “Things are moving fast. Too fast for some around here.” He leaned forward, elbows on the file, the lock of hair catching the hard light from overhead. “We may be a boat short, for a few weeks only, but time is getting even shorter in some ways. Retriever was a success—I assume Brice told you. A few setbacks, but you must accept that. Win some, lose some—you know how it goes. Otherwise you’d not be here.” He laid both hands flat on the file.
“Romulus is important, for many reasons, to Special Operations.” He brushed the lock of hair aside. “And to you. She carries all manner of explosives, enough to equip an army. And, tucked away in her holds, she brought a separate cargo of torpedoes. The very latest. You’ll know all about them. Have read about them, in any case. Homing torpedoes … so sensitive they can sniff out a pin on a baby’s bum.” He laughed abruptly at his own joke. “They can’t take prisoners, but they can do just about everything else you might need.” The famous smile, as if, Kearton thought, he had just pulled a rabbit out of a hat. “So how about that?”
Kearton could hear aircraft again.
“Yes. They were talking about them.” He relaxed his right hand, which, unconsciously, had clenched on his knee. “About the time I ended up in the drink.”
Garrick stretched his arms. “Well, they’re here now, ready to do their bit and make life a little easier for us.” He looked at the door, although Kearton had heard no sound. “And for you!”
The door had opened, and a different petty officer was waiting there.
“Sir?”
Garrick got easily to his feet. “Lieutenant-Commander Kearton is leaving.” He thrust out his hand. “You’ve done enough. More than enough. I’ve laid on a car and driver for you,” and as Kearton shook it, “the least I can do.” But Garrick did not release his grip, as if to detain him.
“Major Howard did a fine job—I don’t suppose even he realizes it yet. The Chief-of-Staff is over the moon—and so will A.B.C. be, when he gets to hear all the details. But knowing him, I expect he has already.” He released Kearton’s hand abruptly. “I know about your … involvement. It is not my concern.” His eyes flicked to the file with its red lettering. “That is!”
He did not accompany Kearton to the door, and was already using the telephone as it closed.
A man in a white jacket was standing beside a small trolley, the petty officer as well, hiding a yawn as Kearton passed. On the trolley were a bottle of wine in a frosted bucket and a plate of sandwiches.
When did Garrick ever take time off to relax? No wonder some of his staff looked half asleep. Unlike the Boss … And his casual use of the C-in-C’s popular nickname, ‘A.B.C.’, made it sound as if Admiral Cunningham was a close friend.
The car was waiting in the same place as before. He did not recognize the driver, another Royal Marine.
The sky was much darker, with a few wisps of cloud but, as yet, no stars.
He gave the driver the address.
“No bother, sir. The road’s fully repaired now.” He chuckled. “For the mome
nt.”
Not much traffic, and all military except for a couple of buses, but it was exactly as he remembered it, had seen it in his mind when he had been trying to sleep in the chartroom, afraid he might not hear the call if he was needed.
Even in the hooded headlights he could see the sandbagged barrier, the white belt and gaiters of the patrolman as he walked toward the car. He could not see his face, but heard him say, “Welcome aboard, sir!” The car was enough. Or had he been there during that last visit?
The Royal Marine was out of the vehicle, holding the door.
“Shall I wait, sir?”
“No, I’ll be all right. But thanks.”
The marine was gazing at the main building. “Looks pretty quiet, sir. I was told to …” He stepped aside as Kearton slid out of the car. “I’m on call ’til midnight, sir.”
Kearton could almost feel his eyes on him as he found his way through the other, smaller gate. Only then did he hear him drive away.
The door was open before he could reach it, and he felt her hand guiding him.
She said, “Have to be quick, or they start yelling about the blackout!”
She turned, her hair catching the light from the main room, and he took her by the shoulders gently, feeling her warmth, her stillness, perhaps her disbelief.
“I’m sorry about this. I should have warned you. I could have been anyone.”
“They phoned me from the main gate to tell me you’d arrived. Ever since …” She reached up to return his embrace. “I knew it was you. That you’d come.” She led him into the other room, where she faced him again, dark eyes brilliant with emotion.
“So many things I wanted to ask, to know …” She was pointing to the chair, and he noticed that it had been moved to the opposite corner; the radio, too, was on another table. He could smell fresh paint, and saw a tin with a brush and some stained gloves on the floor beneath an empty shelf. She laughed.
“Just to see you, Bob—I can even read your thoughts. What’s this woman up to now?” Then she came to him and slipped her arms around his neck. “I can’t tell you what this means. I’ve been so worried … Then, when I watched you come into harbour—” She leaned back to look up at him. Her mouth was smiling, but her face was wet with tears.
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