“Let me.” She did not move, and he dabbed her skin with his handkerchief. “You see? I’m never without it.”
She asked softly, “How long?”
“I’m not sure. Nobody is.”
She touched his face, his lips, her eyes never leaving his.
“How long now?” She put her hand across his mouth. He could smell the paint. “Don’t leave me.”
“Unless there’s an emergency.” Her hand was in his, and he saw her expression as she looked at the paint on her fingers.
“There will be, if you see me like this!” She stroked his face, and the scar above his eye. He could not recall tossing his cap aside.
She said, “Kiss me.”
She was pressed against him, her breathing faster, like his own. She pulled back slightly. “Again.”
How long, he could not imagine. Her lips, her mouth, her tongue were making his mind reel.
He could feel her spine, her skin, where the shirt had worked loose from her belt. He had never forgotten her skin.
Her face was against his shoulder, her voice muffled, unsteady.
“Don’t—” And then, “Don’t stop.”
Then she broke away. “Oh, Bob, I stink of paint! Give me a few minutes!” She was half laughing, still crying.
He said, “I’m sorry, Glynis …”
She put one finger to her lips. “You called me ‘darling’, remember?” She was more composed now, perhaps regretting a momentary impulse.
“I meant it. I know I have no right …”
She grasped his wrists, held them briefly, then moved his hands from her waist. “You have every right.” She stepped a few paces away without turning her back, her face in shadow, her eyes never leaving his. “I want to show you something. Wait a minute, and don’t move.”
She opened the other door and went in, her shirt still hanging over her slacks. He could hear music, but it was muffled, from the adjoining apartment, which must have been repaired and in use once more.
The door was half-open and she was standing just inside the room, watching him intensely.
“Well, what do you think?”
She was wearing a full-length robe that shone in the dim light, dark green; it might have been silk. When she moved closer to the table lamp he could see her feet, small and bare against the floor.
“You look lovely.”
“I meant the robe. My mum and dad sent it to me as a present.” She shook her hair again. “Took ages to get here. I can’t imagine how many clothing coupons it must have needed …”
“They’re still in England? I didn’t realize.”
He felt the tension in her body as he put his arm around her and drew her closer. She said, “This is the first time I’ve worn it,” and let her arms fall to her sides, standing very still. “Kiss me, Bob.”
He tugged at the sash around her waist and uncovered her shoulder and kissed it, until she struggled to free herself, clinging to the robe, her breasts completely naked.
“No. Not here. Not yet …” She was holding him now, taking her mouth from his to whisper, “Every minute … every second …”
They were in the adjoining room, the only light being that which they had left behind them. The music had stopped. It seemed very quiet.
There was a tall mirror on the opposite wall. She was facing it, her back to him, her shoulders bare and burnished by the light.
“I never thought I …” She must have moved slightly, and the robe dropped to her ankles. “I can’t wait!”
The bed seemed to be the only furniture in the room. But nothing was real except the girl who lay on it, naked now, watching him stripping off his uniform and tossing it to the floor, where it lay with the robe and the tissue wrappings. She said again, “I can’t wait,” but he felt her body stiffen, her nails pressing into his skin, heard her gasp or sob as she arched her back to resist, and then to receive him.
He heard and saw nothing else. There was nothing else.
Eventually they both slept, but awoke together and talked, and rediscovered one another.
It was almost dawn when he opened his eyes and found he was alone.
But she was standing by a window he had not noticed in the night, her body motionless, holding the faint light of dawn like a statue. Then she pulled the curtain and fell beside him again. She pushed the hair from her face and leaned across him.
“I can’t believe it. I forgot to clean the paint off my hand!”
He stroked her shoulder and the back of her neck, and they kissed again, deeply and without urgency.
He said, “If …” but she covered his lips with her fingers.
“No, darling. When.” He could taste the tears on her skin.
She showed him where he could wash and helped him collect his scattered uniform; all the time, she barely spoke. The first hint of daylight was touching the sides of the curtains when the telephone rang.
She reached for it, but glanced over her shoulder as if to reassure him.
“It’s all right, Bob. They check every call.” She said a few words, and then handed it to him. “It’s time, darling.”
She had put on her robe again, and was looking away. Like the night, it was over.
“Yes? Kearton.” He reached out and squeezed her hand, and could see the dried paint on her fingers. He would never forget.
“Mornin’, sir. Corporal Marlow.” A pause, then, patiently, “Your driver, sir. Standin’ by.”
“On my way. Thank you.”
They walked through the other room, past the desk. The wastepaper basket was empty.
She pulled back a bolt and opened the door a couple of inches. The air seemed cold, and he could smell the salt.
She looked at him without speaking. Holding his hand, then pressing it against her breast.
“The car’s here.” She dabbed the corner of her eye and held up the handkerchief. “I have this now. It’ll be like new when I give it back to you!” The mood could not last, and she held him as if she would never let him go. “Promise me.” She made another attempt. “I’ll be waiting.” She kissed him quickly. “Take care.” She stepped away. “Darling.”
She closed the door behind him, and whispered, “Don’t leave me.”
Some impulse made her reach for the door again, but the driver must have kept his engine running. The car had already gone.
Turnbull walked across the deserted bridge and rested his hand on the wheel. It was still strange to feel it stiff, unmoving. Like the deck under his feet. Today was the third since they had returned to harbour, and it seemed they had never stopped for breath. Cleaning up the hull and taking on stores and ammunition. Topping up the fuel, and having more ‘experts’ checking for electrical or mechanical faults. There were none; Laidlaw had been outspoken on the matter. It was more than enough without the arrival of the torpedoes, not merely replacements for those fired at the surfaced U-Boat, but of an entirely new design. “You can’t miss,” as one mechanic had remarked. But he did not have to use them.
He peered at the sky and felt the sun on his face. And it was still early morning. He had heard bugles in the distance: it was Sunday. But not just that. He moved to the side and stared along the jetty. The damaged M.T.B. was gone, in dock somewhere being repaired, or so they said. A good thing. Nobody needed reminding.
He licked his lips but it made no difference; his mouth tasted foul. He had lost count of the mugs of tea or coffee since he had hoisted himself from his bunk. He could only blame himself. And the Chief, although he had managed to stay out of sight, with his engines.
And not only bugles; there had been bagpipes as well. Some Scottish troops must have arrived, or been moved from another part of the island.
Laidlaw had said, “Oh, Christ, a lament. That’s all I need!”
He was obviously not as deaf as Turnbull had thought.
977’s C.O. was being buried today, or what was left of him. And his coxswain. Turnbull glanced at the wheel again. Nice bloke, he
thought; they had met at Chatham a couple of times.
Yes, it had been a long three days. He heard feet on the bridge ladder and frowned.
More than enough, without this.
“You sent for me, ’Swain?” It was Able Seaman Glover.
“I meant now, and not when you happen to feel like it!” But he was wasting his time, and they both knew it. “You were brought aboard last night by the shore patrol.” Turnbull did not need to pull out his notebook. “Disorderly and insulting behaviour. Cautioned by the patrol, but it seems you persisted. A woman, was it?”
Glover shrugged. “She seemed to think I was made of money. I told ’er straight out, I wanted to rent it, not buy it, th’ slag!”
There would always be a Glover in every ship. A good gunlayer, none better, and always ready to lend a hand in his mess. But get him ashore … Turnbull said, “First Lieutenant’s report. I’d watch my step, if I were you!”
Glover sauntered away, unconcerned. He would never learn.
He saw the gangway sentry leaning out over the guardrail to catch his eye, making a quick gesture with his fist. The first lieutenant was on his way. And from the look of another pile of crates on the jetty, so was more work. Spiers was already in a bad mood. One of the stewards at the base wardroom had told him Red Lyon had been throwing his weight around about the convoy and the U-Boat’s sinking. Our U-Boat. Or maybe it was because 977’s first lieutenant was being given command when the repairs were completed. Spiers was only human, so Glover might not get off so lightly this time.
Turnbull heard another bugle call and looked at his watch. Eleven o’clock. Up Spirits. Where had the forenoon gone?
Three days since their return, and all very busy. The Skipper had been with them for much of the time, dealing with their various official or technical visitors, but for that one night ashore. Nobody knew for certain, but Turnbull had no doubts. Good luck to them.
But today was different. He had been propped on his elbows at the mess table when he had heard the scuffle of feet, and Lieutenant Ainslie’s voice: he, too, had been caught unawares. Not even a bugle from the harbour, but the Skipper was already going ashore. It had to be urgent. They had sent a car for him, and its shielded headlights were still switched on when Turnbull had reached a scuttle to see for himself.
He hurried along the deck and saluted as Spiers stepped off the brow. As usual, his eyes were everywhere as Turnbull made his report.
“Defaulters? Glover?” But he was looking at Pug Dawson, who was busily mustering another working party. And then he said something so uncharacteristic that Turnbull was shocked. “Postpone it, will you? I think we’re going to need him. And soon!”
Kearton came out of his cabin and saw Ginger, their acting-messman, standing by the wardroom door, unconcerned, as if he was there by accident. The door was partly open and he could hear their voices, and a short, barking laugh, which he knew was Red Lyon’s. He had heard them coming aboard, almost together. As if they had all been poised, waiting.
The rest of the boat seemed unnaturally quiet; most of the hands were ashore for a well-earned break after their extra work. But confined to the base this time, which meant the canteen bar.
He himself had been on his feet since dawn, and some instinct had warned him: he was shaved and half-dressed when the sentry had brought a message from the gate: a car with Garrick’s badge on it had arrived to collect him.
Ginger was saying cheerfully, “All present and correct, sir,” and trying to keep a straight face. “I told the other gentlemen, try and leave the place like you found it. Clean and tidy!” He did not succeed. He knew more about his own three officers than anybody.
They were all sitting at, or near, the wardroom table, and Kearton waved them down as they attempted a more formal greeting. There was one face missing, and it would be hard to forget him, with that last meeting still so fresh in his mind.
He nodded to Ainslie, who was sitting in a corner against the bulkhead, his chart and sketches and a clip of signals arranged between his hands. He would be remembering it, too, perhaps more than anyone. Geordie’s humorous defences against Lyon’s sarcasm and hostility, and the new pipe lying on the table …
He felt in his own pocket, and stopped himself; his pipe was finally beyond repair.
He said, “We are under orders. Again.” He saw Ainslie passing round the typewritten lists; they would not reveal much more than they already knew, or had guessed.
Red Lyon said loudly, “Back to the war again!”
John Stirling did not look up.
“Some of us never left it.”
Kearton waited for silence. “Over the next month or so, probably sooner, naval and military reinforcements will begin to arrive here in Malta. Not for survival now, but to attack. We all knew it was coming, once things began to shift in our favour.”
He could see Garrick’s face, hear his voice. They had been standing on a stone balcony outside his office; it was a miracle that it had survived the bombing, as most of the buildings opposite were in ruins.
Garrick had waved his arm toward the harbour. “Big units will be arriving. Battleships, maybe a carrier or two. This will be so bloody busy you won’t be able to pull a dinghy between them!”
“They won’t be able to keep that a secret.” That was Chris Griffin, the other motor gunboat’s commanding officer. And he was from Cornwall: Fowey, which Kearton remembered vividly from the one time he had been taken there for a holiday. He had been about eight years old.
He tapped the rough chart.
“You’re right, Chris. They won’t, and they haven’t. The Germans have been moving their own forces. They don’t miss much.”
Lyon said, “Maybe they don’t rely too much on their Italian allies?”
Kearton looked past him: a scuttle was open, and he could see a crane moving slowly up and down, or so it appeared, as another vessel stirred the hull with her wash.
He said quietly, “Well, they should. Some time ago they began to bring new weapons, overland, or perhaps in so-called neutral ships. That, we don’t know.” His finger stopped on the chart. “First seen or suspected here, at Taranto. Then moved or separated. And now we know they’re here.”
Ainslie saw his eyes, and elaborated. “Sicily, north-east corner, near the Messina Strait.” He paused. “A place called Penta. I’ve marked it. Not much bigger than a parade ground. Used to be popular with yachtsmen, and other small craft.”
Griffin said, “Lucky buggers,” but he was tracing the coastline with his fingertip. “Small. But too close for comfort, if.…’ He did not finish.
Kearton glanced along the table. “One-man, explosive motor-boats. We don’t know how many, but we do know they are there. Intelligence seems to think their next move will be to Pantelleria.” He looked at Griffin. “You’re right, Chris. Too close for comfort.”
Stirling said as if to himself, “It must have been around two years ago—I’d just arrived in the Med. Things were bad everywhere. Our forces were pulling out of Greece.”
Lyon murmured, “In retreat!”
The Canadian ignored him, or perhaps he was somewhere else, in another time.
“The navy was standing by—to check the enemy’s progress, they said—and evacuate our troops if it was necessary. And it was. But the Italians had some explosive motor-boats—first we knew of them. One man, one attack. They put the cruiser York on the bottom—others too, before anybody knew what was happening. Brave guys, or suicide jockeys—” He slapped his hand on the chart. “But those sons of bitches did the trick. Crete, Suda Bay … And I bet York’s still lying there.”
It was suddenly quiet again. Even the sentry, who had been pacing back and forth above them, had stopped.
Kearton looked at each man’s face.
“It’s not settled yet. I’ll know tomorrow. We’re on stand-by. But be ready to slip and proceed at sunset.”
Lyon said, “Makes a change from dawn.” But there was no laugh.
Kearton stood. “Tomorrow, then.” Short notice. But waiting, like doubt, could kill.
He followed them on deck and watched them depart. The sky was still cloudless.
He thought of Garrick. It had already been decided.
We’re on our way.
He might have spoken aloud. Telling her.
17
Heroes
KEARTON TURNED HIS back on the chart table and rubbed his eyes. It was force of habit, but after the open bridge and the surrounding darkness, even the shaded light seemed blinding.
Everything was sealed, so that voices and movements were muffled or lost completely in the regular beat of engines. It was midnight, six hours since they had cleared the harbour limits, and even up to the last moments he knew that a lot of them had expected the latest orders to be cancelled. But almost to the minute, Operation Vanguard had been put into motion.
A.C.H.Q. had confirmed that the unknown vessel had indeed departed from the tiny harbour of Penta, and had been reported heading south. How could they be so certain? The harbour and local waters were known to be too shallow for intruders, like submarines. An M.T.B. would be hard put to get near enough without raising the alarm.
Perhaps a small coastal craft had spied out the situation, or one of the Levant schooners which often joined forces with Special Operations.
He turned again and stared at the chart. Pencilled lines and neat crosses. Heading south. By dawn everything might have changed. Been curtailed …
Ainslie was standing at the side of the chartroom, one hand on his parallel rulers to prevent them from rattling. There was a steady southerly breeze across the quarter, and the deck was livelier than it had been an hour or so earlier. He had heard the coxswain remark, “That’ll keep the hard cases from falling asleep!”
Kearton said, “Unless we hear otherwise, I think our information might be good. It’s going to be a long night.” He picked up his duffle coat and pulled it over his shoulders. “Do the same, Pilot. It’s cold up top.”
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