The Glory Boys (10 page)

Deeper water here, and no wrecks half-submerged to remind them of the siege and the price.

Someone gave a cheer and Kearton saw the other two M.T.B.s for the first time.

He heard Leading Seaman Dawson’s thick voice below the bridge.

“Fo’c’sle party, fall in! Jump about! Rest of you, off the deck
now
!”

The pilot was heading back toward open water. A salute this time, but no witty signals. The bundle covered by the flag spoke for them all.

He walked to the rear of the bridge and watched the houses, imagining them clean and mellow in the sunlight. How it must have been, and one day might be again.

He realized that there was a submarine lying alongside one of the long catwalks, her ensign lifting in the warm breeze. Without it, she seemed little different from the photos in the recognition booklets.
Know your enemy
…

He looked at the people by the jetty. Uniforms mostly, a working party in overalls. No redcaps this time, but two men in white coats with a trolley. The ambulance would be up there somewhere on the road.

“Port fifteen! Slow astern port, stop starboard.”

He watched the jetty, the narrowing strip of water, the first heaving line being thrown and deftly caught.

“Stop engines. Midships.” The squeak against the fenders, old motor tyres. And they were alongside.

He saw an officer who seemed vaguely familiar hurrying along the jetty, and he recognized the man who had brought Jethro and his ‘specialists’ aboard, and then scuttled away as if glad to be rid of them and the lethal tools of their trade.

Spiers was turning from the guardrails to catch his eye and signal.
Alongside and secure
.

In a few minutes the deck would be crowded. Refuel without delay; base engineers to see that the Chief had no defects to report. Instructions concerning the new moorings. He saw the men in white coats coming aboard, Dawson ready to lend a hand.

They could all wait.

He climbed down from the bridge, and knew Turnbull was watching him. He understood: some might not. Even the boat was still.

“Attention on the upper deck! Off caps!”

Ordinary Seaman Irwin was going ashore.

He saluted.

A PETTY OFFICER
held the door open and gestured toward some chairs.

“If you wait here, sir, Captain Garrick will be free shortly.” He glanced at Kearton, assessing his rank, and perhaps his appearance, without seeming to move his eyes. “He does know you’re here.”

He strode to a window and attempted to prise it open, but it refused to move. There was tape pasted across the glass as protection against blast, but, less understandably, also a strong smell of fresh paint.

“Shouldn’t be much longer, sir.”

Kearton waited for the door to close and walked to the window. A courtyard, or perhaps it had once been a private garden. Stone benches, and a circular pond, now empty. And the usual red arrows pointing the way to the nearest shelters. Like the hospital …

He did not look at the chairs; if he sat down now it would finish him. The airless room and the smell of paint were bad enough. And someone hammering, deep down, beneath his feet. Part of the cave-like system of tunnels encountered on his previous visit.

He swallowed hard. Anything was better than returning to that. There had been two air raid warnings since they had come
alongside
, but no untoward activity or gunfire. Or he had been too drained to notice it.

There were voices in the adjoining room, more animated now. Preparing to leave.

The lieutenant, one of Garrick’s aides, had finally told them why their mooring had been delayed. A destroyer, H.M.S.
Java
, had been towed from the harbour to be deliberately scuttled, where she could pose no further risk to other traffic.
Java
had been forced to go into dock for urgent repairs after being dive-bombed while escorting supply vessels to Malta. She had been damaged yet again in another air raid while still in dock, irreparably this time, and towed into deeper water to sink. Still dangerous to other ships, she had been raised once more for her final passage. Kearton had heard several similar stories, when there had been no real chance from the moment those bomb-doors had opened.

And
Java
’s captain, if he had lived to see this morning: what must he have been thinking?

He pulled himself together; the voices were louder, more jovial, the door opening. The other door as well, and somehow it reminded him of something his mother used to say when people seemed overeager to be rid of visitors.
All ready with dustpan and brush!

Two army officers, one a brigadier with a bushy moustache and the loud voice. “We can’t let grass grow under our feet, eh?” He shot Kearton a brief look. “Or it’ll be growing over our graves!”

He seemed to think it was amusing.

Garrick came to meet him and offered his crushing handshake.

“Thank God that’s over! I sometimes wonder …” He was leading the way into the other room. “Thought of you sitting out there, probably wondering why you’d bothered to make an appearance!”

He waved him to a chair. “We’ll leave the door open. Let the air clear.” The familiar grin. “In more ways than one!”

The room was full of smoke, and the aroma of a cigar. Here, too, the window was sealed.

Garrick must have seen his eyes. “You know what the old Jacks say about the navy? If it moves, salute it! If it doesn’t, paint it!” And he laughed.

He sat down with his back to the window and plucked at his shirt impatiently. “The Chief of Staff is here on a flying visit—only a short one, thank God, but he likes everything pusser, war or no war!”

Kearton had noticed the smart jacket with its gold lace and medal ribbons draped across another chair, unlike Garrick’s previous informal rig.

“You did well, Bob. Shan’t know the end results for a while, but you almost certainly saved the day.” He smiled. “You must be pleased,” and barely paused for a reply. “I heard about your casualty. Could have been much worse, but I don’t need to tell you that.” He reached out for a packet of cigarettes and clicked his lighter. “You could have put the poor chap over the side.” He blew out a stream of smoke. “Not much spare burial space at present.”

Kearton found that he could relax, unwind for the first time since he had stepped ashore.

It was not an act, a pretence. This was the real Dick Garrick. Testing him. Like that first meeting.

He said, “I’m told that we’re on stand-by, sir.”

“Yes. Your lads won’t like it, but it’s what they’re here for. We’re getting a fourth boat in a day or so—things are moving at last.” His back was to the window and against the light it was impossible to see his expression. “There’s a canteen of sorts attached to this place. They’ll have to make do with that.” He picked a shred of tobacco off his lower lip. “Don’t want any of them spending their free time in the Gut catching a dose of
something
unpleasant, when we need them for sea duty!” He laughed shortly. “And yes, there are still one or two brothels open for business, bombing or no bombing!”

He was on his feet suddenly, swinging round toward the filtered sunlight.

“We’ve got some good men. And given half a chance …” He broke off, and snapped, “I told you I was not to be disturbed!”

It was the same petty officer. He stood his ground, perhaps used to Garrick’s changes of mood.

“You said I was to remind you, sir.”

Garrick looked at his watch. “Bang on time,” and he smiled. “Sorry, Yeo. One of those days.”

He dragged his jacket from the chair and slipped into it. “I’ll contact you tomorrow. I’ll bet you need some sleep, otherwise …” He was taking his cap from the top of a filing cabinet. “You did damned well. Knew you would. I’ll walk with you to the gate and see you over the side.”

Just doing his job. Discussions with the loud-voiced brigadier and his companion. Now no doubt another session with the visiting Chief of Staff. The bar would be open.

Garrick nodded to the petty officer.

“A replacement for the dead rating—John Irwin, right? He’ll be reporting aboard, forenoon tomorrow.”

Easy, almost matter-of-fact. Even remembering the dead seaman’s first name. No wonder he always made such a memorable splash in the press whenever he was given the opportunity.

He realized that Garrick had halted on the stairs.
I must be half asleep
.

Garrick said, “What’s this? You’re a bit off your usual stamping-ground, aren’t you?”

A woman’s voice. Kearton saw her on the stairway, answering, but looking straight at him. The voice, too, was just as he remembered it.

“I was told it was all right, Captain Garrick. I heard he was here …” She paused as Garrick exclaimed, “So much for security!” He grinned. “Didn’t realize you knew each other.”

She lifted her chin. Like that day near the blitzed cellar, and the Maltese child in tears.

“We’ve met.” She waited for them to join her, and held out a small package to Kearton. “Not perfect, I’m afraid. Best I could do.”

His handkerchief. He could still see it, crumpled and bloody in her hand. Her anger and despair, and something stronger.

“Thank you. I never expected …”

Someone called from the top of the stairs and Garrick stared up, annoyed at the interruption. “Tell them I’ve already left!” More voices, and he retorted, “Oh, very well, damn it. But I can only spare a minute!” He ran lightly up the stairs and called back over his shoulder, “We’ll talk again, Bob. Very soon.” He paused, looking down. “Mrs Howard will take care of you!”

She ignored him, and said to Kearton, “I knew you were back. They said you’d been in action. I wanted to give you this.” She shook her head, the dark hair catching the light. Not like that other time, the dust and sand. The anger …

She was wearing a plain khaki shirt and matching slacks. No Red Cross or any insignia.

She smiled, for the first time.

“You’re staring again,” and she held up her hand. “No,
I’m
the one to apologize.”

She led the way along a passage, where men were removing old bricks from a demolished wall.

“It’s getting like a village around here. Secrecy doesn’t mean very much.”

He wanted to stop, to look at her. Instead he kept walking, matching his pace to hers.

“Do you work here, at the base?”

She was taller than he remembered; about his own age,
maybe
younger … The eyes he could recall without effort. Very dark, but without the hostility now.

“Part time.” She might have shrugged. “Civil Defense, and helping to rehouse those cast adrift after the raids.” Surprisingly, she laughed. “Oh, that’s very nautical of me! I’ve been working with the navy too long.”

The gates were in sight, and beyond them the steps down to the pier. She had made her gesture. He had not expected to see her again.

He said, “Where we last met. You live there all the time?”

She stopped and looked out at the first gleam of sunlight on the water.

“Our home is over in Sliema, but there are refugees there, too.” She pushed some hair from her forehead. “The bombing never stops.”

Perhaps Garrick had been warning him. Or had ideas of his own?

Our home in Sliema
. That was plain enough.

He saw a sailor sitting on a low wall above the steps, then he got up, so casually that it was obvious.

Skipper’s on his way!

He faced her. “It was good of you to come.” He touched his pocket. “To bring this to me. To care.”

She looked at him directly. “I owed that to you. It was a bad day, for a lot of people.”

They were at the gates. It was over. It had not even begun.

He held out his hand and she took it, probably relieved to be going.

He said, “I hoped we might bump into each other again. When neither of us was on duty.”

He felt her hand stiffen.

“Before you leave, you mean? Get sent somewhere else? You must be accustomed to that.”

“I didn’t mean that.”

She removed her hand gently, as if to brush something from her sleeve.

“D’you think that would be wise? I said it was like a village. Remember?” She half turned. More voices. Intruders. “I may be away. But if it helps, you could leave a message.”

He reached out and took her hand again, expecting her to pull it away. She stood looking down at it, not at him.

“I’ll ask for Mrs Howard, shall I?”

She stepped back, and waved to somebody who was hurrying toward the gates, but her eyes returned to his.

“Glynis. That’ll find me.”

He watched her cross the road, afraid of losing something. But she did not look back. Perhaps she dared not.

Turnbull seized the back of a chair and nodded to one of the soldiers who had just vacated the table.

“Thanks, chum.”

The soldier, a sergeant, grinned.

“Yeah, just like the Ritz!”

Laidlaw joined him and set down his glass between the puddles of spilled beer.

“Give me the NAAFI any day.” He looked around. “Never thought I’d ever say that!”

The ‘canteen’, as it was optimistically labelled, was gaunt and high-ceilinged, with a long counter across one end and barrels mounted on trestles behind, out of reach. It had been a gymnasium at one time: there were parallel bars and a vaulting-horse stacked in a corner, and climbing ropes in a tangled heap nearby. Turnbull lifted his glass and saw a punch-bag too, standing quite alone. Someone had painted a face on it, and what had started off as a name. He noticed that some of the soldiers threw a punch at it when they passed. It was one way of letting off steam.

“Cheers, Jock.” It was better than nothing. But not much.

He stared around. If this was reserved for N.C.O.s, what did the rest have to put up with?

But the place was crowded, and nearly all were in khaki. Just a handful of petty officers, H.Q. staff by the look of them, he thought. You could always tell.

Above the din of voices there was music playing, jazz when he could hear a snatch of it, interrupted from time to time by names or units being called over a tannoy.