The Glory Boys (15 page)

He touched the smooth metal again. The next time he got back to England and up the Smoke, he would show himself at the old shop and tell
Mister
Clark where to stick his job.

He yawned and felt his jaw click. The stars were paler already. It would be dawn soon. He yawned again, then froze. The solitary star was still there. But it was moving.

“Bridge!”

Kearton levelled his binoculars and controlled his breathing to keep them steady. Only seconds since Ainslie had repeated the call from the forward gun. Nobody spoke.

He moved the glasses slightly, his legs ready for any sudden plunge or roll, but there was none. Perhaps it was a false report? Tension, even boredom, often played tricks with a man’s vision. He pictured the one in question: Glover. He had
seen
him often enough, and had heard Turnbull speak well of him.

He eased his shoulders and breathed out slowly. The sea was empty, and if the sky seemed paler it was because he had become part of it.

He had been on so many night watches when strain and tiredness had teased his mind and eyes with illusions.

The binoculars moved again very slowly, then held fast.

“Light, Red four-five.” He hardly raised his voice, but it sounded like a shout. He held on to the glimmer of light: in line with the horizon, when there was one. So small, like a tiny star. But strong enough. Now it was gone.

There was no sound on the bridge, and he knew the next seconds were vital.

“Now!” He saw them moving, like parts of a machine. Somehow he had the handset in his free hand, the binoculars dangling heavily around his neck. Maybe the others would not hear him. It was too late now.

“Enemy in sight! Tally-ho!”

The last words were lost in the cough and roar of Laidlaw’s engines.

He felt the sharp pressure against his side as the wheel went over, and saw the rising edge of foam creaming away from the stem. The sound of metal. Cocking-levers at the machine-guns, steel helmets being handed around. The battle-bowlers, as the sailors called them, were usually discarded, orders or no orders.

Kearton shouted above the roar of engines, “Twenty-five knots!” and heard Ainslie shout back, echoing Laidlaw’s joke.

“With a following wind, Skipper!”

Spiers was waiting.

“Standing by, sir!”

He would be aft with the Oerlikons, clear of the bridge, although nobody ever mentioned the reason. In case the worst happened here. He might survive to command.

He stared toward the horizon again, then astern where other bow waves were suddenly livid against the dark water.

And what if I’m wrong?

The engines answered him.

There was a sharp flash, the sound of a shot, lost in the din of their own approach, and then the glare, like a burning torch in the sea itself.

Kearton held his binoculars as steadily as he could, his muscles raw, expecting the shock of an explosion at any time, or the searing light of a flare.

“Port twenty!” He tore his eyes from the fire, which was already spreading and spitting out columns of sparks. Another vessel, small, and sinking. But enough to trigger off a quick and bloody reprisal.

And enough for us
.

“Midships! Steady!” He did not hear Turnbull’s response; he was part of it, like the sea, surging away from either bow, and the faint shape against the dying flames. The lighter was turning now, increasing speed.

“Hold your fire!” He saw the first bursts of gunfire, long bright streams of red tracer, rising so deceptively slowly across the sky before curving down and slashing the water like flails.

The M.T.B. on the port quarter had returned fire, and was increasing speed as well as the sea erupted in further bursts of tracer.

His thoughts kept time with the gunfire. The lighter would be well armed with automatic weapons, if it was anything like the ones they had met in the Channel and North Sea … He felt the bridge jerk and heard the shots hammer against the hull.

“Open fire!”

He heard the instant response from the twin Oerlikons, trained round to their full extent, so the shells seemed to be ripping past the bridge. The two-pounder was also firing, controlled and steady. He knew without looking that the bridge
machine
-gunner was framed against the flashes, pounding his fist, and cursing because he was out of range.

He held the picture in his mind, shutting out everything else. There had been more hits, shouts below the bridge, the sharp stench of a fire extinguisher.

They said it was always the same, if you survived. They were wrong. Each time was a new test of calculation and endurance.

“Stand by!” He raised his hand like a signal, although no one was looking. The feel of the hull’s trim and stability, the slightly reduced speed to ensure success, all taking second place to the shake and power of the engines.

Turnbull was slightly stooped, behind the wheel. They often joked about it, as if stooping would make any difference. Like the protective steel around the bridge: hammered-out pieces of old biscuit tin, as one coxswain had described it.

He watched the bright tracer, red and green, meeting and ripping in all directions. The smell of cordite and smoke. But nothing but the wheel and compass must matter, and the figure next or beside him.

“Fire!”
Both torpedoes together. There was no time left for a second run.

“Hard a-starboard!” Turnbull felt spray on his face and hands as the wheel went over. He thought of Jock Laidlaw, holding on for dear life, machinery flashing and roaring around him, having to guess what was happening above in the real world.

“Both torpedoes running, sir!”

That was Ainslie, distant, almost formal.

“Midships!” Turnbull repeated the order and watched another boat turning steeply in the welter of spray and broken waves from 992’s own wake. The attack was over. There was nothing else they could do. The torpedoes had missed their target. Same old problem. Until the next time …

The explosion was blinding white, lighting the sea like
daylight
, the three M.T.B.s, and even, briefly, the remains of the unknown vessel which had saved them.

The lighter must have been a mile distant, but the shockwave was immediate, as if they had collided with something solid. Even at reduced speed, the engines were deafening in the silence.

Spiers had appeared on the bridge.

“Some damage, port side, nothing serious.”

Kearton looked across the water. No wreckage. Not even any smoke.

“I saw someone being carried on deck.”

“Overcome by fumes from an extinguisher. He’s coming out of it already.”

Kearton walked to the opposite side and stared at the Canadians’ boat.

“Damage and casualties.” He did not look at the empty sea again. All those mines. Now there was nothing.

But for that unknown light, which had looked like a star, those mines would be on their way to join the war.

He said, “Take over, Number One. I must make a signal. We might need some air cover on the run back to base. But we’ll have a look at that burned-out vessel, if it’s still afloat.” He sensed Spiers’ doubt, and added sharply, “There’s always a chance.”

Spiers was tugging at his white scarf, as if to conceal his thoughts.

“Leading Torpedoman Jay deserves a pat on the back, sir. He has the touch.”

Kearton looked around the bridge. It was still dark, but the shadows were acquiring features.

“So have you, Number One.”

Between decks, evidence of their brief encounter was instantly apparent: splintered planking and the stench of smoke and burned paintwork, which even the fans could not disperse.
But
the man who had been half-suffocated by fumes was sitting propped up in a corner, his blackened face lined with runnels as if he had been weeping huge tears.

Leading Seaman Dawson was on his knees beside him, a wet rag in one hand. He twisted round, looking up.

“ ’E’s OK, sir. I told ’im, never volunteer!” He gestured with the rag. “Couple of ’oles through the messdeck.” His own smoke-stained face split into a grin. “But th’ bastards missed the galley!”

Someone stopped coughing long enough to call, “We showed ’em, sir!” The coughing began again.

Kearton glanced once at his own cabin.
Just to sit there and be alone. Cut off from everything. Just for a few minutes
.

He pushed into the W/T office and listened.
With men like these
…

Weston was there, as if he had never moved. The other telegraphist was with Spiers.

“Noisy down here, was it?”

Weston licked his lips. Then he said, “Once, I thought …”

He picked up his pad and held it with both hands. “The signal’s ready, sir.” He kept his eyes on the pad. “Ready to go.”

He did not look up, and Kearton was glad.

Ainslie raised his arm and signalled slowly to the bridge, steadying himself against a stanchion with the other hand. He felt the deck vibrate as the engines responded and went astern, to bring the hull almost to a halt. He had learned the hard way.

He thought it had taken fifteen minutes or less to locate and manoeuvre amongst the spread of half-submerged wreckage and charred fragments. It seemed like an eternity. And all the time the sea and sky were brightening, laying them open as a target. He leaned over the bow, where it was scalloped to allow a free run for the torpedo as it was fired. The tube was now empty. He could see the reflection directly beneath him, ashes
clinging
and rippling along the waterline. And a corpse, or what was left of it, bobbing past, turning one shoulder as if suddenly awakened.

The vessel must have been carrying fuel, and had been an easy victim. Tracer had done the rest. And now, the waiting and the stillness were taking their toll.

He saw another reflection beside his: Jay, the ex-submariner, who knew more about torpedoes than any of them. How did he feel, now that his part was over? That blinding explosion, a ship blasted to oblivion at the touch of his hand. Two other seamen were with him, hoisting-tackle and canvas slings laid out and ready. Lowering a raft or the dinghy would be too risky. Asking for it … He looked away as another corpse dipped beneath the hull, still afloat in its life-jacket.

One of the seamen said, “Too late for you, mate!” Nobody else spoke.

“There’s one!” Jay was pointing toward some larger pieces of wreckage, held aloft by trapped air despite the fires and the last explosion.

Ainslie waved to the bridge. The engines stopped.

Jay was saying, “Ready, Ginger?” He was already helping him with one of the canvas slings. “Don’t take any bloody arguments!” He patted his shoulder. “There’ll be a double tot for you when you’ve finished!”

Ainslie saw two more hands hurrying to help with the tackle. One was the gunlayer on the two-pounder, who had first raised the alarm.

Ainslie leaned over the side, but heard Jay say, “Leave it to Ginger, sir. He knows his stuff.” He twisted round and regarded him steadily. “They know you’re here, see?”

The tackle squeaked through a block and someone yelled, “Got ’im!”

“Easy does it!” But there was a scream, sharp, inhuman, and again as the body was hoisted and manhandled on to the deck.
Ainslie
was on his knees, although he did not know he had moved, holding one of the hands in his own while he struggled to pillow the head against his legs. Jay was helping him, but the survivor seemed stronger than both of them. Soaked with water and slippery with oil. And blood. Then, as suddenly, he was still. Only his eyes were alive.

Ainslie heard a second body being hauled aboard. Then someone shouting, “Let ’im go! Poor bastard’s been through the mincer!” and a splash alongside.

Jay said, “No more, sir. This is the only one.”

Ainslie stared at the bridge.

“I’ll tell the skipper.” He swallowed again, tasting the vomit.
Not now
.

He tried to get to his feet, but one of the hands was gripping his wrist like a vise. He could hear his breathing, short and desperate. The eyes had not moved, fixed on his own.

Jay said, “I’ll tell ’im, sir.” He was on his feet, a tall, rawboned figure against the sky. And the sky had gained a hint of colour.

The seaman nicknamed Ginger stooped over them, his body running with water.

He muttered, “No use, sir,” and held up his fist. “ ’E’s got a lump of iron like this in ’is back.” He shook his head. “Best leave ’im.”

Ainslie felt the grip tighten, as if all his remaining strength was there. And in the eyes.

Jay had already gone, and a few moments later the engines roared into life, and the charred wreckage seemed to move. But it was 992 which was underway, already turning, the first daylight revealing the smoke stains on the two-pounder’s barrel, and the darker stains on the deck.

Ainslie murmured, “I’ll not leave him.”

He watched the shadows sharpen in the strengthening light, moving across the deck as the helm went over and steadied. He
could
see another boat coming up to take station on the quarter again, her ensign almost silver, her bow wave lifting like a wing. No visible damage. He thought of the jagged scars he had seen when he had leaned over the side.
I was not afraid
.

He felt the grip ease very slightly, and when he looked he saw that the eyes were staring up at him, the mouth alive, as if attempting to speak.

He bent down as far as he could, one hand beneath the tangled hair, feeling the drying salt and the blood.

Close enough to feel the desperation, and that he was losing the battle for his life.

His voice was almost drowned by the returning power of the engines. Italian, maybe Sicilian. As a teacher, languages had never been Ainslie’s strong subject.

He was reaching up, as if trying to touch Ainslie’s face, but it was too much for him and his hand fell to the deck. The lump of iron had won.

His eyes were still open, his lips forming the last syllables. A name.
Jethro
.

Ainslie struggled to his feet; he had to prise the dead hand from his wrist. Someone reached out to steady him. Jay was back.