The Glory Boys (23 page)

Until after tomorrow …

The final approach to the island seemed slow beyond measure, and even with the engines throttled down to offer only a few knots the sound mocked all their attempts at caution.

Ainslie stood side by side with Warren in the forepart of the small bridge, conversation at a minimum, hardly daring to use binoculars in case they missed some isolated sign or movement.

Nearer and nearer, the hump-backed island eventually reaching out across either bow, more like a giant shadow than solid rock.

Closer still, and Warren took the wheel himself. He had already mentioned a previous visit to Devil’s Rock, in an old fishing boat, on another unspecified mission to land or remove some agents. His description had been terse, almost fragmented. Rocky bottom. No good for anchoring if a wind got up. Easy to run aground at the southern side of the entrance. An old wreck still there when they found the place. Most skippers kept well clear of it, if they had any sense.

Ainslie saw the forward gun, a slim-barrelled, quick-firing cannon, not unlike an Oerlikon, training around now as if to smell out the first hint of danger.

So slowly now that hardly a crest broke away from the stem, but the echo of their approach stayed with them.

Ainslie saw the faint outline of their Italian flag, lifting and dropping, although he could feel no breeze. He knew that one of the crew was ready with a White Ensign, and had heard another snap, “You’ll look great when they wrap you in that!”

No humour that time, only tension, as sharp as a blade.

Ainslie wanted to move, to speak, anything to break the relentless stillness.

No sudden challenge, or cluster of flares like those listed in the captured log book. No burst of gunfire as they headed into a carefully prepared trap …

It was clear enough on the chart, an inlet widening into a flask-shaped little bay, the only possible anchorage of this bleak landfall. He heard the wheel move again, Warren’s feet shifting as he peered into the shadows. Time had almost run out. They must turn and attempt a different approach, or stand well clear of the island until dawn, despite the vital need to conserve fuel.

Someone shouted and Warren said quietly, “
Got you
, you bastard.”

Ainslie saw it, too. A solitary spire of rock that marked one side of the inlet. Whoever had discovered it and marked it on the first chart had left it unnamed. Ainslie took a deep breath and saw Warren waving to one of his crew. The light was going, but he might have been grinning.

The land was already moving out to surround them, quieter than ever … but the sky was still clear enough to give shape and substance to the anchorage.

“Stop engines!” Warren turned the wheel and watched the rock spire move steadily across the stern until it, too, was lost from view. “Let go!”

The anchor hit the water and in a few moments the silence was complete.

Warren walked out on to the side-deck and gripped a rail with the claw. Then he looked at Ainslie.

“Made it!”

“Thanks to you.”

Warren shook his head. “You got us here. I just have a good memory for the last nasty bit.”

Some of his men were checking their weapons. A few had stationed themselves by the small capstan, to pay out more cable, or cut it in an emergency.

Ainslie said, “They all know what to do.”

Warren was gesturing to one of them.

“That’s why they’re still alive.” His mood changed. “Now we wait. But we leave at dawn,
no matter what
, see?”

Ainslie stared into the darkness, surprised that he felt no fear or doubt. Because of the man beside him.

“Anything I can do?”

Warren had dragged off his glove and was opening and closing his fingers.

“Nothing much, Mark Two. Me, I’m going to have a drink.” He punched his arm lightly. “Don’t worry, I’ll be all about when
they
get here.”

“Do you know any of them?”

Warren looked round instantly as a fish jumped and splashed alongside the hull.

Then he said, “Doubt it. Safer not to, in this game.”

They walked a few paces aft and Ainslie saw an open hatch, felt the warm breath of the engineroom. Standing by, ready to move when the call came. He wondered how they felt, with so much depending on them, in a vessel they scarcely knew and might never see again after Operation
Retriever
. He thought of Laidlaw, his own Chief, who somehow managed to make his massive machinery seem almost human.
Old Growler
…

He said, “The one they call Jethro. What about him?”

Warren turned toward him. His features were in shadow now.

“Of course, you were with him on that other operation, weren’t you? Said to be one of the best. I’ve worked with him a couple of times … I
think
. He gets results.” He peered at his
watch
. “You stick with Bob Kearton while you can. He’s special, believe me. They broke the mould after they made him.” He sounded as if he might have been smiling. “They tell me you were a schoolmaster in civvy street. Good for you.”

Ainslie said, “I’m still learning,” and could feel it like a barrier between them. “What about you?”

“I don’t see what—” Then his voice softened. “I was a draughtsman, as a matter of fact. Pretty good one too, they told me.” He held up the gloved claw and shook it slowly. “But I taught myself to shoot with my left hand, so it’s not all a dead loss!”

He patted Ainslie’s arm. “They should be making contact in a couple of hours, at the most.” He moved to the side and seemed to be staring at the dark water. “Then we’ll get out of here, as fast as you like, eh?”

Ainslie could feel the silence, as if he were hesitating, contemplating the consequences of breaking or dishonouring some code.

“As I said, Mark Two, Jethro’s one of the best. But don’t ever turn your back on him.”

Kearton levered his body forward in the canvas chair and sat quite still while his mind came back to awareness. The chartroom was in darkness save for a small light, almost hidden by the charts he had been scanning. How long ago? A few seconds, an hour; nothing seemed clear. But he was instantly awake.

So many watches, all times and in all weathers. The engines, steady, unhurried, the hull lifting and dipping, but no more than might be expected in the open sea.

The usual sounds, or those to which he had become accustomed in an unfamiliar boat. An occasional creak of the wheel, feet, the helmsman’s or a lookout, above and behind him.

He found he was gripping one arm of the chair, tensing his entire body as if to withstand something. But there was nothing.

How long? How many miles? He could see the notepad beside the dividers and parallel rulers. He did not need to look at it; the sight of those ordinary instruments was more than enough to remind him of Ainslie and the satchel he always kept close by, a little memento of his last school.

In his mind he could still see the Italian boat heading away, see their faces as he outlined their new assignment, the degree of interest or concern reflecting each man’s experience and involvement.

He had thought of little else. Now the worst was over. Either the agents had been recovered, or they had been directed to a different rendezvous. Time or fuel would decide.

If he had been there with them, it might have been different …

He stood up slowly, finding his balance, as he had done every day at sea. And he thought of Ainslie, young, light-hearted, embarking on something that was a far cry from the navigation school, or, for that matter, his earlier days in front of a class. He switched off the light and uncovered one of the ports. Darkness: not even a star. He closed it.

He heard someone stamping his feet. It would be cold on watch, even here.

Only half the hands were at their defence stations; John Stirling saw no point in keeping everyone on watch. In the Channel or North Sea, you would expect it. Here … in his mind, he pictured the Sicilian coastline and scattered islands. Human endurance took first place.

He heard another sound, like a hatch or door slamming. He knew it was close to midnight: the middle watch was taking over. Perhaps some tea or coffee was on its way.

He raised his hand to stifle the yawn, but found it frozen in
mid
-air. He was wide awake, and even as he groped for the intercom he heard it come to life.

It was Stirling himself. Unwilling or unable to snatch some rest.

“What is it, John?”

Stirling sounded disconcerted. Because the senior officer was unable to sleep, or because he had been expecting it, despite all the restrictions on unnecessary signals. The enemy had ears too, and used them.

“Urgent, sir.” He paused, and in the silence Kearton could hear somebody humming a little tune close by.

“Bring it, will you?” The humming stopped.

He looked at the chair, but remained standing. Stirling was an old hand and knew all the guises. He heard more feet, men going on watch. Everything normal, war or no war.

Stirling came into the chartroom and shut the door behind him. He had spray on his jacket, and probably come along the side-deck to avoid going through the bridge, with its eyes and unspoken questions.

“Priority.” He half smiled, but it did not reach his eyes. “Bet that got Cap’n Garrick out of the sack!”

“He never sleeps.” Kearton opened the signal and held it to the light. “You’ve got a good telegraphist on watch, John. Neat and clear, no matter what.”

Something to say, to give himself time. When there was no time …

“Operation
Retriever
is aborted.” He looked at the signal again, the phrases as devoid of emotion as his own voice. It had to be like that, when it should have been written in blood.

Stirling said, “You knew, didn’t you? I can’t believe …” He broke off as Kearton leaned over the table and moved one of the charts.

“They’ll be there, on that godforsaken island right now.” He looked up. “Waiting for
us
.”

“Something must have come up …” But he knew Kearton did not hear him.

Kearton screwed up the signal flimsy and banged it on the table.

“We can still reach the rendezvous on time.” He stared at the door, and sensed someone was standing just outside, listening. It was so quiet; everything was quiet, even the sea and the hull.

He tried to sharpen his mind, outline the next move. Stirling was waiting to carry out the necessary instructions from his senior officer.

He said, “Alter course now, John.
Retriever
.”

Their eyes met.

“And the signal, sir?”

“What signal?”

Stirling breathed out slowly.

“If it’s OK with you, sir, I’d like to tell the boys myself.” Impetuously, he held out his hand. “They’ll want to share it.”

Kearton picked up his binoculars.

“I’ll be on the bridge.”

When he reached the bridge, his eyes slowly became accustomed to the shadows. Most of the watchkeepers had donned oilskins as protection against the cold, and the occasional clouds of drifting spray. He had heard Stirling’s voice, unhurried, calm. Like his crew, he was obeying orders.
My orders
. But it would take more than a handshake when the real truth hit them.

A fist came from somewhere with a mug of something hot.

“Best I can do, Skipper.” The flash of a grin. “All drinks on the officers when we get back to Base, eh?”

So be it. We’re coming
.

AINSLIE TUGGED OFF
his cap and pushed his fingers through his hair, if only to break the oppressive stillness. He looked up at the sky, and felt something click in his neck. He had lost all sense of time and thought it was lighter, with a few faint stars showing between the clouds. But he knew it was only in his imagination. In his hopes.

He could have been alone on the little bridge, but he knew someone was crouching by the motionless wheel, and there was another at the machine-gun mounting below the mast.

The hull was barely moving, the water black and silent alongside. He was surprised that he was not tired by the waiting and the tension. He was beyond fatigue: drained would be a fairer description.

He knew Warren was standing on the opposite side of the bridge, although he had hardly spoken, except briefly and softly into a voicepipe. Only once had he revealed any sign of nerves, when one of the crew had complained about the empty torpedo tubes and lack of weapons.

“This is a
bus
, not a bloody battleship! You of all people should know that!”

The shadow had muttered something, but said no more.

Ainslie loosened the watch on his wrist. There was no point in looking at it; there was no luminous dial. He moved it again;
the
strap needed tightening. It had been a Christmas present from his parents, the first year of the war.

What would they think if they could see him now?

“I’m going round the boat. Take over, will you?” Warren, beside him, but he had not seen or heard him move.

“D’you think it will be much longer …” He got no further.

“How the
hell
—” Warren stopped abruptly. “Sorry, Mark Two. I must be getting past it.” He stared outboard, at the dark water or the black edge of land.

He said, “One of my last jobs involved an old fishing boat. I told you. It was all we could do to keep the thing afloat most of the time.” He might have shrugged. “Here, we’ve got W/T we mustn’t use, and forty knots at the turn of a switch, and we’re still bloody helpless.” He turned away. “I’d better show my face and make sure everyone’s still awake.” He paused, and Ainslie knew he was fastening the glove. Then he said, “Another hour and we get our skates on. Can’t risk waiting any longer. No matter what.”

Somehow, Ainslie sensed it was a question, and how out of character it was for this strong, driven man.

He answered, “My skipper will be waiting,” and tried to find the words. “Maybe there’ll be new orders.”

“Very likely. Bloody typical.” He swung round, even as the sound of a shot echoed in the anchorage.

At sea it would have passed unnoticed, but here and now it was like a clap of thunder.