The Glory Boys (24 page)

Ainslie remained motionless, expecting more shots, imagining them hitting the hull and worse. Far worse … There was nothing.

Other sounds now, the scrape of a hatch: the engineroom ready to go. A cocking-lever being pulled, then released. The wheel moving only slightly as the shadow nudged against it.

Warren said softly, “Be ready with the flag. Haul the raft alongside.”

The raft was a small inflatable affair, which required only one brave man to paddle it ashore.

Someone muttered, “They’re comin’. I wonder how many?”

Warren did not turn.

“One less than expected, by the sound of it.”

Ainslie was shivering, shocked by the brutal truth.

Warren pushed past him and called to the men on deck, “Stand by, lads! Don’t move until I give the signal!”

The raft was already well away from the side, the twin-bladed paddle hardly causing a ripple, and Ainslie sensed that the gun was moving, the slender barrel trained over and beyond it.

Warren said, “Now or never.” He could have been remarking on a drill or exercise.

It was all taking too long. Ainslie did not have to look at the sky to sense the closeness of dawn. When it came, it would be sudden. Like the springing of a trap.

“There it is!” A tiny flash, low down. Almost touching the water, unless his eyes were playing tricks.

The man at the wheel said, “What
kept
you, matey?”

Ainslie saw another faceless figure hurry past the bridge, some rope, a heaving-line, looped over his arm and shoulder. And another man lying prone on the deck, a gun already propped and aimed toward the shore. It was the Bren he had seen in the chart space. Now, like parts of a machine, Warren’s team was ready for the next move, as if they had been working together aboard this boat for months, not hours.

He heard Warren mutter, “Easy now. Easy,” perhaps only to himself. Then he said sharply, “Stand by. Pass the word!” and Ainslie heard the click as he unfastened his holster, and remembered what Warren had said about learning to shoot with his left hand. He was suddenly, nauseatingly alive to the presence of danger. Of death.

He heard the raft before it appeared, almost alongside. Extra paddles this time, and someone half in the water like a corpse,
who
managed to reach up with one hand as the heaving-line fell across them.

They were being hauled aboard now. Only three of them, one obviously injured or wounded.

A blur of face peered up from the deck.

“That’s the lot, sir!”

Warren said curtly, “Hope it was worth it,” but again, maybe only to himself.

Then he called, “Get the raft inboard!” He reached out to touch Ainslie’s arm without taking his eyes from the activity below the bridge. “Take care of them, Toby. I’ll get the show on the road again.”

Afterwards, Ainslie was aware of the concern in his voice, and the fact that he had used his name instead of the slightly mocking ‘Mark Two’.

As he jumped down to the deck, small things stood out in his mind, and he would never forget them. One of the crew helping the solitary oarsman from the raft. Saying nothing, but hugging him, excluding everybody else. Then one of them gasped, “One more bloody time, eh, Tom?”

And the injured man, who had apparently taken a fall during the final, almost sheer descent to the water’s edge, by his accent an Australian, or perhaps a New Zealander: Ainslie could never tell the difference. “It had better be worth it!” Then he had fainted.

Below decks, still unfamiliar and blinding in the sudden glare of lights, Ainslie recognized the third agent, despite the beard and filthy clothing, or maybe because of them. And the pale eyes, keen and clear, as if the rest were merely a mask.

The voice was as he remembered it, clipped and assertive. “We meet again. Makes a change from the blackboard, I imagine?”

Ainslie saw the dark stain across his arm and hip, but when he offered assistance it was declined, almost angrily.

“Not my blood. He tried to change sides, the little bastard. Picked the wrong moment.”

And then the engines coughed and roared into life, the hull quivering around and beneath them as if it had been unleashed. Ainslie tasted the fuel, and felt the sudden urgency. After the silence and the strain of waiting, it was almost unnerving.

He said tentatively, “We have some blankets, and hot drinks …”

The man he knew only as Jethro was not listening. He was watching his injured colleague being carried past on a makeshift stretcher.

“I shall come on deck in a moment.” He turned sharply as another sound cut through the surge of power. The cable had been broken. They were under way.

Ainslie said, “I hope it was all worthwhile.”

The eyes flashed with a sudden, cold hostility in the deckhead light.

“Hardly your concern, is it, Lieutenant?” Someone shouted through the hatch and he added, “I think you’re wanted.” Then he smiled again, disarmingly, and moved aside as Ainslie made for the ladder.

He was grateful for the cool air on his face, the sound of the sea breaking away from the bows, the boat alive again. It would soon be time to alter course and use that pinnacle of rock to guide them through the narrow entrance and out into open sea. He stared at the broken cliffs, still in complete darkness.
Away from this evil place
. No matter what might still be waiting for them.

He thought of the man he had left below. What reaction had he expected? He had been under great strain, and always at risk.

Better to die than to be captured. Like the bloodstains on his clothing … It was a different sort of war. The word ‘unclean’ came to his mind, and he dismissed it hurriedly.

Warren was on the bridge, arms folded, watching the
strengthening
light on the water. His part was almost finished, until the next rendezvous. Unless he chose to quit. And somehow, Ainslie knew he would not.

Warren greeted him quite cheerfully.

“Another half hour and we’ll be clear of this place. Then you can take over the con, right?” He grinned. “You must open the throttles and see what speed this little box of tricks can do.”

He gestured toward the main hatch.

“Now you know what a real-life hero looks like. I’ll lay odds he gets another gong after this little lot. Bloody well deserves it, too.” Something caught his attention and he moved away, leaving the words hanging in the air.

But Ainslie could not forget the other words, spoken almost as a warning.

Don’t ever turn your back on him
.

A different war, a covert war, which only those who were directly involved in might understand. Any kind of success must always be measured against the brutal penalities for failure.

He listened to the engines, louder and more compelling as the land moved closer on either beam. He could see it as if it were on the chart, and in his rough sketches. The narrow entrance to this bleak volcanic refuge, which must have claimed so many victims over the years.

“Starboard fifteen. Midships. Steady.” Warren seemed calm, absorbed, as if he were responding to the compass and rudder, and not the other way round. Ainslie uncovered his binoculars and lifted them carefully to study the first gleam of water, and the prevailing barriers of land. And there, fine on the port bow, was Warren’s pinnacle of rock, like a stark marker, moving away from the headland to be left undisturbed.

He raised the binoculars very slightly, his wrists trembling to the vibration of the engines. The tip of the pinnacle was painted a sudden gold against the sky.

Warren was passing orders to the helmsman, and he wondered what he was thinking. Pride, or relief? He could have been speaking to the vessel beneath his feet.

Ainslie saw the nearest spur of rock sliding abeam, and imagined he could already feel the difference in the motion as they headed into deeper water. He had heard the skipper describe it as ‘room to breathe’. He wanted to remark on it to Warren, but for some reason it remained unspoken. Personal.

He peered over the screen and saw the deck, and the arrowhead of the forecastle, the shine of falling spray.

He raised the binoculars and watched the bare hills moving apart, the sky gaining colour and warmth, the first shafts of sunlight. Astern, the sea was still in darkness, as if a curtain remained drawn.
The wine-dark sea
… He moved the binoculars again. Operation
Retriever
was almost over. Others would decide …

He tensed, unable to move, the binoculars focused, unwavering.

In a patch of clear sky between the hills there was a flaw. An intruder. Tiny and slow-moving, like a moth on a sheet of glass.

He swung round, but someone else had already seen it.

“
Aircraft!
Port bow, moving left to right!”

They were no longer alone, and the buzz of alarms below deck dispelled all doubts.

Warren spoke tersely into a voicepipe. The gun was already training round, seeking the solitary aircraft still invisible to most of the men on deck.

Warren was peering up at the Italian flag, its colours harsh now in the early light.

He allowed his own binoculars to fall to his chest and wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. “Seaplane, probably local patrol. Might give us a miss.” He looked at the flag again. “Unless this boat has already been reported captured.” He raised the binoculars once more, taking his time. “In which case, old son …”

Someone said, “They might not have spotted us.”

Ainslie steadied his binoculars again. The aircraft had disappeared, hidden behind the second hill. Beyond it, the light was clearer, like water against a dam. And within minutes, details of the land had emerged. Rough scrub or gorses, gnarled and bleached by wind and sun, where he had thought there was only bare rock. Where a man, and perhaps others, now lay dead.

His fingers, now sweating slightly, tightened their grip on the metal as the aircraft reappeared, apparently on the same course as before, but lower, a wing shining as it tilted in the strengthening light.

Warren said, “He’s turning. That might be the limit of his patrol.”

Ainslie licked his lips, tasting the salt, and tried to hold the glasses steady, but the motion was more lively now as they drew closer to the entrance, the echo of the engines louder in the throwback from these treacherous rocks, like black teeth laid bare in the new sunlight.

It was a float-plane, the first he had ever seen, except in the recognition manuals, and of pre-war design, slow by today’s standards, and lightly armed. But adequate for short, local patrols.

He watched it turning until it seemed to be flying straight toward him.
Enough for today. Please, God
…

Warren called, “Stand clear of the gun!” He was watching the aircraft, but his mind was with the boat and his small crew at their various stations. He had donned an oilskin to conceal his uniform if the plane came too close, and Ainslie fumbled at his own jacket. If it was not already too late.

Much closer now. Ainslie could hear it above the mutter of the engines.

Lower too, its shadow flashing across the water as if it were alive.

“Probably from Trapani. I heard there were a few based
there
.” It was Jethro, one hand resting on the top of the bridge ladder, the other holding an empty mug. The ice-clear eyes rested on Ainslie. “How far do you estimate that is, Pilot?”

Ainslie stared at the plane, surprised that he could come to terms with the question when the grim reality was hurtling over the sea toward them.

“Trapani? A hundred miles, give or take …” The rest was drowned by the staccato roar of twin engines, then the shadow was past.

“Thought as much.” Jethro put down the mug. “Needed that. Rainwater laced with spoonfuls of brandy is not to be recommended!”

Ainslie watched the plane; it helped to keep his nerves under control. How could the man remain so composed, unmoved by the seaplane’s sudden arrival, and what it might mean for all of them? For him?

Warren was at the compass, stooping over it as the land drew away on either quarter. The sea was open. It was theirs.

He said, “Take over, Pilot,” and stared at the sky without shading his eyes. “He’s coming back for another look.” He might have snapped his fingers; the sound was lost in the echo from the engines. “Josh, be ready with the lamp! The signal may have been ditched, but it’s all we’ve got.”

Jethro moved across the bridge without hesitation, as if he were used to it. He was watching the sailor by the signal lamp, waiting for the plane to begin another approach. He said almost casually, “If he swallows it, we can head for Base at full speed.”

Warren did not turn toward him, or look at him, as if every nerve were focused on this single moment.

But he said deliberately, “You are my responsibility,
sir
, and I am ordered to get you to safety.” He broke off to jab the man by the lamp. “Now, Josh!” and continued, “But don’t bloody well tell
me
how to do it!”

Ainslie forced himself to concentrate on the
clack
—
clack
—
clack
of the signal, slow and unhurried, as if the man called Josh were totally absorbed by the accuracy and importance of the task, perhaps oblivious to the exchange behind him and the threat it implied. The aircraft was holding its course, the green and red markings on the tail very visible, like the flag flying from their mast.

“Signal’s acknowledged, sir.” He could not conceal his satisfaction. “Sharp an’ clear—not bad for an Eye-Tie!” He was grinning.

Warren crossed the bridge, his binoculars trained to follow the aircraft as it continued into the lingering darkness astern, to Pantelleria, or to Sicily.

He said briskly, “Time to alter course. But we’ll remain at half-speed in case that pilot has second thoughts and comes back for another look.”

Ainslie listened intently. Warren was very calm again, as if nothing had happened. But what if the recognition signals had been updated, or this boat was known to be missing, and in enemy hands? Signals would already be on their way to the desk of some Italian or German version of Garrick.