Free The Glory Boys by Douglas Reeman Page A

Heard us.”
    There were masts now, loosely brailed sails, and the smell of fuel. Voices too, figures hurrying toward the point of contact.
    The machine-guns moved with them, and the Oerlikons. No chances even now. Especially now .
    Spiers was somewhere below the bridge, by the port torpedo, voice crisp and unhurried.
    There was hardly any impact, but for a few long moments the two ill-matched hulls swayed together.
    Kearton turned from the side as Jethro called out, “To our next rendezvous!”
    Leading Seaman Dawson shouted, “All clear, sir!”
    The other vagrants had quit the wardroom with their lethal luggage, or if not, it was too late for them now.
    Kearton raised his binoculars, but the other vessel, the spectre, had already disappeared. As if he had imagined it.
    “Standing by, sir! When you’re ready.”
    He heard Ainslie stagger against something and the clink of his makeshift satchel, in which he carried dividers and parallel rulers, plus a clip of sharpened pencils. In case someone was tempted to ‘borrow’ them, as he put it.
    Pleased, relieved that his part of the rendezvous had gone without a hitch. Now the return to base, in time for a proper breakfast. Or another air raid.
    Kearton lowered the binoculars, but kept them inside his coat.
    “Not yet, Pilot. Give them time to get clear.”
    That would bring a few curses. The motion, if anything, was getting worse. He was fortunate that he had never yet suffered from seasickness. He heard someone groaning, and tried to close his mind to it. There was always a first time.
    He sensed that Spiers had returned to the bridge, the white scarf he usually wore on watch rising and falling against the screen with each roll.
    “All quiet?”
    Spiers might have been grinning. “Some of them are moaning, sir. Much longer?”
    Like Ainslie, he was eager to move, and saw no point in prolonging their discomfort. In the engineroom it would be ten times worse.
    Some of them are moaning . He could imagine it. The Skipper’s enjoying himself. Making his part seem important, and never mind the lads!
    Like those other times in the Channel and North Sea. The moments of waiting. Watching and listening for the slightest sign, which could blur the distinction between victor and victim.
    He stared at the sky, saw a few tiny stars, but only for a minute. If only … He touched the side, running with spray like rain. Back to Malta. Maybe there would be new orders waiting. Anything was better than this.
    Or was it Garrick’s way of testing him?
    “Able Seaman Baldwin requests permission to go below, sir.”
    Turnbull snapped, “Weak stomach, eh?”
    Kearton stared past him, tense, knowing there was no mistake. Turnbull had returned to the wheel, head cocked, sharing it. Nothing you could describe afterwards. There was never time.
    “Engineroom stand by! All guns ready !”
    He was at the compass, but seeing the chart in his mind. Like that last time, with Jethro’s body odour at his elbow, but all the while hearing the new sound. Steady, unhurried. Perhaps knowing their victim.
    Spiers said, “Two of them. Due north of us. Closing.”
    Not minesweepers or routine enemy patrol vessels, not out here. These were under orders. Like us .
    Kearton cupped his hands behind his ears, hearing them, feeling them. A different, sharper beat: not E-Boats this time. Like a voice from the past.
    “Now!” Mere seconds, then the bridge shook to the sudden burst of power beneath them. “Full ahead!” He groped for the binoculars and steadied them across the screen.
    “Starboard fifteen! Steady! ”
    He saw the tiny feathers of spray taking shape in the powerful lenses, like leaping fish: the bow waves of the other vessels. Caught unaware, but not entirely. Some flashes, a machine-gun, but all sound drowned by the Packards as they worked up to full speed.
    “Open fire!”
    The enemy must still have believed Jethro’s schooner was making a last stand. Seconds later a star-shell exploded