The Glory Boys Read online

  Contents

  About the Book

  About the Author

  Also by Douglas Reeman

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  1. Next of Kin

  2. Of One Company

  3. Flotsam

  4. A Close Thing

  5. Surprise, or Threat?

  6. Don’t Look Back

  7. Flashpoint

  8. Welcome Back

  9. And Good-Bye

  10. No Guts … No Glory

  11. Those in Peril

  12. Nowhere to Hide

  13. Victim

  14. A Face on the Shore

  15. The Hunted

  16. Commitment

  17. Heroes

  Copyright

  About the Book

  They are called the Glory Boys, by those who regard their exploits with envy or contempt.

  Bob Kearton is one of them. Already a veteran survivor of the close action in the English Channel and North Sea, in January of 1943 he is ordered to the Mediterranean and beleaguered Malta, a mere sixty miles from occupied Sicily. Unexpectedly promoted to lieutenant-commander, he is given charge of a newly formed and as yet incomplete flotilla of motor torpedo boats.

  The tide of defeat is thought to be turning, the enemy no longer advancing along the North African coast with Egypt and India as final objectives, and Kearton’s is a new war of stealth, subterfuge and daring, in which the Glory Boys are only too expendable.

  About the Author

  Douglas Reeman did convoy duty in the navy in the Atlantic, the Arctic, and the North Sea. He has written over thirty novels under his own name and more than twenty best-selling historical novels featuring Richard Bolitho under the pseudonym Alexander Kent.

  Also by Douglas Reeman

  A Prayer for the Ship

  High Water

  Send a Gunboat

  Dive in the Sun

  The Hostile Shore

  The Last Raider

  With Blood and Iron

  H.M.S. ‘Saracen’

  The Deep Silence

  Path of Storm

  The Pride and the Anguish

  To Risks Unknown

  The Greatest Enemy

  Rendezvous – South Atlantic

  Go In and Sink!

  The Destroyers

  Winged Escort

  Surface with Daring

  Strike from the Sea

  A Ship Must Die

  Torpedo Run

  Badge of Glory

  The First to Land

  The Volunteers

  The Iron Pirate

  Against the Sea (non-fiction)

  In Danger’s Hour

  The White Guns

  Killing Ground

  The Horizon

  Sunset

  A Dawn Like Thunder

  Battlecruiser

  Dust on the Sea

  For Valour

  Twelve Seconds to Live

  Knife Edge

  For you, Kim, with love and thanks.

  We shared it.

  “So stand by your glasses, steady!

  We’ve all got to go by and by.

  Here’s a toast to those gone already,

  And good luck to the next man to die!”

  Coastal Forces song

  1

  Next of Kin

  THE SEA WAS dark grey, metallic in the poor light, with a steep swell unbroken by wind or current. It seemed to merge with the backdrop of cloud, with no margin to reveal either horizon or distance. And the air was like a knife. Common enough for the North Sea in winter, where you could never take the weather’s moods for granted. Tomorrow it might change just as swiftly, hard and bright so you could see the land, the shoreline of Suffolk perhaps, and familiar landmarks, and obtain a compass bearing and fix your position. But that was tomorrow.

  It was close to noon, but it could have been nightfall, or the start of a new day.

  The only sound was the dull, monotonous clang of a wreck-marker buoy, one of the many dotting the swept channel along the east coast. Victims of nearly four years of war.

  The new noise seemed like an intrusion: the regular thrum, thrum, thrum of engines, powerful but contained.

  Then all at once the source was visible, the sturdy shape of an Air-Sea Rescue launch, vivid, almost garish with her stark yellow markings and R.A.F. roundel. There was no chance that she might be mistaken for M.T.B. or E-Boat, no matter which flag they flew. Or fired on by the trigger-happy gunner aboard some luckless convoy straggler, unescorted and vulnerable. When every sound or movement was a potential killer, it was always shoot first!

  The launch’s commanding officer stood in the forepart of his compact bridge, wedged in a corner, legs astride, as if he had never moved. Despite the seaboot stockings and layers of warm clothing, he was feeling the cold, and watching his own breath like steam against the bridge screen.

  He had heard the wreck-marker buoy, saw it in his mind as clearly as if he had been checking the chart. How many times must they have used it to fix their course and position? At low water you could still see a rusting funnel and one remaining mast above the surface: not a victim of bomb or torpedo, but a collision with an overworked escort vessel when a northbound convoy had grid-ironed through its southbound opposite number in pitch darkness to avoid attack. She had been an old paddle-steamer, well known on the routes to Southend or down into the Channel and the Isle of Wight, usually packed with day-trippers and families. The war had changed that, as it had for almost every serviceable vessel: a coat of grey or dazzle-paint, and a White Ensign instead of a house flag, and she was in the navy. She had been armed with concentrated anti-aircraft weapons, and sent to fight.

  The bell was fading now. It was time to alter course.

  To give up. Was it pride, or conceit? He had been nicknamed The Fisherman by both naval and merchantmen who used this coastline, because of his success in finding and rescuing so many airmen who had gone down in the drink. Some never made it, and perhaps the last thing they had seen was this or another black and yellow hull speeding past, the search abandoned.

  And there was the question of fuel. They had been at sea far longer than intended, and the engineer had already thrown out some heavy hints. They’ll have to send a search party for us, if we keep this up!

  He saw the bows dip, and the spray spatter across the deck. Some of it reached the bridge screen, and did not move. It was freezing.

  There was no point in dragging it out. Several aircraft had been reported crashed, and an unidentified explosion had also been slotted into a curt signal, but it had not been much help. As one wag had remarked, “What can you expect on New Year’s Eve? All too pissed to stand up and transmit!”

  He tucked his binoculars into the front of his coat to protect them from the spray, not that it did much good.

  New Year’s Day. Maybe the realization was only just hitting him. There had been a few grins and mock punches against the layers of clothing they all wore. Another January. Another year of war. How many more?

  He said quietly, “I’m going to alter course. Make a signal to Base …” It was as far as he got.

  “Starboard bow, sir! Flashing light!”

  He steadied his glasses, seeing the lookout’s face in his mind. The newest member of their little company. He could recall the time they had picked up a downed air crew, Germans, and had heard him swear and exclaim, “Let the bastards swim home!” His mother and father had been killed in one of Southampton’s air raids. But he had turned down the chance to transfer to another branch of the R.A.F., and he was still here.

  We all have our reasons.

  “Starboard twenty! Midships! Steady!” He found the button and pressed it.
/>   Then he trained the glasses again, taking his time, holding his breath as the tiny light filled the lenses, awash on the dark water. Not flashing, but dipping repeatedly out of sight. He heard the familiar sounds of feet and equipment as his men responded to the alarm, but it was only routine. Nobody could still be alive in this.

  Their searchlight cut through the mist and spray: this was the moment. Two— no, three of them, tied or clinging to one another. One of those small life rafts almost submerged beneath them.

  “Shall I switch off, sir?”

  He breathed again. “Hold it. One of them’s alive.”

  He saw the hand lift, to shade his eyes from the light, or to acknowledge that he had seen them. That the impossible was happening.

  Now it was part of a drill: harness and tackle, hands ready to guide and cushion the first impact.

  The engines stopped, and the hull rolled heavily on the swell. Voices were shouting orders; someone else called, “’Old on, mate, nice an’ steady!”

  All three were alive.

  The Fisherman felt the engines respond to the telegraph, the sudden surge of life from the screws as the launch began to turn, under command once more.

  The raft had already drifted clear, tossing like a leaf on the mounting wash. There was no time to waste: back to their base and alongside before complete darkness made things even more difficult. The drab field ambulances would be waiting. They always were.

  The Fisherman peered at the compass repeater and wiped it with his sleeve. Instinct, luck or stubborn pride, but they had done it.

  He listened to the powerful engines, saw the spray rising from either bow. The deck was empty now, the tackle stowed out of sight. Until the next time.

  He looked at his watch without seeing it. This was the worst part.

  “Call me if you need me.” Nobody spoke.

  Once below it seemed almost warm, with hatches sealed and deadlights tightly screwed across every scuttle, and the light was hard and glaring after the bridge, and the groping moments between. Even the engines’ steady beat was muffled; he could hear the quiet chorus of clinks and rattles from the bottles and jars lining one bulkhead. But always the same. Towels and blankets, dressings and bandages, and something hot to sip or swallow, for those who were capable of it.

  The senior medic looked up.

  “We were just in time.” He tossed some rags into a bucket. “Not for one of ’em, though.”

  The airman in question was lying on a mattress, held and supported by two other medics. There was a lot of blood, or had been, and they had to prevent him from clawing at his torn uniform, although his strength was almost gone. One of his companions was propped on one elbow, watching, leaning nearer as if to hear what he was trying to say.

  As the medics allowed the dying man’s arms to fall to his sides, one said abruptly, “He’s gone, sir.” Then he frowned as the other German reached out as if to touch him. “Kaput, see?”

  The senior medic said, “A miracle he held out this long.” Then, surprisingly, his face spread into a broad grin. “This’ll even the score, sir.” He watched as a blanket was lifted, very carefully. “One of ours for a change!”

  The Fisherman leaned down and grasped the hand. Like ice, but responding.

  “You’re safe now,” he said.

  The grip tightened slightly, gratifyingly.

  “Thanks … to you.”

  Someone called, “You’re wanted on deck, sir!”

  Even that seemed unimportant. Soon it would all make sense: the naval uniform with its two tarnished stripes on the uncovered shoulder, and something else, something familiar, at odds with the tension and the vague signals following that solitary explosion, which had remained uppermost in the Fisherman’s mind. Had made him persist when another might have given up the search.

  “We’re going in now,” he said. “Try to rest.”

  The senior medic was holding up an identity disk.

  “Name’s Kearton, sir. Lieutenant.”

  Even that seemed familiar. He realized that the rescued man’s eyes were open, unmoving, coming to terms, accepting the stark truth of his survival. He tried to turn his head as the dead airman was covered with an oilskin, but the effort was too much.

  The Fisherman murmured, “Did the other one give you any trouble?”

  The lieutenant smiled, or attempted to.

  “I’d be dead, but for him.”

  A steaming mug had appeared. “Try and swallow some of this. It’ll help.” There was rum in it. Nothing in the medical log about its benefits, but it often did the trick.

  More voices; he had to go. But he said, “Kearton, right?”

  The lieutenant tried to nod, and some cocoa trickled over his chin.

  “‘Bob’ will do …” Then he fainted.

  The Fisherman groped his way up to his small bridge again. It seemed much darker after the bright lights below. I must be getting past it. But he kept thinking of the handshake. Like a reward.

  Someone reached out to slap his shoulder as he passed. A signal had to be acknowledged, and an outward-bound minesweeper was flashing another: Happy New Year. Faces grinning in the shadows as the lamp clattered some witty reply.

  He listened to the reassuring power of the engines. For some, it was already over. But we are going home.

  Lieutenant Robert Kearton turned his back to the solitary window and glanced slowly around. Three days, two nights to be exact, since he had been brought ashore from the Air-Sea Rescue launch. A spartan room, a couple of chairs and a table, and some sort of cupboard which he had never seen opened. And the bed. Different now, with blankets folded and clean sheets lying across one end. Waiting for the next arrival.

  Two nights. Was that really all it had been? He could not recall falling asleep. Always the sense of shock, the inability to relive those lost hours, to accept that he was alive and safe. Nothing. Once, he must have called out, and a sickberth attendant had appeared with a flashlight.

  “Thought you was in trouble.” A pause. “Sir.” It had sounded more like a rebuke than sympathy. A chief petty officer in rank, so he had probably seen it all.

  He took a deep breath and looked at the suitcase beside the bed, the uniform jacket draped across the back of one of the chairs. His best jacket, brought here by a friend from the depot ship in the harbour.

  He tried to clear his mind. It was today, not part of a dream or nightmare. Today, and he was leaving here. A new beginning, as originally intended. Ordered …

  He heard someone call out, or cough. The S.B.A.s were waiting to come and prepare the room. A small local hospital, taken over by the navy at the outbreak of war, this had most likely been part of the staff quarters. It felt remote: hard to believe it was less than a mile from Harwich and Felixstowe, the thriving and ever-busy naval base.

  He turned and looked out of the window again. A yard, with what he thought was a kitchen on the opposite side, empty bins lined up for food scraps or vegetables for the pigs, wherever they were. Puddles left by an overnight rain, although the sky was clear now. He could see some far-off barrage balloons, like tiny whales beyond the harbour, and a solitary vapour trail.

  He bent his arm, feeling the bruise. Like the one on his thigh, it was almost black. But he still had no clear memory of what had happened.

  He gazed out at the yard. There was a sign pointing to the nearest air raid shelter, and some sort of ramp, maybe for wheelchairs. He shivered, and stared at his watch. Still working, despite the … His mind hesitated, exploring it. Despite the explosion.

  He concentrated on the watch. A birthday gift from his father, what seemed like a hundred years ago.

  He realized that he had his jacket in his hands and was pulling it over his shoulders. It had hardly been worn, except on rare ceremonial occasions, an admiral’s inspection, a few Sundays in harbour, and some burial duty. He flicked down the lapels and saw his reflection in the mirror by the window. The blue and white ribbon on his left breast above the p
ocket: the Distinguished Service Cross. People still stared at it. Out of curiosity, or perhaps thinking, why him and not me?

  The jacket seemed looser. He thought of his old seagoing uniform, and the sodden working rig he had been wearing when they had hauled him out of the drink. In another wastebin, no doubt.

  He stared into the mirror again, eye to eye for the first time. Like an inspection. His eyes were described in his records as ‘blue’. That was wrong: they were grey, in this light at least, like the North Sea.

  He touched his hair and knew it needed cutting, and soon. He smiled a little and some of the strain left his face, so that it became younger. He could see the strands of white in the dark hair, above the ears, and remembered how it had upset his mother on that last home leave when the boat was having a refit. Even more upset because she had been unable to hide it.

  And the tiny, pale scar above his right eye, no bigger than the head of a match. He no longer felt it. A wood splinter blasted from somewhere during a running battle in the Channel. Nothing now, but an inch lower and he would have been blinded.

  And yet, when they were ashore in the mess they could still make light of it. Because they had to.

  ‘Old sweat’ and ‘over the hill’ were just a part of it. Surviving. Bob Kearton was twenty-seven years old.

  He had been in the navy since the beginning of the war, even earlier, because of his part-time training with the Volunteer Reserve. The Wavy Navy, they called it: the amateurs who had become the true professionals, through hard-won and often brutal experience.

  Youngsters … He found he was gripping one of the heavy black-out curtains. His mind was clear and sharp now. Youngsters like the sub-lieutenant who was in charge of the harbour launch sent to collect him from the M.T.B. which had been his own command until the change of orders. Kearton had handed over to an officer he already knew and liked, but it had still been a hard moment. Meaningless jokes, handshakes, grins: dragging it out. He had scarcely noticed the M.L.’s youthful skipper. His first real authority, weeks rather than months. And his last.