The Glory Boys by Douglas Reeman

part: there seemed to be guns everywhere, Turnbull had noticed, even mobile ones just outside these buildings. Not very far from their new moorings. So much for getting any sleep …
    Laidlaw said, “So we’re on stand-by again,” and drank. “I’ve just fuelled up, so we’re not going to be dragging our feet for long.” He glanced at him. “The Skipper—is he bothered? You know him better than anyone.”
    Turnbull shifted his glass on the table. The beer was warm. Flat. They should have stayed aboard, down aft in their own mess, had a few hoarded tots and put up with the stench of petrol from the Chief’s refilled tanks.
    He said slowly, “Out on his feet, I’d think. He’s been with the Big White Chief, then he saw the two other skippers. He was even finding time to write to poor Irwin’s folks, though God knows when they’ll get that.” He leaned back. “Rather him than me!”
    Laidlaw said, “I’ll get a couple more drinks. Then we’d better make our way back for something a wee bit stronger.”
    Turnbull took out a packet of cigarettes. He was trying to give them up.
    He lit one, considering Laidlaw’s question. Maybe he was right about knowing Kearton better than anybody. It happened in this outfit, if you were lucky. But you never knew when it could happen. Like Irwin, and all those others.
    Like this last time. The sound of engines tearing at your nerves, knowing it was real. It was now.
    Is he bothered?
    He rubbed his eyes. He had gone ashore this afternoon to collect some information about transport from the Master-at-Arms’ lobby by the gates, and he had seen the skipper with the dark-haired woman. Walking and chatting like old friends. But how could that be? And he had seen her hold her left hand to her eyes to shield them from the sun, and thought he caught the glint of gold on her finger. That was trouble in any language.
    “Any one sittin’ ’ere, mate?”
    Turnbull saw Laidlaw returning with two full glasses.
    The soldier, a corporal, moved away. “Sorry, mate.” Then he saw the packet of cigarettes. “Duty-frees, eh? All right for some!”
    Laidlaw put the glasses down and shook some spilled beer from his hand.
    “I’ll lay odds the Skipper is doing better than this!”
    They both laughed, and Turnbull was suddenly glad that what he had seen would remain a secret.
    There was probably nothing to it. He reached for his glass. Bloody good luck to him anyway .
    The glass hit the table, beer slopping against the duty-frees, and the canteen was half empty. The familiar alarm was sounding loud and clear over the music, and this time there seemed to be another, shriller note. A double emergency.
    He saw Laidlaw slam down his glass and wipe his mouth with the back of his hand. The glass, like the canteen, was empty.
    “Let’s move it, Harry! I think we’ve got visitors!”
    Then they were both running.
*
    It was coming to a stark and terrible climax. Worse than before, worse than ever, because of the utter silence. There should be voices, a scream, before the explosion. The mine was still there, closer now, sometimes within reach. He was drowning.
    Kearton rolled on to his side and stared into the light, for a few seconds fighting the shadows.
    “Sorry, Skipper—it’s six o’clock. You told me to call you.”
    It had been Ainslie’s hand which had broken the dream.
    The boat was quiet and still, without even the nudge of the moorings or the improvised pier.
    He had his feet on the deck, beside the boots which were always close by, ready for any emergency. Three hours since it had ended. It seemed longer. As if he had been in his bunk for days.
    Ainslie was saying brightly, “I’ve got someone busy in the galley. There’ll be something to drink in half a mo’.” It was a favourite expression of his. “D’you think we’ll be on the move again soon, sir?”
    Kearton stood up and stretched his arms until his fingers brushed the deckhead, his thoughts falling into order.
    “I