The Glory Boys Read Online Free Page A

built for the Kaiser’s war. Compared with those, the new breed of destroyers like Kinsale seemed giants, superior in speed, armament and performance. They had been deployed at once, mostly in the Mediterranean, and had been in the thick of it throughout those first, decisive months. Now, as far as he knew, Kinsale and one of her sisters were the only survivors of their class. Fine ships, and so often in the news reports: one, the Kelly , had even withstood torpedoes, only to be sunk by bombers during the battles for Crete. She was still remembered, not least because of her flamboyant captain, Lord Louis Mountbatten, who had survived both attacks and was in service again.
    And now Kinsale was going back to the Mediterranean. Rejoining the Fleet, as her commanding officer had remarked almost casually when he and Kearton had been introduced, a few hours before Kinsale slipped her moorings and headed out into the Solent.
    He lay quite still and listened to her now, waking up, albeit reluctantly. Another day: early morning, and still black on deck, but the morning watch taking comfort from the knowledge that all the other hands were being called, to have their breakfast, work ship, and be ready to take over the forenoon watch on time . It never changed: four hours on watch, four hours off. Snatch any sleep you could when you got the chance. He rubbed his chin. He would have a shave … His mind was now fully alert, the uncertainty almost gone. Sometime today they would sight Gibraltar. Kinsale was making good progress, and the navigating officer, whose cabin he was sharing, seemed confident about their E.T.A.
    Throughout the four days he had been aboard he had kept mostly out of the way as the ship’s company went through all the usual drills and exercises: action stations, defence against possible air attack, submarine alert. Even abandon-ship instruction, if only for the benefit of new hands like the youth who had shared the motor-boat at Portsmouth.
    Out into Western Approaches, then south into the Bay of Biscay. It had seemed Kinsale would have the sea to herself. There had been an alarm when an unidentified aircraft had been sighted off the Isles of Scilly, even as they caught a final glimpse of England, but nothing worse. The last sight of home had had far more emotional impact, even if the old Jacks made light of it.
    He sometimes wondered what the commanding officer was thinking about it all. Back to the Med . After a brief visit to England, new radar equipment fitted, a boiler-clean, and maybe a scrap of leave for the lucky ones. They had rarely met during the passage. He was a commander in rank, and obviously proud of his ship, but he remained aloof, spending most of his time on the bridge either sitting on a tall, rigid chair, which was bolted to the deck and in full view of the other watchkeepers, or snatching a few minutes alone in his hutch-like sea cabin, also on the bridge.
    Kearton clambered from the bunk and waited, testing the motion. To give himself more time, delay the inevitable.
    In many ways it would have been easier to take up his new appointment directly from the home base. He had read and reread his orders, if only to stop himself finding flaws in the concise wording. He could almost hear Captain Morgan’s voice dictating them. There would be no flaws.
    He could see the three boats in his mind, ‘D-Boats’, they were termed. Larger and more powerful than all the other motor torpedo boats. He had served very briefly in one as part of a passage crew, while his own command had been undergoing repair.
    He saw his new working rig, battledress, some still called it, swaying from a rail on the bulkhead, replacing the gear he had been wearing when they had fished him out of the drink.
    He heard a clatter from the wardroom pantry: a mug of tea would soon be arriving to start the day. This day. And somebody was laughing.
    After Gibraltar, Kinsale was going back to the war.
    He had never left it.
    The three