Last Voyage of the Valentina(30)
“What do you make of this place, sir?” asked Lieutenant Jack Harvey, standing beside him on the bridge.
On Jack’s shoulder perched the little red squirrel that had accompanied him everywhere—from North Africa, where the acrid smell of death and mutilation had been tempered by the cheap whorehouses of Cairo and Alexandria, to Sicily, where even the bombings from German Messerschmitts had not dampened his enthusiasm for adventure. Brendan, named after Churchill’s redheaded crony Brendan Bracken, lived in Jack’s pocket, having defied authority for the duration of the war. He had earned his place in this family of eight battle-weary men with his indomitable spirit and strong instinct for survival. He was now a symbol of hope as well as a reminder of home.
“Beautiful, Jack,” Thomas replied. “As if time has stood still for about three hundred years.” After the darkness of war it was surreal to be blinking in the light of such tranquillity. “Are we in Heaven?”
“I’d say if I didn’t know better. It’s so green and vibrant! What about we hang around for a bit?”
“Take a holiday, you mean? There’ll be more action in this sleepy town than in the entire Med, I suspect. Still waters run deep,” said Thomas with a chuckle, raising an eyebrow suggestively. “I could do with a bath and a decent meal.”
“And a woman. I could do with a woman,” added Jack, running a tongue over his dry lips, recalling the nubile girls he had tasted on leave in Cairo. When he wasn’t in action he could think of little but Brendan and his cock, not necessarily in that order.
“Now you’re talking,” agreed Thomas, whose mind often wandered to Shirley, who sent him perfumed love letters and food parcels. Shirley, who in a fit of postcoital delusion he had promised to marry if he survived. Shirley, who would be intolerable to his parents as a daughter-in-law by virtue of the fact that her father was the local builder. “We could all do with that!” he said, remembering Shirley.
Since the Allied forces had moved north there was relatively little action at sea. His job now was to patrol the Italian coastline, keeping the Allied supply lines open. Thomas had commanded the 70-foot Vosper, nicknamed Marilyn, for over three years now, based first in Alexandria, then Malta, Bône on the North African coast, and finally Augusta after the invasion of Italy. He—and she—had been in the thick of it: from aiding the landings in North Africa to nightly patrols of the Straits of Messina during the Sicily landings of July 1943. After that he had been used for clandestine operations by Special Services, which involved landing secret agents and supplies on Crete and Sardinia. Thomas was known for his daring and courage, especially during the dark days of 1942 when the devastating offensive against Malta peaked, nearly destroying the entire dockyard as well as practically all the Malta-based aircraft. MTBs were small and swift, capable of moving unseen over moonlit waters, penetrating minefields and harbor defenses, and sneaking up close to fire torpedoes at enemy vessels before speeding off into the night. The adrenaline rush was enormous. Since the death of his elder brother, Freddie, Thomas barely felt alive unless he was on the very edge of life’s blade. He felt more comfortable when he didn’t have time to feel guilty that while Freddie had died, he lived.
He had lost friends—everyone had—but no loss had been as devastating as that of Freddie, whom he had always looked up to, yearned to be like, and loved with the devotion of a dog. He had had a mountainous personality, Freddie, unbounded drive and ambition. He had been destined for greatness, not a gloomy grave at the bottom of the sea, entangled in the twisted wreckage of a Hurricane. No, Freddie had seemed immortal. If death had claimed Freddie, then death could claim anyone at any time. This left a deep and nagging scar on Thomas’s soul.
Thomas would have followed Freddie into the air force had his mother not intervened, arguing tearfully that two sons in the air was like sending both to God “and I’m not ready to hand you back, yet.” She would not have it. So Thomas had left Cambridge and signed up for the navy. He had been envious of Freddie; he was not envious now. Somewhere beneath his boat, in this vast, unforgiving sea, Freddie’s body was swept about on the eternal current.
The boat motored into the harbor. The early morning mists hung over the hills and Thomas breathed in the woody scents of pine and eucalyptus, a welcome antidote to the saline smell of the sea. The crowd of townspeople stood waving, attracting more people who gathered around like a herd of curious sheep. He noticed a small boy raise his hand in the fascist salute before his mother hastily slapped it down and gathered him into her arms. Il sindacco, the town mayor, stood polished and preening on the quayside beside the local carabiniere, who wore a grubby khaki uniform with large brown sweat patches beneath his armpits. He puffed out his chest like a fat turkey bristling for prime position, and adjusted his hat importantly. In spite of the war, his belly was fat and drooped over his trousers. Neither man had seen any action since the Allies had landed, sending the Germans scurrying up north. Now was their moment to assert their authority and reclaim their sense of value.