Douglas Reeman - In Danger's Hour

He felt the deck lift and dip down again, and found that he was on edge with a kind of eagerness to see the rest of the flotilla again. Actually it was only half the full group, as the fleet sweepers were working in these waters mainly to back up the many other vessels, ex-fishing trawlers, and the even smaller motor minesweepers, Mickey Mouses as they were nicknamed.

When the whole flotilla of eight ships was together they carried the Senior Officer aboard. Now he had to be content with his office ashore, a gaunt, former holiday hotel which had had its windows blown out so many times they used plywood and sandbags instead.

He smiled as he thought of the Senior Officer. Commander Hugh Moncrieff, a proper old salt from the Royal Naval Reserve, was always good company, but Ransome was glad that his trips to sea in Rob Roy were rare these days. For he had been in command of this ship until handing over to Ransome. Even during the simplest manoeuvre you could feel Moncrieff’s eyes everywhere, no doubt comparing, remembering how he would have performed it. Moncrieff had begged to be returned to a seagoing appointment so many times that even the Flag Officer Minesweeping was getting nasty about it.

Ransome glanced around the bridge. Hargrave had the forenoon watch, and was busily checking the chart. Davenport the midshipman was beside him, supposedly learning from his betters. He was unusually silent, Ransome thought. Sub-Lieutenant Morgan was staring ahead, ever watchful. The others, a signalman and two lookouts, also kept their eyes outboard, back and forth, their glasses sweeping an allotted arc, while overhead the radar, which had already reported the rest of the flotilla on a converging course, watched for anything they might miss.

The ship was at defence stations, with the short-range weapons permanently manned, and the remainder of the hands working akout the upper deck, whilst aft the minesweeping party were busy preparing the float and otter for lowering once the sweep was begun. He could picture Mr Bone directing operations, although it would be Hargrave’s job when they started in earnest. What had got Bone into sweepers, he wondered? They did not normally carry a torpedo gunner, so he must have volunteered. A hard, unyielding man who should have been at home with his grandchildren.

Hargrave stood beside him. ‘Alter course in five minutes, sir.’

‘Very well.’ Ransome groped for his glasses as he saw some men on the forecastle pause to peer across the port bow.

Hargrave said, ‘When I came on watch some of the off-duty hands were hanging about, a few even sleeping near the funnel for warmth.’ He shrugged. ‘I’d have thought they’d be glad to use the extra messdeck rather than that.’

Ransome raised himself in the chair and levelled his powerful glasses. The tide was on the turn so it was closer to the surface, like a slimy, abandoned submarine.

Take a look, Number One.’

Hargrave fetched his glasses from the chart table and stared hard on the bearing.

Ransome watched his profile. ‘That’s a destroyer, HMS Viper, an old V & W class from the Great War.’ He remembered the nausea when he had first passed near the submerged wreck; the sea was even shallower then. He had been in his first minesweeper, an old Grimsby trawler with an RNR skipper who seemed to feel his way about the Channel by the smell of it.

Ransome heard himself say, ‘She hit a mine and went down in fifteen minutes.’

He waited for Hargrave to look at him. ‘You mentioned the hands’ “rig of the day” when we left harbour, right? And just now you wondered why they prefer to shiver on deck rather than go below? The Viper’s commanding officer was a thoughtful man. He sent half his company below to change into their number ones for a run ashore. They would waste less time that way. You can see how near home she was when the mine caught her.’ He did not hide his bitterness. ‘For weeks we had to pass that wreck, and at low water, until the Royal Marine divers could hack their way into her you could see their faces at the scuttles, arms moving in the water as if they were still trying to get out. Those old destroyers had no escape-hatches then, and the scuttles were too small to climb through.’

Hargrave lowered his glasses. It was as if he had seen it for himself.

‘I – I’m sorry, sir. It answers both my questions.’

Later, as the other ships lifted from the sea, Leading Signalman Mackay climbed to the bridge and took over from his assistant. It was as if he knew. A lot of the old hands were like that. Men like Beckett, and the chief boatswain’s mate. They were always nearby when their extra skill might be needed.

Almost at once a diamond-bright light began to blink across the grey, heaving water.

Mackay was using his old telescope. It had been his father’s; he in turn had been a chief yeoman of signals in the peacetime navy.

‘From Firebrand, sir. We were getting lonely.’

Ransome watched the rising pall of smoke as the leading ships drew nearer. Smokey Joes they called them, and no wonder. More veterans from the other conflict, and just about the only coal-fired warships still afloat.

He said, ‘Make to Firebrand. Take station as ordered .’ His mouth softened only slightly. ‘ Follow father.’

Hargrave was watching him. ‘Your last command was one of those, sir?’

Ransome nodded. He could still feel the devastating impact when the mine had caught them halfway along the side of the forecastle. It was like being pounded senseless although he could not recall hearing any sound of the explosion.

He answered slowly, ‘Yes. The Guillemot.’ His eyes were distant while he studied the other minesweepers as they started to turn in a wide arc. ‘Good ships in spite of the coal. They could manage seventeen knots like Rob Roy, with a following wind anyway.’ He smiled, the strain falling away. ‘And we never lost a man.’

Hargrave watched, feeling his hurt for the ship which had gone down under another captain. They had picked up only two. He thought, You never lost a man, you mean.

Ransome raised his glasses and waited for the third vessel to harden in the lenses.

He said,’ Firebrand and Fawn are twins, but the rearmost ship is Dryaden, an ex-Icelandic trawler.’

‘I gather they’re a bit cramped, sir?’ He suddenly did not want Ransome to stop, to shut him out as he had that morning.

Ransome studied the Dryaden’ s perfect lines, her high raked stem and a foredeck which would ride any sea, even a hurricane.

‘This one is a thoroughbred, Number One, not like my old tub. They just threw out the fish and pitched us in. Not like Dryaden at all. She was taken from the Icelanders when our patrols caught her smuggling diesel and stores to U-boats.’ He nodded again. ‘A fine piece of shipbuilding.’

Hargrave remembered the pencil drawing in Ransome’s cabin.

‘Was that your line, sir?’

‘My father owns the yard. I was beginning to get the hang of designing boats.’ He heard the girl’s voice as if she had called out on the wind. Show me what you do. Please.

He said, ‘Fix our position again, then make the turn, Number One.’ He waved towards the salt-smeared glass screen. ‘We lead, the others follow in echelon.’ Ransome forced a smile. ‘Just like you learned in training, eh?’

‘What about Dryaden, sir?’

His eyes hardened. ‘She drops the dan buoys to mark our progress. They call her the blood-boat. No need to stretch the imagination for that, is there?’

As Hargrave returned to the chart Ransome listened first to the radar reports, then to the starboard look-out as he called, ‘Fast-moving craft at Green four-five, sir!’