Douglas Reeman - In Danger's Hour

‘Stand by to come alongside starboard side-to.’ He watched the other ship loom from the darkness, the familiar crackle of flames, tiny pathetic figures running, but to where? At least she wasn’t a tanker. The whole sea would be ablaze by now.

He leaned over. ‘Starboard a point, Swain. Steady now.’

He heard Hargrave beside him. ‘Well done, Number One.’ He kept his gaze on the other ship as men ran forward with the Buffer to wedge fenders into place for the impact. It would have to be quick.

‘I – I’m sorry—’

‘Don’t keep apologising. You saw a flaw in the picture.’ Hargrave had obviously been expecting to be blamed in some way.

Ransome said tersely, ‘Stop together! Port ten!’

The ship was towering above the starboard anchor now. They could all smell the fire, the charred paint, even hear the jubilant roar of inrushing water. A ship dying.

‘Get up forrard, Number One. Fast as you like. She’s going to roll over. Haul those poor bastards on board!’

Minutes dragged like hours, and a fire-fighting team dashed into the bows as flames licked over the fairleads and made some of the seamen leap to safety.

To Sherwood, Ransome said, ‘The E-boat was lying low. You know what that means?’

Sherwood’s pale features shone with the orange light from the fires, his eyes like twin flames.

‘She was dropping mines, sir.’

Ransome craned over the screen and saw Hargrave signal with his hands.

He snapped, ‘Half astern together! Wheel amidships!’

Slowly at first and then with sudden desperation Rob Roy’s screws thrashed the sea into a surge of foam as she backed away from the sinking collier.

Ransome heard the thunder of heavy equipment tearing adrift and smashing through the hull, saw the old bows rise as she began to turn turtle. Whoever had been left behind would stay with her.

Hargrave clambered into the bridge. ‘Eight survivors, sir. Two badly burned. The P.O.S.B.A. is coping with them.’

They both watched as the ship dived in a welter of leaping spray and acrid smoke. She did not have far to go, and hit the seabed with such a crash that it felt as if the minesweeper had run aground.

Ransome said, ‘Stop together.’ To Sherwood he added, ‘Resume course and speed.’ He looked at Hargrave. ‘All right?’

‘One of them was nearly burned alive, sir. How can they—’ He broke off as a dark figure handed Ransome a signal flimsy.

Ransome held it beneath the chart table’s hood and said quietly, ‘We shall begin sweeping at 0500, Number One.’ He watched Hargrave’s astonishment. ‘What did you expect, a medal?’

He looked at the rising welter of flotsam from the vanished collier.

‘All part of the job. Now take over while I try and outguess the Krauts.’ He hesitated by the chart table. ‘Nothing moves until we say so. If that’s any comfort, Number One?’

Hargrave heard someone retching and knew it was young Boyes.

They had been in action just moments ago, tracer tearing the night apart while a ship had blown up before his eyes. Now even the moon had gone into hiding, ashamed perhaps for all of them.

Again it was like being cheated. There would be no call to arms, men facing their front to defy the enemy.

Just the cold signal. Begin sweeping at 0500.

Hargrave stepped up beside Ransome’s tall chair and leaned against the screen. Below by ‘A’ Gun he could hear a man whistling as he sponged out the muzzle.

Afterwards he thought it was like a lament.

The weeks which followed Hargrave’s arrival on board Rob Roy were an unending test to his ability and patience as first lieutenant. The strain of minesweeping was double-edged; day after day the routine never changed, sweeping from first light to dusk and often patrols during the night. And yet while there was both boredom and frustration the anxiety of waiting for the unexpected was always there.

Four days at sea, then perhaps one or two in harbour, when tempers flared, or the gripping, suppressed fear erupted into drunken fights ashore, with the inevitable queue at the first lieutenant’s defaulters’ table the next day.

Convoys threaded their way back and forth through the narrows and around the newspapers’ beloved Hellfire Corner. The enemy continued his relentless attack by air, by E-boats, and by bombardment. Men, usually cheerful, disappeared on compassionate leave to return red-eyed and despairing. In some ways it was wrong to have them back, for their private grief, the loss of a wife or family, made them slipshod in a job where carelessness could mean sudden death.

Only from that other war in the Middle East came daily news of success and advances where before there had been retreat and chaos.

The almost legendary Eighth Army, which had been the last line to stand between Rommel’s crack Afrika Korps and the conquest of Egypt, had never stopped hitting back. The infantry must have marched and fought all the way from El Alamein, following the coast through Libya and on into Tunis itself. There had been no stopping them. Now, if the news reports could be believed, the enemy’s retreat had turned into a rout. The once unbeatable German desert army was hemmed in near Cape Bon. After that, there was nowhere else to go but across the water to Sicily or Italy. All those months, famous names of places like Tobruk and Benghazi, which had changed hands so often it was said that the wretched inhabitants kept pictures of both Churchill and Hitler in their cafes until they were certain who was the victor, were a part of history.

Hargrave watched the resentful faces across the defaulters’ table. One of them had been the young seaman Tinker who had returned from leave overdue after fighting a losing battle with the M.P.s. Joe Beckett, the burly coxswain, had told Hargrave in private, ‘’E’s a fine lad, sir, never no trouble, but you know ’ow it is, like. ’Is dad was always away puttin’ up aircraft ’angers, and his mum was ’avin’ it off most of the time with an A.R.P. bloke.’

Hargrave had replied, ‘It’s no excuse. You should know that, Cox’n.’

Beckett fiad glared back at him. ‘’Cause I’m a reg’lar, is that wot you mean, sir?’

‘Partly. And because you are expected to maintain discipline too!’

They had barely spoken since.

The lower deck buzz about leave, or leaf as Topsy Turnham called it, proved to be faulty, so that when the news did come it ran through the whole ship like a tonic.

Hargrave heard it first from the captain when he mounted the bridge to take over the forenoon watch.

Ransome was leaning back in his chair, as if he never left it, letting the warm breeze ruffle his hair, his grubb.y duffle-coat wide open while he stared up at the sky. It was strange to be steaming ahead of their consorts with no tell-tale black balls hoisted, or the Oropesa float skimming above the water far out on the ship’s quarter.

Somewhere to port lay the great expanse of the Thames Estuary, but the land in the early sunshine was merely a purple blur. No Channel guns to watch and estimate their positions, and some chance of an early warning of any sort of air attack.

Ransome greeted him with, ‘What it is to feel the sun, Number One!’ He stretched his arms and gave a huge yawn. In those few seconds he looked like a boy again, Hargrave thought.

‘And another thing.’ Ransome groped in his pocket. ‘Just had a signal. The flotilla is to enter Chatham Dockyard at the completion of the next sweep. Just think, a proper refit for once!’

Emotions chased one another across Hargrave’s features. A chance to see his father perhaps, to obtain a transfer, a different appointment somewhere.