Douglas Reeman - In Danger's Hour

Someone called, ‘It’s free, sir!’

Turnham saw the first lieutenant give a great sigh. Do him good, he thought savagely. Nearly shit himself that time.

Hargrave did not even know or care what the Buffer thought at that moment.

He was remembering his first meeting with Ransome, his crisp comment about accuracy of navigation. Thirty yards. Further than that you’re bloody dead. He could almost hear his voice as he watched the mine dropping slowly astern. With the ships in echelon, Fawn’ s overlapping sweep would either pick up the drifter, or marksmen would do the job. Some mines made a fantastic exploding column of water; others, once punctured by small-arms fire, sank in silence to the seabed.

Mackay’s lamp began to stammer again from the bridge.

Hargrave turned to read it. What happened next was blurred, unreal like a nightmare.

The explosion flung him from his feet, so that he collapsed over the depth-charge rack with the Buffer on top of him.

He struggled frantically to his feet, vaguely aware that the winch was hauling in the sweep, that the ship was leaning forward, sliding from a great wave-crest which seemed to be thrusting them through the water like a surf-board.

He stared wildly at the ship astern. Through belching smoke he caught a brief glimpse of buckled plates and dangling frames; her bows had completely gone, torn off by the force of the explosion. She was already dropping back, the other ships fanning out to avoid a collision.

The tannoy bellowed, ‘Away sea-boat’s crew! Stand by scrambling nets!’

It was already too late. Hargrave found that he was bunching his fists so tightly that they throbbed with pain while he stared at the stricken ship. One of their own. The front of the bridge was caved in like wet cardboard, and he knew that the threadlike scarlet lines down the plating were in fact blood. Everyone on the bridge must have been wiped out.

The communications rating shouted, ‘Bridge, sir!’

Hargrave took the handset, his whole body quivering, out of control.

‘This is the captain.’ He sounded miles away. ‘Take in the sweep. I have told Ranger to take charge. Go with the whaler and see what you can do.’

Hargrave wanted to scream. For God’s sake, why me? He did not recognise his own voice. ‘Very well, sir.’

On the bridge, Ransome returned the instrument to the boatswain’s mate. He saw Sherwood’s pale features, the way he was staring astern like someone stricken by fever.

Ransome said, ‘The mine’s remaining cable must have snared something and pulled it into Fawn’s side. She was an old ship.’ He wanted to shrug, but felt too drained to move. ‘She stood no chance.’

As if to confirm his words Mackay called, ‘She’s going, sir!’

Ransome walked to the gratings and stared at the other vessel’s blunt hull as it began to rise up in the midst of her own wreckage. The bows had dropped completely off, and her forepart, what was left of it, was already hidden. The funnel was still gushing smoke as if she was at full speed, while her abandoned Oropesa float wandered aimlessly nearby as if it had suddenly gone blind.

He saw the whaler pulling through the smoke, Hargrave standing in the sternsheets, the Buffer at the tiller.

Huge bubbles, horrific because of their size, began to rise around the sinking hull, where men thrashed about in oil and coaldust, and others floated away as if asleep.

Ransome had known her captain, Peter Bracelin, a mere lieutenant, very well. He was to have been married in the summer.

There was a great sigh from the watching seamen and stokers as with a sudden lurch the Fawn dived, her unused Carley floats and rafts tearing free when it was already too late to help anyone.

Ransome said, ‘Stop engines.’ He looked at Sherwood. ‘Pipe the motor-boat’s crew away; it’ll save time. Some poor bastards might still be out there.’

Sherwood watched him, his pale lashes covering his eyes. ‘And then, sir?’ He already knew the answer.

Ransome walked to his chair and seized it with both hands.

It could have been us. It should have been.

He said, ‘We will carry on with the sweep, what else?’

Sherwood gave what might have been a smile.

‘Indeed, sir. What else.’

When Ransome made himself look again there was only the usual slow whirlpool of filth and debris to mark the passing of another victim.

He said, ‘Tell W/T to prepare a signal for their lordships.’

He watched the whaler pause on the swell, willing hands reaching down to drag some gasping survivors to safety.

Tomorrow or the next day there would be the usual curt communique in the newspapers, one which would only affect a few people when compared with the whole, mad world.

It would end in the usual way. Next of kin have been informed.

Ransome ran his fingers through his hair and felt his mind cringe.

It’s not enough , he wanted to shout. But then, it never was.

Commander Hugh Moncrieff RNR, the flotilla’s Senior Officer, slumped in the other chair and watched Ransome pouring brandy and ginger ale into their glasses.

Around them the little ship murmured with unusual sounds, strange voices of dockyard maties and their foreman, equipment being winched or dragged aside with tackles. One scuttle was blacked out by part of the basin wall, beyond which Chatham dockyard sprawled out towards the barracks.

The four ships had entered the basin this morning after the usual tortuous manoeuvring through the yard. It looked more like a scrapyard than one which worked day and night to repair and patch up the ravages of war, Ransome thought.

He sat down and pushed a glass towards Moncrieff. ‘Sorry it’s a Horse’s Neck, sir. There’s not a drop of Scotch aboard until I can have a word with the supply officer.’

Moncrieff sat back and pretended to study the glass. It was a bit early in the day for both of them, but what the hell. He watched the strain on Ransome’s face, the dark shadows beneath his level grey eyes.

‘Cheers!’ Moncrieff said. He was a thickset, heavy man with a circlet of pure white hair around his tanned head. His reddened face was a mass of wrinkles, with deep crow’s-feet around his eyes. Dressed in his naval reefer jacket with its three intertwined gold stripes, with a bright patch of medal ribbons above the breast pocket, he looked every inch the old sea-dog. You would have known him for that even if he’d been wearing a pin-striped suit in the City.

Moncrieff said, ‘Got a fast car as soon as I read the signal. Bad show about Fawn. Still—’ He did not finish it.

Ransome tasted the brandy’s fire on his tongue. He felt that it was his first time off the bridge for years. He had not even found time to bath and change before Moncrieff had bustled aboard.

Ransome glanced at the envelope he had put aside for Moncrieff. The full report. He supposed it would be filed with all the others, and then forgotten. In war it was best to forget.

Moncrieff said, ‘You’ve done wonders with Rob Roy .’ He nodded firmly. ‘Smart as paint. I see you’ve not been able to get rid of that rascal Beckett?’ He kept his right hand deep in his pocket while he tilted his glass with the other. ‘What about this Hargrave chap?’

Ransome smiled wearily. ‘Settling in, sir.’

Moncrieff frowned so that his twin white brows were joined like a rime of snow.

‘Bloody hope so.’ He looked round the cabin. ‘God, I do miss her.’

He had shown less emotion when his wife had died, Ransome thought.

Moncrieff was one of those men you rarely heard about. He had been everywhere and done just about everything. A deck officer in the Union Castle Line, he had fought pirates in the Malacca Strait when he had been a mate aboard some clapped-out tramp steamer, had sailed in the Fastnet Race, and had been in so many obscure campaigns that even his medal ribbons seemed a part of a world long gone.