Douglas Reeman - In Danger's Hour

‘Anyway.’ He made up his mind. ‘I’m putting Ranger’ s captain in charge during the leave period. He was the last commanding officer to have any decent time ashore.’

Ransome thought of Lieutenant-Commander Gregory, Ranger’s captain. He had hurried aboard within minutes of docking in Chatham, just ahead of Moncrieff.

He had said, ‘But for that bloody dan buoy, Ranger would have been astern of you, as always.’ He had looked round despairingly, which was rare for him. ‘God, it would have been us!’

Ransome had replied, ‘We all think that, James, every bloody time. So forget it.’ He smiled sadly. He was a fine one to talk.

Moncrieff saw the small smile. It did not reach the eyes, he thought. A man would only stand so much. Command of any ship, battle-cruiser or M.L., took its own toll of a man’s last resources. This small offering of leave might do the trick. It must help anyway.

Moncrieff asked, ‘Where will you go, Ian?’

Ransome shrugged. ‘Home, I suppose. I’ve not had much time with my parents since I got Rob Roy.’

He did not want to talk about it. He asked, ‘Are you going to tell me why we’re here, sir?’

Moncrieff’s bright eyes twinkled and almost vanished into folds of crow’s-feet.

‘Cheeky bugger, Ian.’ He offered the empty glass. ‘Fill this up, eh?’

Ransome did as he was told. In some ways Moncieff was more like a father than his Senior Officer. But God help him if he had bumped the dock wall as they had moored. He had seen Moncrieff’s keen stare as he examined the ship for possible damage, neglect, he would call it.

Then Moncrieff said, ‘It’s Top Secret, of course.’ Their eyes met.

Ransome waited, wondering how he would react, preparing himself.

Moncrieff said, ‘It’s the Med. We’re going to need a lot of fleet minesweepers out there. So that’s what this overhaul is all about. You’ll not get much opportunity later on.’

‘That’s nothing new, sir.’

They both smiled. Then Moncrieff added, ‘In Rob Roy’s case, it’ll mean a couple of new gun mountings. Two pairs of Oer-likons instead of the two singles, and a few other bits and pieces. No need to bother your head about that just now.’

Ransome pictured it. More guns meant extra hands. The ship was already overcrowded; they all were.

‘You and Ranger will be carrying doctors too.’

Ransome nodded slowly. Doctors were rare in small ships. He said, ‘We’re going to invade, sir? The other way round for a change?’

Moncrieff frowned. ‘I’ve said nothing. Keep it to yourself, but yes, I think an invasion is in the wind. Sicily is my guess.’

There was a tap at the door and Hargrave poked his head around the curtain.

‘Come in, Number One.’

Moncrieff nodded. ‘How d’you do?’ As usual he did not remove his hand from his pocket to take Hargrave’s as he made a half-attempt to offer it.

Ransome marked his expression. He would see it as a snub, or rudeness from another reservist. In fact, Moncrieff rarely showed his hand except to throw up a casual salute. He had lost his three middle fingers in an air attack at Dunkirk. His hand was like a crude pair of callipers. It was fortunate that he was left-handed anyway.

Moncrieff said bluntly, ‘You think sweeping a bit of a letdown, eh?’ Then he shook his head, ‘No, your C.O. didn’t tell me anything. I guessed it.’

He warmed to his pet theme. ‘There was a time, when this war started, when reservists were outnumbered by the regular navy. Looked down on in some ships, I would say. Well, as you now know, that situation has fortunately changed. All these young men you work with joined up for one thing only, to fight the Hun – not to make a nice comfortable career for themselves, right?’

‘I didn’t see it like that, sir.’

‘Good.’ Moncrieff glanced at his empty glass. ‘’Cause if you did, I’d remind you that but for these Wavy Navy chaps and old codgers like meself, Mr bloody Hitler would have run up his flag over Buck House two years ago!’

Ransome felt sorry for Hargrave and asked, ‘What did you want, Number One?’

Hargrave took the question like a lifeline. ‘It’s the base padre on the telephone, sir.’ He looked at Moncrieff. ‘About a service for Fawn.’

Moncrieff struggled to his feet. ‘Yes, I forgot. I suppose it won’t hurt to have a few words with God. Can’t help poor Peter Bracelin though.’

He turned and stared at Ransome. ‘You’ve earned a rest, fifty times over, Ian. So use it. Lose yourself. Leave this little lot to me.’ He held out his uninjured hand and shook Ransome’s very gently. ‘And don’t worry about Rob Roy either. She’s my next of kin now.’

They went on deck together and watched a khaki ambulance pulling away from the brow. The last of Fawn’s survivors who had died while the ship had headed up the Medway.

All told, Fawn had lost thirty of her company.

They had all worked together for many months, a lifetime in any war. They would be sadly missed. So would Fawn. Ransome saluted as Moncrieff strode heavily across the brow. Poor old Smokey Joe.

He said, ‘Get the people away on leave, Number One. The cox’n and leading writer will help you. They know what to do.’

‘I was wondering, sir—’

Ransome watched him calmly. Invasion. It was like seeing it in bright painted letters a mile high. The where didn’t much matter. They only had to care about the how.

He said, ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to forget it, if you were about to ask me about leave, Number One. I need a good officer here in my absence. And, well, let’s face it, Number One, you’ve only been aboard a dog-watch. Right?’

Hargrave gave a rueful grin. ‘Understood, sir.’

I doubt that, Ransome thought. He said, ‘It’s ten days. I’ll see what I can do for you.’

That evening Ransome left the ship. It felt like no other time. The emptiness, the stillness, the voices and daily routine already like another memory.

He waited in the dusk and looked down at her. Tomorrow she would stand upright in dry-dock.

Ransome turned and walked quickly towards the gates. But that was tomorrow.

The train from Waterloo’s mainline station seemed to wait for ages before it eventually moved off. Unlike the first part of the journey from Chatham when the train had been filled mostly with sailors, this one was crammed almost to bursting-point with a strong proportion of all three services.

Gerald Boyes was fortunate and had a window-seat, although with anti-blast netting pasted across the glass it made little difference, except that he was only being squashed from one side. It was a corridor train, and that too was packed. Boyes noted that he had not seen a single civilian climb aboard, or maybe they had been no match for the wild stampede of servicemen, partly rushing to avoid losing a precious minute of their leave; also by sheer weight of numbers some had hoped to crash through the handful of military policemen and railway inspectors to prevent anyone from discovering they had no tickets.

There had been a brief hit-and-run air-raid on London, someone said. Another complained that the train was too overloaded to move. Boyes glanced at his companions; curiously they were all sailors although he did not know any of them. It never failed to amaze him that they could sleep instantly, anywhere, and without effort.

He had seven days’ leave. His stomach churned with both excitement and uncertainty at this unexpected break. He had tried to sleep on the slow, clattering journey from Chatham through the Medway towns and finally to London. It was different from the last leave when he had been so full of hopes for his chance of getting a commission. He could still feel liis mother’s disappointment, as if it was some kind of slur on her and the family. But the events of the past weeks had changed him, although he could not understand how. When he had tried to sleep on the train he had found no peace, but had relived the terrible moment when he had seen Fawn explode and disintegrate. The survivors hauled aboard, some coughing and gasping, black with coal-dust and oil, others horribly burned so that had he wanted to look away. As a boy he had always imagined that death in battle had dignity. There had been none there on Rob Roy’s deck as Masefield the petty officer S.B.A. had knelt amongst them, working with dressings and bandages, his expression like a mask.