Douglas Reeman - In Danger's Hour

Ransome replaced his cap with care and tried to stifle his disappointment. What is the matter with me? Eve would be Tony’s age. But it hurt him all the same.

‘I’ll go up the house and see my mother.’ He groped in his gas mask haversack, which contained several items but no respirator, and handed a tin of pipe-tobacco to him. ‘Duty-free, Jack. Have a good cough on me!’

Weese took it but watched him uncertainly. He had known him all his life, first on the Thames, then here in Cornwall.

Some of the lads had commented on it at the time. Cradle-snatching, that kind of remark. Weese had not realised that it had gone any deeper.

And now this. He studied Ransome as if for the first time. He was the same person underneath. Friendly but reserved; he had been quite shy as a boy compared with his young brother. ’

Now look at him, he thought. Fighting the bloody war, a captain of his own ship, but still just the same uncertain kid who had wanted his own boat.

He said, ‘I reckon Vicar’ll know. They were as thick as thieves during that last visit.’

‘Thanks, Jack.’ He turned towards the houses. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow.’

Weese shook his head. ‘By the old Barracuda, no doubt!’

Ransome clipped the haversack shut and wished he had brought Eve’s drawing with him. It was all he had, all he was ever likely to.

As he walked slowly past the familiar houses bathed in the afternoon sunshine he thought about the torpedoed freighter, the casual way Weese had mentioned it. So even here, the war was never far away. Right now some U-boat commander might be picking his way through a minefield, his periscope’s eye watching this green sweep of land. Thinking perhaps of his own home, wherever that was.

His mother looked older, he thought, but hugged him with her same vigour.

‘You’ve no meat on your bones, son! They don’t feed you enough!’

Ransome smiled. Another misunderstanding, he thought. It was said that the cooks in Chatham Barracks threw away more spoiled food every day than the whole town got in rations.

She was bustling about, happy to have him home. ‘I’ll soon take care of that!’

Ransome saw the two photographs on the mantelpiece above the old fireplace where they burned logs in the winter, and his father had told unlikely ghost stories.

‘Heard from Tony, Mum?’

She did not turn but he saw her shoulders stiffen. ‘A few letters, but we did hear from one of his friends that his flotilla… whatever you call it, has gone to the Mediterranean.’

Ransome tried to remain calm. So much for security.

She was saying, ‘I thank God the war’s nearly over out there.’

Ransome groped for his pipe. The Mediterranean was about to erupt all over again. How could he even hint that Rob Roy would soon be going there too?

She turned and studied him. ‘How is it, dear? As bad as they say? I think of you both all the time—’ She bowed her head, and he took her in his arms to comfort her as her bravery collapsed.

Later that evening as Ransome sat at the table and faced an enormous dinner with his parents, the war intruded once again.

His father had switched on the wireless to hear the news. It was all much the same as Ransome had heard before he had left the ship. Until the very end when the urbane tones of the BBC announcer made the brief announcement.

‘The Secretary of the Admiralty regrets to announce the loss of His Majesty’s Minesweeper Fawn. Next of kin have been informed.’

It was a long time before anyone spoke. Then his father said flatly, ‘She was one of yours, Ian? I’m so sorry.’

As night closed in over the little harbour Ransome mounted the stairs to his room and stared at the fresh curtains, which his mother must have made for his visit so that it would always look as if he had not really been away.

He had changed from his uniform into his oldest shirt and flannel trousers and lay on the bed for a long time, the window open to listen to the breeze, the querulous muttering of some gulls who slept on the roof.

He thought about the Faivn, of another gathering somewhere with more women in black to mark that curt announcement.

Perhaps he would sleep again and dream of the sun across his back while he worked on the boat’s hull. Maybe in the dream she would come once again.

Lieutenant Trevor Hargrave sat at Ransome’s little desk and leafed half-heartedly through the latest batch of signals and A.F.O.’s. Wrecks and minefields to be re-checked or inserted on the charts, new regulations about the issue of Wrens’ clothing, revised designs for ship-camouflage, instructions for firing parties at service funerals. It was endless.

He listened to the muffled chatter on the tannoy speakers, the obedient gales of studio laughter, another comic programme to give a lighter side to the war.

It was strange to feel the ship moving gently again after being propped in dry-dock, her decks snared by electric cables and pipes while the dockyard completed a hasty overhaul of the lower hull before refloating her. Tomorrow she would be warped out to the gunwharf for re-ammunitioning, and for further inspections by the armaments supply officers and fitters.

Now at least they were a ship again, the deck empty of boiler-suited dockyard workers who seemed to spend more time idling and drinking tea than working.

As Campbell had dourly commented, ‘If it’s not screwed down, the buggers will lift it!’

The whole fleet knew about survival rations looted from Carley floats and boats while a ship lay in the dockyard. There were worse stories too, of dead seamen trapped below after being torpedoed, being robbed of their watches and pathetic possessions before they could be cut free from the mess.

Hargrave glanced around the cabin until his eyes settled on the drawing. It was unsigned, and yet he had the feeling that Ransome’s unwillingness to discuss it meant there was much more behind it.

The ship’s company were either on home leave, or ashore locally, leaving only a small duty-watch on board for safety’s sake. Tomorrow the next batch would be packed off to their wives and mothers. More the latter in this youthful company, he thought.

He toyed with the idea of going to the wardroom. Bunny Fallows would be there, the Chief too probably. The rest were away. Even Mr Bone, whose home was in nearby Gillingham, was absent.

Hargrave decided against it. Campbell was friendly enough but kept very much to himself. Fallows, well – he stopped his thoughts right there.

The tap at the cabin door was almost a welcome relief. It was Petty Officer Stoker Clarke, a tough, dependable man who was said to have survived the sinking of his last ship by being blown bodily over the side after the explosion had sent most of his companions to their deaths. He was the only petty officer aboard, with Leading Seaman Reeves, the chief quartermaster, to assist him.

‘What is it, P.O.?’

Clarke stepped warily over the coaming and removed his cap.

‘It’s Ordinary Seaman Tinker, sir.’

Hargrave picked out the youthful sailor’s resentful face from his thoughts.

‘Not back from leave again? I told the commanding officer that—’

Clarke shook his head. ‘No, he’s back aboard, sir. He’s request-in’ to see you. Personal.’

Hargrave said, ‘I’ll see him when I take requestmen and defaulters tomorrow, after we’ve cleared the dock.’

Clarke eyed him stubbornly. ‘He says it’s urgent, sir.’

‘What do you think?’

Clarke wanted to say that he would have kicked the lad’s arse clean through the bulkhead if he had not respected his anxiety. But he said, ‘I wouldn’t have bothered otherwise, sir.’ He made to leave.