Douglas Reeman - In Danger's Hour

Hargrave snapped, ‘I’ve not finished yet!’

‘Oh?’ Clarke eyed him calmly. He had suffered too much, gave too much each day to conceal it, to put up with officers like the Jimmy who always seemed to want to go by the book. ‘Thought you had, sir.’

‘Don’t be impertinent.’ He knew he was getting nowhere. ‘So fetch him in now, all right?’

Clarke withdrew and found the young sailor waiting in the passageway. In his best uniform he looked even more helpless, he thought. Tinker was a good lad, always cheerful and willing to learn. Or he had been once. The whole ship knew about his mother playing open house while Tinker’s dad was away. Nobody joked about it. There were too many men in the navy who might be wondering about the faithfulness of their loved ones at home. Especially with all the Yanks and hot-blooded Poles running about the country.

‘He’ll see you.’ Clarke straightened Tinker’s neatly pressed ‘silk’ which was tied beneath his blue collar. ‘Keep yer ‘air on, my son. Just tell ’im what you told me, an’ no lip, see? Or you’ll end up in the glasshouse, and you won’t like that!’ He gave his arm a casual punch to ease his warning. ‘I wouldn’t like it neither.’

Tinker nodded, ‘I’ll remember, P.O.’

He stepped into the cabin and waited by the desk. The first lieutenant looked much younger without his cap, he thought.

Hargrave glanced up at him. ‘Well, what’s wrong?’ It sounded like this time.

Tinker said, ‘My dad, sir. He’s been out of his mind since – since—’ he dropped his eyes. ‘If I could be with him. Just a few more days. I’d make up for it later on, I promise, sir.’

Hargrave sighed, ‘But you’ve just had leave. Would you make another man give up the right to go home so that you can get extra time in his place?’

Tinker was pleading. ‘Able Seaman Nunn has offered, sir. He’s got nowhere to go, not any more.’

Hargrave frowned. Another undercurrent. A home bombed, or a wife who had been unfaithful.

He said, ‘You see, it’s not in my province to offer you something beyond the bounds of standing orders. Perhaps later on—’

The boy stared at the carpet, his eyes shining with tears and suppressed anger.

‘Yes, I see, sir.’

Hargrave watched him leave and grimaced. Tomorrow he would telephone the welfare section and speak with the Chief Wren therw, unless —

He almost jumped as the telephone jangled on the desk.

He snatched it up. ‘Yes? First lieutenant.’

There were several clicks, then a voice said, ‘Found you at last, Trevor!’

Hargrave leaned forward as if he was imagining it.

‘Father? Where are you?’

The voice gave a cautious cough. He probably imagined there was a Wren on the switchboard listening in to their conversation.

‘Next door at R.N.B. Thought you might care to join me for dinner. There are a couple of chaps I’d like you to meet. Very useful, d’you get my point?’

‘It’s just that I’m in charge here.’ He stared around the cabin as if he was trapped. ‘The captain is—’

‘Don’t say any more. Have one of your underlings take over. God, it’s only spitting-distance away, man!’

It was unlike his father to be so crude. He must have been drinking with his friends. Hargrave felt a surge of envy, the need to be with career officers senior enough to free his mind from the drudgery and strain of minesweeping.

His father was saying, ‘If any little Hitler tries to get stroppy, just tell him to ring me .’ He gave a husky chuckle. ‘But to ask for Vice- Admiral Hargrave now!’

Hargrave swallowed hard. ‘Congratulations, I mean—’

‘I’ll tell you at dinner. Must dash.’ The line went dead.

Hargrave leaned back, his hands behind his head. It was not all over after all. Strange, he had not expected it would be his father who would ride to the rescue.

Outside in the passageway Petty Officer Clarke said, ‘Well, we tried, Tinker. Be off to your mess, eh?’

Clarke watched the slight figure move to the ladder. Poor, desperate kid. He glanced at the door and swore savagely.

With some alarm he imagined that he had uttered the words aloud because the door opened immediately and the first lieutenant strode from the cabin.

He saw Clarke and said, ‘I shall be ashore, at R.N.B., this evening. Sub-Lieutenant Fallows will do Rounds with you.’

‘Aye, aye, sir.’ He tried again. ‘About young Tinker, sir.’

‘Look, it’s over and done with. Young he may be, but he knows the score as well as any three-badgeman. So there’s an end to it, P.O.!’

He strode aft towards his quarters.

Clarke nodded slowly. ‘That’s bloody right , sir. ’E comes to you for ’elp and you tells ’im to sling ’is ’ook. While you go an’ stuff yerself in the barracks wardroom!’ If only the coxswain was here, he thought. He’d have probably sent the kid ashore without asking anybody’s permission. But he was the only one who might get away with it.

Clarke went to his mess and said to the sailor on duty, ‘Get me a wet. I don’t care wot, I don’t much care ’ow. Just get it!’

The man did not bother to remind the petty officer it was only four in the afternoon.

Clarke called after him, ‘An’ you can join me! I don’t feel like sippin’ alone just now!’

The sailor came back with a jug of what Clarke guessed was hoarded tots.

He felt better already. ‘Ta, very much.’

The man grinned, ‘I just ’eard that Mr Bunny Fallows is gettin’ tanked up already.’

Clarke paused in mid-swallow. ‘Christ. I’d better get down aft a bit sharpish. Jimmy’s ashore tonight.’

He found Fallows in the wardroom, squatting on the padded club fender by the unlit fire, a large drink in his hand, his face almost as red as his hair. He was just a youngster, probably not even twenty-one. God, he’ll look like something from Skid Row when he gets to my age, Clarke thought.

‘Yes, what is it?’

Clarke wished that the Chief, his own boss, was here. He never got in a flap, never pushed his stokers to do what he had not done himself a million times.

‘The first lieutenant’s compliments, sir, and—’

Fallows gave a knowing grin. ‘Come on, man, spit it out! This is not a court-martial, y’know!’

He was already losing his posh accent, Clarke noticed. He thought, It’s a pity it’s not yours. He said, ‘He’s going ashore this evening, sir.’ He watched the glass empty in one swallow. ‘I’m to do Rounds with you, sir.’

Fallows considered it for several seconds. ‘Righty-ho, can do! Got fuck-all else on tonight anyway.’ He tapped his nose with the empty glass. ‘But tomorrow, that’s something else, eh?’ He gave a little giggle.

Clarke breathed out with relief. Drunk or sober, he could handle the red-haired subbie. He had expected him to fly into a rage like he often did. That was something he could not manage, not after the Jimmy’s behaviour.

He withdrew and heard Fallows yelling for the messman.

Later after a hearty supper of shepherd’s pie and chips, Petty Officer Clarke was sitting alone in his mess, a glass at his elbow while he wrote a letter to his wife in Bromley.

The chief quartermaster tapped at the door and said, ‘The first liberty men are comin’ off, P.O. Seem quiet enough. Shall I tell the O.O.D.?’

‘Hell no, I’ll come up meself.’ He reached for his cap and heavy torch. The latter was useful in a darkened ship; it also came in handy to pacify a drunken liberty man.

He added, ‘Our Bunny’s smashed out of ’is mind. God knows what the Jimmy will have to say.’

Reeves grinned. ‘Who cares, eh?’ They walked out on deck. It was almost dark, with gantries, ships’ masts and funnels standing against the sky like jagged black shadows.