Douglas Reeman - In Danger's Hour

He had been standing on a bench in one of the long, underground shelters when he had felt someone watching him.

He had turned to stare into the face of Ordinary Seaman Tinker. He had been hanging from an overhead girder. Ransome said, ‘Don’t forget to write.’

He kissed his mother and walked from the house, without looking back.

Commander Hugh Moncrieff sat behind his desk in a temporary office above the dockyard and puffed heavily on his pipe, it was good of you to come, Ian. When did you get in?’ Ransome stood by a window and felt the sun’s warmth on his face. He did not feel tired now, but it would hit him later in the day. He watched an elderly destroyer in a nearby basin, stripped of almost everything as she underwent the indignity of a hasty refit and a conversion to a long-range convoy escort. Once a sleek destroyer which age and service had overtaken. Now sans everything. A great cloud of red rust hovered over her eyeless bridge, and the air quivered to the thud of rivet guns.

He replied, ‘Early morning, sir. There was a raid on Plymouth yesterday. All the trains were in a real potmess.’

He thought of Hargrave standing across his desk in his small cabin; he had looked strained and unusually pale, as if he had not slept since Tinker’s death.

Moncrieff said slowly, ‘I half-expected you’d ask me to get Hargrave transferred.’

it was not entirely his fault, sir.’ Was that really what he thought? ‘Circumstances, bad luck, a bit of everything. I’d not see him damned because of that.’

‘Thought you’d say as much – hoped so anyway. We lost two more sweepers while you were on leave. On the East Coast run. So we’ll be shorter still of experienced officers and men.’ Ransome smiled. ‘That’s one way of looking at it, sir.’

‘The only way, Ian. If we go on like this—’ He did not finish it. Instead he brightened up and said, ‘The flotilla’s being made up to full strength, one extra in fact.’

‘Oh?’ Ransome turned and looked at him. ‘Newcomers?’

Moncrieff tapped out his pipe. ‘Both foreigners so to speak. One from the Free Dutch navy, the other Norwegian. Both pretty experienced I’m told. I’ll let you have all the guff later on today.’ His eyes gleamed. ‘Still top secret, but you’ll be moving westward as soon as the leave period is completed.’

‘May I ask where, sir?’

‘You may not.’ He chuckled. ‘I’ve laid my hands on some Scotch for you, by the way. It should be aboard Rob Roy by now.’

He became serious again. ‘That boy Tinker. He’d probably have done what he did anyway.’

‘I know that, sir. But he needed to talk—’

‘And you blame yourself for not being there. God, Ian, you drive the ship, you’re not a wet nurse for everyone in her! Tinker’s a war casualty as much as any other. When I think of some of the things that go on while we’re at sea it makes me heave!’

Ransome smiled. ‘Now, about these extra people?’

The old sea dog grinned hugely. ‘Safer ground, eh? Well, you’re getting a doctor. So is Ranger. There’ll be four extra hands for gunnery, and I have to tell you that a new sub-lieutenant is supposed to be arriving today too.’

Ransome stared at him. ‘What shall I do with them all, sir? Stuff them in a magazine hoist?’

Moncrieff pulled a huge dog-eared ledger towards him and frowned. Ransome guessed that he had probably been fighting off his other captains with equal determination.

‘Your midshipman, Davenport, will be leaving in a few months when he gets his first stripe, won’t he? The new sub will be doubly useful then. I see that at least two of your leading hands are due for promotion, and several others are awaiting advanced courses ashore.’ He wagged his pipe at him severely. ‘At this rate you’ll be glad of every experienced Jack you can hold on to. They’re building a whole new bunch of sweepers to replace the losses, and they’ll be bleating for trained hands too. Supply and demand – it all amounts to that, my young friend!’

Ransome looked out of the window again. He was right of course. More ships, new faces, but the same deadly war to prepare them for.

He pictured Fallows as he had seen him an hour ago. Very grave-faced but quietly confident. He knew very little about Tinker’s death, if he had, etc. etc. – No, Tinker had not approached him about leave, and in any case he had been given to understand that the first lieutenant had already refused it.

Ransome wondered about that, but Fallows had lost no time in clearing his own yard-arm.

‘Still brooding, Ian?’

Ransome smiled at the dusty glass. Old Moncrieff could read his mind. It would be good to have him along when they left for the Med.

‘Oh, I was just thinking, sir.’

‘The first lieutenant went over to R.N.B. to meet his father, Wee-Admiral now, no less! Something anyone of us might have done. There was after all, science’s latest triumph, the telephone, if things got out of hand.’ He tapped his thick fingers with the pipe-stem. ‘The Chief was aboard, so was Sub-Lieutenant Fallows, and the Gunner (T) was due back in the early morning. There was the duty-part of the watch, plus a very experienced P.O.’

Ransome looked at him fondly. He had certainly done his homework. ‘I know, sir. I suppose it’s my failing.’

Moncrieff glanced meaningly at the clock. ‘I’ve got to see Dryaden’ s C.O. in a minute. But I shall say the same to him, and I’m sending his chief stoker away on a well-deserved course for promotion, and he won’t care much for that either!’ He held out his left hand. ‘Your failing, Ian?’ He looked at him searchingly. ‘It’s what makes you the best I’ve got.’

By the time he had returned to the ship Ransome had decided to speak with Fallows again, to try and fit in the missing piece.

He waited on the dockside for several minutes as he studied his little ship, his gaze taking in the new double-mountings of twenty-millimetre Oerlikons, an extra winch down aft and a powerful-looking derrick which had replaced the old one. New paint, even a different motor boat in the davits; they had certainly pulled out all the stops. Probably Moncrieff, he decided.

He walked quickly down the steep brow and saluted, then glanced at the duty-board by the quartermaster’s lobby. Apart from Lieutenant Sherwood and the Chief everyone appeared to be aboard.

He nodded to the chief quartermaster, the ruddy-faced Leading Seaman Reeves, the public’s idea of the true sailor, with his silver chain and call tucked into the deep V of his jumper. ‘All quiet, Q.M.?’

Reeves watched him warily. ‘Very, sir. The new doctor’s aboard, and the extra subbie will be joinin’ this afternoon, earlier than expected.’

Ransome looked directly at him. ‘What about Tinker?’

He shifted his feet. ‘We’re all sorry about ’im, sir. Nice kid, ’e was, too.’

‘What do you think happened?’

‘He requested to go back on leave to be with his dad, sir, his old woman bein’ dead, like.’

Ransome waited. ‘And?’

‘Well, it was refused, sir. Like I told the first lieutenant after it w as reported, I was on the gangway when Tinker went ashore. I asked ’im about it, and he said it was local leave, he wasn’t in the duty-part of the watch, y’see, sir. He told me that Bun – I mean Mr Fallows gave him permission.’

‘And you didn’t think to check on it?’

Reeves swallowed hard. ‘It was a bit difficult—’ He saw Fallows’s scarlet face when he had gone down to the wardroom later to tell him what had happened. P.O. Clarke had been with him.

The sub-lieutenant had been beside himself with fury, and barely able to stand.