Douglas Reeman - In Danger's Hour

‘How dare you speak to me like that? Stand to attention when you address an officer, damn you!’

In fact Fallows had been the only one unable to stand upright.

‘I did not see this wretched fellow Tinker, nor did I give him fucking permission to go ashore, see?’

Reeves had been amazed to hear his voice. Like one of their Scottish stokers on a binge.

Ransome nodded. ‘How was he dressed? Did he say anything?’

Reeves frowned. ‘I saw that ’e was carryin’ nothin’ but ’is gas mask, sir.’

‘Which was why you imagined he was going on a local run ashore?’

Reeves faced him. ‘There was somethin’, sir. He said, “They don’t really care, do they?” or somethin’ like that, sir.’ He dropped his eyes under Ransome’s grey stare. ‘I – I’m just sorry I can’t ’elp any more, sir.’

Ransome looked up at the tiny masthead pendant above the radar jampot.

i think you have, Reeves. Now put it out of your mind, O.K.?’

Reeves stared after him and exclaimed, ‘Christ, what a bloke!’ He looked at his hands, expecting to see them still shaking. Young he might be, but the skipper knew every bloody thing in this ship!

When stand-easy was piped, the tea-boat was already passing out mugs of tea in exchange for pence or barter, soap perhaps for the dhobying firm who would wash a sailor’s blue collar better than any housewife, tobacco or ‘ticklers’, and of course sippers of rum from those who were old enough to draw their tot.

Around the scrubbed table of Number Three Mess, the seamen sat in quiet contemplation. They sipped their sickly tea and watched Ted Hoggan, the killick of the mess, as he placed the dead sailor’s few personal effects on the table. It was not much, Boyes thought as he sat wedged between Jardine and a seaman named Chalky White, who had developed a nervous tic in one eye over his months of minesweeping. A new cap with gold wire inscription, a pusser’s knife or ‘dirk’ as they were known, a hand-made ditty-box from which Hoggan, as their senior, had removed some personal letters and a photograph of Tinker himself as a boy at HMS Ganges.

It was the first time Boyes had come up against something like this. He could sense its importance in the faces around him, tough, hardened ones for the most part, who had seen and suffered experiences he could only guess at.

Jardine leaned over and whispered, ‘We’ll raise a few boh from this lot, see? Then we ’as somethin’ to remember the lad by, an’ ’is people will ’ave a bit to put towards – well, things.’

Boyes nodded and opened the flap on his belt where he kept his money.

Jardine saw the ten-shilling note and said fiercely, ‘Not that much, Gerry lad! It’s a sort of token. Not a time to show off ’ow much you got.’

Hoggan tapped the table. ‘Well, mates, this here is a pretty good ditty-box – what do I hear?’

And so it went on until the table was cleared. Boyes sat staring at the knife which he had bought for two shillings. It was exactly a twin of his own, and yet it seemed special, had belonged to a boy like himself whom he had seen only for a few minutes before he had walked away from life.

Leading Seaman Hoggan tipped his tin on to the table and counted the contents with great care.

‘Four pounds, one an’ a tanner, lads.’ He looked at each of them in turn. ‘What d’you think?’

Someone said, ‘His old woman’s gone west, ’ookey, an’ to all accounts ’is dad ’as ’it the jar since.’

Boyes looked at their expressions, half-expecting them to laugh or dispute such a casual summing-up, but they were all deadly serious.

Hoggan nodded. ‘My thoughts too, Dick.’ He scraped the coins into ’is tin again. ‘We’ll keep it—’ he glanced at his world, Number Three Mess. ‘For the next one of us, eh?’

They all nodded and emptied their mugs as if it was a kind of salute.

Hoggan looked at Boyes and gave a sad grin. ‘Learnin’ some-thin’, kid?’

Boyes nodded. ‘Yes, thank you, Hookey.’

Nobody mimicked him this time.

Hoggan patted his arm. ‘You can take Tinker’s locker an’ sling yer ’ammock on ’is ‘ooks from now on, Gerry.’

Boyes stared around at the others and did not know what to say. Such a simple thing, some might say, but to Boyes it was like being awarded a medal.

To close the proceedings the tannoy bellowed, ‘D’you hear there? D’you hear there? Out pipes, hands carry on with your work!’

Tinker had been popular in the mess, indeed throughout the whole ship. But Boyes somehow knew that his name would not be mentioned again.

Rob Roy’s officers stood or lounged around the small wardroom and waited for lunch, the event of the day.

Lieutenant Hargrave sat in a well-worn leather chair and stared at a copy of the Daily Mail , although he found that his eyes remained unmoving more often than not.

He was still dazed by Ransome’s acceptance of his report. He had missed out nothing, had even admitted that he blamed himself for keeping Tinker from going ashore.

Ransome had listened without interruption and had said, ‘You’ll know better next time. If it’s any consolation I think he might have done it anyway. In view of your full, and I believe honest report, I think you acted correctly.’

It was probably the closest they had ever been, Hargrave thought. But he had no doubt of Ransome’s attitude if anything like it occufred again.

He glanced at the others, standing with drinks in their hands, bored with their stay in the dockyard while they waited for the rest of the leave party to return.

The Chief had just come in; he was wearing his best uniform, quite unlike his seagoing rig of boiler-suit or an ancient reefer with ragged and tarnished lace.

Bone the Gunner (T) sat massively on the fender and contemplated a large tankard of beer, his bald pate shining in the deckhead lights. For although they were out of dry dock, the scuttles were still masked by the jetty wall and Ranger on the outboard side.

Hargrave stared at Fallows until the sub looked at him, flushed, and glanced away. As well he might, Hargrave thought. He was even drinking tomato juice. At least Sherwood was still ashore, so there would be no friction for a while. Hargrave’s eyes sparked with sudden anger. If he comes the old soldier again I’ll cut him down to size, hero or not. He heard the midshipman’s incisive voice as he discussed his prospects of promotion with the Chief.

Campbell kept his alert face impassive. ‘I suppose being an old-school-tie type, you’ll soon be up the ladder, eh, Mid?’

Davenport sighed. ‘Well, it helps of course. My father wanted me to go into the army.’ He added vaguely, ‘One of the household regiments, actually.’

Campbell glanced at Hargrave, then walked across to him. ‘Drink, Number One?’

They eyed each other like duellists, then the engineer said, ‘If you will forget it, I can.’ He lowered his lanky frame into another chair and signalled to Petty Officer Kellett. ‘’Nother Horse’s Neck, or whatever it is, for the first lieutenant!’ He regarded Hargrave curiously. ‘What did the Old Man say?’

Hargrave put down the newspaper. ‘Nothing much.’ His own surprise was clear in his voice. ‘In his place I think I’d have hit the roof.’

The Chief grinned. ‘Well, you ain’t, sir! He raised his glass. ‘To a new start, wherever it takes us.’

Hargrave leaned forward. ‘Have you heard something?’

Campbell glanced across at Davenport, who was trying to interest Fallows.

‘Sometimes I feel I’d like to beat the shit out of that pompous little snob!’ He seemed to recall the question and tapped his nose with his glass. ‘I’ve got friends over in the stores. They’re breaking out shorts and fair-weather gear for the flotilla.’