Douglas Reeman - In Danger's Hour

She said, ‘I’ll have to go in soon.’ The words were dragged from her. ‘Mother doesn’t like to be alone if the sirens start. Everyone goes down to the shelters now.’ He felt her shiver and tightened his grip on her shoulders. ‘I don’t know if I’m really doing any good here.’

‘I’m quite sure you do.’ They walked across the grass again and he said, ‘I’ll be at the Royal Naval Barracks all tomorrow, maybe longer. My boss is having a few meetings with the top brass.’

‘Can I ask where you’ll be after that?’

He looked away. ‘Overseas. For a while. I shall write as often as I can.’

‘Yes, please.’ Her voice sounded husky. ‘Tell me your thoughts. Share them with me.’

They stood by the gates and Ransome wondered if he would find a taxi. Otherwise it would be a long hike back to the base.

She said, ‘I’m not afraid any more, Ian. It seems so right. I feel as if a great weight has been taken away. You can’t possibly know.’

She looked along the drive. ‘I must go. She’ll come worrying otherwise.’

Ransome turned her towards him. ‘I wish it was broad daylight. I want to look at you all over again.’

She tilted her head, then wiped her cheek with the back of her hand. ‘Kiss me. Please.’

Ransome touched her mouth with his. A quick, innocent kiss, like that time at the railway station.

She said softly, ‘I’ll get better.’ She stepped away. ‘I’ll make a fool of myself any minute.’

Ransome turned once and thought he saw her standing beside the gate’s tall pillar. Then she was gone.

He walked down the road, hearing the breeze in the trees, catching the first breath of the sea as he topped the hill. Waiting. Always waiting. Like a great force which could be evil or kind as it chose for the moment.

He did not have to walk for long; a jeep full of military policemen pulled up beside him.

One redcap asked, ‘Where are you goin’, chum?’ Then, as he saw the gleam of gold lace, ‘Care for a ride, er, sir?’

They dropped him at the gate of the barracks and vanished into the night in search of drunks or deserters.

Ransome found his small room, his shaving kit and spare shirt still packed on the bed. There was a flask too, some of Moncrieff’s Scotch.

He sat on the bed and thought about her face across the table, the warmth of her lips, the strange sense of fate or destiny which they both felt, and no longer challenged.

If he stayed another night he would try to take her out somewhere. Away from the sea, from people. Just walk and talk as they had once been able to do.

He looked at the flask and smiled. He no longer needed it.

The Staff Officer, Operations, an RN commander, greeted Ransome warmly.

‘Good of you to call, Ransome. I feel I already know you pretty well. You and your flotilla have made quite a mark on the map!’

He sent for tea and biscuits and gestured towards a huge wall-chart of the Mediterranean.

He said cheerfully, ‘Nice not to see any bloody swastikas on the North African coast any more, eh?’

Ransome waited while a neat little Wren brought a tray to tea to the room.

The S.O.I, said, ‘It’s to be Sicily, but I think you already know that?’ He stood up and walked to the chart. ‘Combined Allied invasion, with a vital role for the supporting squadrons.’ His finger moved to Gibraltar. ‘We’ve got quite a fleet here already. Big chaps, all of them. It will be no surprise to you that they can’t even move an inch without you clearing the way for them. How does it make you feel – proud?’

‘Useful, sir.’

‘The main supporting flotillas will be combined, so that there are no foul-ups like we’ve had too many times in this war. Like the rest, you will have to be ready to change roles at a moment’s notice. We must get the ‘brown jobs’ on to dry land, Ransome.’ He eyed him grimly, if they get thrown back this time, well—’ He sipped his tea instead of spelling it out.

He continued after a glance at the clock. ‘A flag officer has been appointed solely for that task.’

Somehow Ransome knew who it was going to be.

The commander said, ‘Vice-Admiral Hargrave. Good chap, knows his stuff.’

Ransome thought about it. It should not make any difference who it was. Yet somehow he knew that it did. He wondered where Moncrieff was, why he was not sharing this meeting.

‘So be prepared for sailing orders, Ransome. You’ll be routed with a convoy, that’s about all I can tell you.’ He grinned and looked human. ‘About all I know!’

‘Will Commander Moncrieff still be our senior officer, sir?’

The man pouted his lower lip. ‘I was coming to that. Moncrieff is a fine sailor, but—’

Ransome stiffened in the chair. It would break his heart.

‘He’s used to the home patch, the War Channel, moulding a lot of fishermen into minesweepers. The Med is different. The flotilla will be commanded by a small destroyer, a headquarters ship which can direct and divert as the occasion arises.’ He softened his voice. ‘Commander Moncrieff will be in control until Gibraltar. That’s it, I’m afraid.’

Ransome did not remember much else of the interview. He found a lieutenant waiting for him by the operations room, who explained that Moncrieff had already returned to Falmouth. A car was provided for Ransome, and a signal had already been sent to the flotilla to announce his time of arrival there. So there would be no walks away from the sea.

Moncrieff wanted to be alone, to face up to the decision in his own way.

The same Wren was leaning against the staff car, and opened the door for him as he approached.

He tried to smile. ‘Home, James.’

She studied him and liked what she saw. She knew all about Ransome; most of the girls at the Wrennery did.

Past the saluting sentries and the neat sandbags, Ransome watched her gloved hands on the wheel as she steered the big Humber with reckless enthusiasm around a convoy of army lorries.

‘How long have you been in the Wrens?’

She puffed out her cheeks and blew some hair from her eyes.

‘Six months, sir. Does it show?’

‘No. I was just thinking of someone.’

She grimaced. Pity. She said, ‘My brother’s in Ranger, by the way, sir.’

He looked at her. ‘Who?’

‘The subbie, John Dent.’

A face fell into its slot. A navy within a navy. Like a family, with its own pride and pain like any other.

They reached Falmouth in record time. The girl was still staring after him as he walked towards the jetty where a boat was waiting.

Hargrave was standing with the side-party as he climbed up from Rob Roy’s motor boat, the ‘skimming-dish’, while the boatswain’s mates split the air apart with their shrill calls.

It was the one part of the job he had never got used to, or took for granted.

Hargrave saluted. ‘Welcome back, sir.’ He looked relaxed and pleased about something.

As they walked towards Ransome’s quarters Hargrave said, ‘Orders have just arrived, sir.’

Ransome smiled. The S.O.I, must have known that even as they were talking together. In case I got killed on the road, perhaps?

Hargrave added, ‘Commander Moncrieff is aboard. Sorry, sir, I forgot.’

‘How is he?’

Hargrave was surprised at the question. ‘Er – much as usual, sir.’

So he had said nothing.

Moncrieff was sitting in the cabin, his legs crossed while he thumbed through an old log-book.

He looked up and shrugged. It made him look as if he was in pain.

‘He told you?’

‘Yes, sir. I can’t say how bad I feel about it.’ He watched the disfigured hand resting on the open log, like a pair of crude callipers. It was his old log. When he had still been in command.