Douglas Reeman - In Danger's Hour

‘The admiral is probably right. I’m too old for new tricks. I’m a sailor, not a bloody robot. No doubt the new senior officer will have it at his fingertips. Conferences and meetings all the time, that kind of caper.’ He smiled at some old memory and added, ‘You know what I think? From the ashes of today’s conferences will arise the phoenix of tomorrow’s fuck-ups!’

Then he said, ‘Your orders are here. You’re under twenty-four hours’ notice. I’d like to see all the commanding officers this evening, sometime in the dog-watches. I don’t want to make a thing of my immediate future. We’ve still got to reach Gibraltar, you know.’

‘I understand.’ He looked at the clock.

Moncrieff grinned. ‘I thought you’d never bloody well ask. Yes, young man, I’d relish a large drink right noivV

Ransome glanced round the cabin. He was glad Moncrieff would be using it on his last passage in Rob Roy. Ransome would spend most of his time on the bridge or in his sea-cabin there.

It would be bitter for Moncrieff all the same, no matter how he tried to disguise it.

Later, with the other nine commanding officers packed into the wardroom, he had seen no weakening in Moncrieff’s aggressive enthusiasm or his ability to tell all of them what he needed from them; what he expected.

Moncrieff said afterwards, ‘I’ll be ashore tonight, Ian. See you an hour before we leave harbour.’ He studied him thoughtfully. ‘You’re looking better. You’ll tell me why, when you want to, I expect.’

By eight bells that evening every man in the flotilla had been told about sailing orders. Bags of letters would be going ashore in the morning, all carefully censored, just in case. Like the humorous posters you saw in canteens and bars. Be like dad, keep mum! Or a sailor shooting his mouth off to his girl-friend with a barely disguised Hitler or Goering crouching under their table.

After North Africa, the Germans and their Italian allies would be expecting an attack. They could not guard the whole coastline from Greece to France. But just one hint…

There was a tap at the door. Hargrave stepped in and asked, ‘I was wondering, sir, would you join us in the wardroom? They would all appreciate it.’

Ransome smiled. ‘Of course. We may be a bit busy later on.’ He would go ashore and telephone from there. His parents too.

He glanced up as Leading Telegraphist Carlyon hovered outside the open door. ‘Come in, Sparks.’

To Hargrave he said, ‘After you’ve had your meal, Number One, all right?’

Neither of them noticed Carlyon’s stricken expression.

Ransome took the signal flimsy from the telegraphist’s hand.

Hargrave smiled. ‘Don’t tell me it’s cancelled after all.’

Ransome reread the neat printing. It was like hearing a voice.

He said quietly, ‘It’s my brother. He’s been reported missing, presumed killed.’

He recalled her voice. Was it only last night? It was not our choice.

Hargrave looked at Carlyon and jerked his head. As the rating left he asked, ‘What can I do, sir?’

Ransome thought of the boatyard. His parents must have been told about the same time as he had been with Eve.

He replied, ‘You’re doing it right now.’ He glanced at the old personal log which Moncrieff had left behind.

‘I’ve seen a lot of people just lately whose lives have been knocked about.’ But in his heart he was screaming. Not Tony. Not him, for Christ’s sake. His voice was flat and unemotional as he said, ‘We still have a war to worry about. Deeper than that, we have this ship and the eighty-odd people who depend on us because they have no choice either.’

Hargrave watched him, stunned by it. Unable to think clearly.

‘I – I’ll tell the others, sir.’

‘No. I’ll come down as I said I would.’ He stared at the slip of paper which had changed everything, it’s nobody’s fault.’

Hargrave tried not to glance at the framed photograph, of a midshipman who looked so like Ransome. Just a boy. It made the war stamp right into the cabin like a monster.

Ransome looked up from the desk. ‘Just leave me a while, Number One. I’ve a couple of phone calls to make.’

As the door closed silently behind him the ship seemed to withdraw too.

He remembered his stupid jealousy when Tony had taken her to a dance, of his perpetual eagerness to get the most out of life. He picked up the telephone, and after a lot of clicks he was connected to the switchboard ashore.

What shall I say to them? They’ll expect me to come home, when I belong here, now more than ever…

I must speak to Eve. Tell her I can’t see her until…

He ran his fingers through his hair and stared at the signal until his eyes stung.

Aloud he said, ‘Oh dear God, help me!’

The operator coughed. ‘The number’s ringing for you, sir.’

It happened all the time, every day. Others had had to cope with it. If he could not contain his despair he was not fit to command. Men would die, and it could be his fault because —

He heard the familiar voice in his ear and steeled himself.

‘Hello, Dad, I’ve just heard about Tony…’

Ordinary Seaman Gerald Boyes gripped the ready-use chart-table for support and watched as the side of the upper bridge dipped steeply in the heavy swell. It was as if the great shark-blue procession of rollers was climbing over the ship before Rob Roy skittishly lifted her stern and pitched over on the opposite beam. It was all so new and breathtaking he could barely drag his eyes from it.

The bridge was filled with all the usual watchkeepers, but no one seemed to be paying him much attention. He had cleaned the chart-table, sharpened the nagivator’s pencils and checked the bulb in the tiny, hooded bracket which by night was concealed by a canvas screen. It was halfway through the forenoon watch, the little ship lifting and plunging, hanging motionless for seconds or so it appeared, before attempting a different position.

Boyes glanced at the captain’s chair in the forepart of the bridge behind the glass screens. It looked wrong to see it empty. Ransome was always there, had been for the long four days from Falmouth into the vastness of the Atlantic before joining up with an impressive convoy.

Boyes had sensed new excitement and tension as the ships had been rounded up like sheep, chased and harried by powerful fleet destroyers before forming into columns for the long haul to Gibraltar. Boyes, in his duty of acting-navigator’s yeoman, felt privileged to pick up the rumours which circulated every watch amongst the elite on the bridge.

It was a convoy to rouse anyone’s attention, he thought, but the escort had been equally exciting. A heavy cruiser as well as the destroyers, and bang in the middle, a carrier. Not one of the big fleet ones, like the famous Ark Royal or Illustrious, but a stubby escort-carrier. A merchant ship’s hull with a wooden flight-deck, a banana boat as some of the old hands called them. But the little escort-carriers had changed the whole face of every convoy lucky enough to enjoy their protection. No longer were there great areas of ocean where air-cover could not reach or be provided.

A Focke-Wulf Condor, one of the huge long-range maritime bombers, had found the convoy the second day out. But the sight of three Seafires being scrambled from the carrier had soon sent the enemy racing for home. Whereas before, these same aircraft would circle a convoy, day in, day out, just beyond the range of the guns, and all the while homing U-boats on to a helpless target.

They had not seen another enemy plane after that incident.