Douglas Reeman - In Danger's Hour

‘It’s from the vice-admiral’s secretary, no less. In it he “suggests” that a party given by us might be the best and most informal way for the admiral to meet our commanding officers.’

Hargrave replied quickly, ‘My father said nothing of it to me, sir, and that’s the truth.’

‘Thank you. I never doubted it. But it sounds like a command all the same, so lay on the party, right? It might be the last for quite some time.’

He gave Hargrave a thoughtful glance. It’s been brought forward. Two weeks from now. Top Secret, but you should know in case—’

Hargrave stared at him. He had never considered it from that angle. That Ransome might be unable to retain command, that he could be injured, even killed, before the invasion began. He felt the sweat trickling down his spine. Surely that wasn’t what his father had meant about a ship of his own.

Ransome said, ‘Arrange shore leave for all but the duty-part of the watch, Number One.’ He was formal again. ‘I believe there are two men requesting to see me?’

Hargrave nodded. How did he know that already? ‘Bad news from home for both of them, sir. I don’t see what we can do about it now.’

Ransome half-smiled, ‘I can talk to them. It’s the least I can do.’

Hargrave stood and made to leave. ‘The Chief wishes to discuss the new pumps with you, sir.’

‘Ask him to come now, will you?’

As the door closed Ransome leaned back and massaged his eyes. It never ended. He thought of Bliss’s words. I command this group now. He should have added, ‘And don’t you forget it!’ Ransome recalled too when he had obtained his own first command, the poor old Guillemot. He had looked up the meaning of command in his dictionary. It had been quite an ancient version and one definition had been, ‘To demand with authority.’ It fitted Bliss rather well.

It was evening by the time he had dealt with the Chief and his problem of spare parts for the new pumps, seen the doctor about a seaman whom he had put ashore with the first signs of gonorrhoea, and finally made several operational signals both to the Admiralty and to the Flag Officer Gibraltar. He felt drained. The one redeeming fact about the luckless rating sent to the V.D. clinic was that he was a new hand, who had joined the ship at Chatham. He would certainly miss the invasion anyway, and might well end up in the glasshouse as payment for a few moments of doubtful pleasure.

Fie smoked his pipe, took a glass of Scotch and listened to one of his Handel records. The liberty boats squeaked their fenders alongside to mingle with the jubilant chatter of shore-going sailors, then came the pipe to clear up messdecks and flats for Rounds.

At times like these he was grateful for his privacy. He pictured Moncrieff arriving in England. No ships to visit, to be part of. How would he cope? Ships were all he knew, all he had left.

Eventually he knew he was ready. Very carefully he opened bis writing-case, the one his mother had given him for his last birthday, and picked up his pen.

It was easier than he had dared to hope. It was not like writing to her. It was as if she was here, listening to him, or sitting with her bare legs tucked beneath her chin in the old boatyard where it seemed as if the sun had always shone.

My dearest Eve, We did not have that walk together which I had promised for us, but I walk with you every day, and we are together…

Apart from Sub-Lieutenant Fallows, Rob Roy’s wardroom was deserted. Even the old hands like Bone and Campbell who had little to say in favour of the Rock’s attractions had gone ashore, and aboard Ranger tied alongside the situation was the same.

Fallows decided that he would go ashore tomorrow, perhaps before the wardroom party. He glanced down at the single stripe on his shoulder strap and considered his future. A second ring very soon now, but what then? You needed a push, a friendly word in the right places, and Fallows was not so much of a fool that he did not know his own unpopularity. But it had not been easy for him. He had nothing but determination and guts. Even the captain had seemed satisfied with his work and would have to say as much in his personal report.

He thought of the others. Bone and the Chief did not count, but young Morgan would do well because of his navigation qualifications if nothing else. Even the newcomer Tritton – just thinking of his name made Fallows burn with anger and humiliation. Bunny Tritton. He too seemed so full of confidence. Fallows had never got to know Sherwood, but then he suspected that nobody ever really knew him. On the face of it he should have had everything. He felt envy replacing his anger. Sherwood came from a prosperous family, should have had the world at his feet even after his family had been wiped out. Suppose my own family were killed? Fallows swallowed his neat gin and coughed.

He did not need to seek an answer, not if he had been in Sherwood’s shoes. Sherwood had known the life Fallows had only dreamed about. Cruise ships, and luxury yachts, good hotels and women probably eyeing him whenever he passed; Fallows could imagine it all. With his background, and especially when he had tempted death to gain the George Cross, second only to the VC, he could have found a safe and comfortable billet anywhere he chose. And after the war, he would never have to work again.

Fallows avoided thinking of Hargrave. He had sensed his disapproval, dislike even, from the start. Another one who had it made, no matter how things turned out. A naval family, his father a flag-officer, and right here in the Med to offer a leg-up as soon as it presented itself – no, he would get nothing out of him.

He saw the duty messman watching him. He was a seaman-gunner named Parsons who chose to act as a steward rather than work another part of ship when not employed on ‘A’ Gun. As gunnery officer, Fallows had been instrumental in getting him what was both a soft number and a lucrative one.

‘Another gin, Parsons.’ Fallows never said please or thank you to a rating, £le thought it was beneath him.

Parsons fetched the bottle and, while he measured the gin, watched the ginger-haired sub-lieutenant as a milkman will study a dangerous dog. The big shindig would be tomorrow. They would be working fit to bust, he thought. Ted Kellett the P.O. steward would have all his work cut out. He couldn’t be everywhere at once. With the place packed with officers all downing free gins it would always be possible to fake a few records. There would be some bottles going spare, unaccounted for, and Parsons always knew where he could sell duty-free at the right price for a nice, handy profit.

He put down the glass. So Bunny was drinking again. That was something. He was a bastard, one of the worst Parsons had known, but he had eyes like a bloody hawk when he was sober.

Parsons began warily, ‘I was wondering, sir, if we could clear up the accounts before the party?’

Fallows frowned, his train of thought disturbed. ‘What d’you mean?’

Parsons had been a pub barman before the war in Southampton. Like the milkman and the dog, he could usually spot the signs. He said in a wheedling tone, ‘It’s not me, sir, you know that, but the Jimmy the One has been riding all of us a bit over the mess bills, an’ things.’

’And?’ Fallows stared at him. He had not taken a real drink for so long it was making his mouth and tongue numb.

‘Well, sir, you didn’t sign your mess chits—’

Fallows slammed down the glass. ‘What the bloody hell are you yapping about? I always pay my bills—’ He contained his anger and asked sharply, ‘When was this anyway?’

‘In Chatham, sir. You’d been working very hard, and Jimmy the One landed you with extra duty—’