Douglas Reeman - In Danger's Hour

He nodded to the others and left the wardroom, but even when he reached the companion ladder there was still no sound to mark his departure.

He opened his cabin door and switched on the light. It seemed to shine directly on Tony’s face.

Sherwood was not the only one, he thought. Nor would he be the last once they were through the gateway.

Chief Petty Officer Joe Beckett tilted his cap further over his eyes and stared up at the Rock, the strange shimmering haze which swirled around the summit like smoke.

The Buffer stood beside him watching the last of the NAAFI stores boats alongside, another taking aboard the final sack of letters from Rob Roy and Ranger.

Beckett said, ‘Any more for the Skylark, Topsy?’ He glanced at some of the seamen in their clean shorts and white tops. ‘Soon be their old scruffy selves again, eh?’

The Buffer nodded. ‘Big White Cheese come aboard last night, I ’ear?’

Beckett grinned.’ Yeh, an’ you bloody missed it, scuttlin’ about the Rock like a randy dog, no doubt!’

The Buffer shrugged. ‘I’ve seen more admirals than young Boyes over there ’as ’ad ’ot dinners!’

Beckett savoured it. ‘But ’e ’ad ’is Wren officer with ’im.’ He blew a kiss. ‘I’d rather be on ’er than the middle watch, I can tell you!’ His grin faded as he took on his stern coxswain’s expression.

‘An’ wot are all we, then?’

All we was one small, slightly built sailor who was being unceremoniously manhandled over the brow from Ranger , his frail body almost buried by hammock and kitbag, attache case and gas mask respirator. His uniform was new and did not fit very well.

The Buffer gave a theatrical groan. ‘Must be twelve years old, eh, Swain?’

‘No more, and that’s the truth!’

He beckoned the small figure over. ‘Wot’s yer name, son?’

‘G – Gold, sir.’

’Gold , is it? Wot’re you, a four-by-two or summat?’

It was all quite lost on the newcomer, who looked as if he might burst into tears at any moment.

Beckett relented slightly. ‘You must be the replacement for whatsisname.’

The Buffer showed his monkey teeth. ‘The one wot got a dose of clap!’

‘Don’t shock the lad, Buffer!’ He looked severely at the sailor. ‘Last ship?’

‘This is my f-first, sir.’ He peered around the busy deck, clattering winches, order and purpose, none of which he could recognise. ‘I – I was supposed to be joining a c-cruiser, s-sir.’

The Buffer stared outboard. ‘A stutter too, that’s all I bleedin’ need!’

Beckett touched the youth’s shoulder and felt him jump.

‘No sweat, Gold. You’ll soon settle in, though as you can see with yer own mincers, this ain’t no bloody cruiser!’

Boyes walked past and Beckett seized him like a straw. ‘’Ere, Boyes, take this lad to Number Three Mess and get ’im fixed up.’ He winked. ‘Veteran like you should know wot to do, eh?’

Boyes helped the new hand gather his kit. The deck was begining to tremble, and there was a stronger trail of smoke from Rob Roy’s single funnel.

Getting ready to slip from the buoy. Boyes shivered and glanced up at the bridge as if expecting to see the captain. But there was only a solitary signalman who was flashing his Aldis towards the shore.

‘This way.’ He picked up the hammock and led Gold towards the forecastle.

The Buffer shook his head. ‘No experience. None. Wot do they expect us to do?’

Beckett made a few notes in his book about Gold’s future. The machinery had already taken over.

He said abruptly, ‘Try an’ keep the poor little sods alive, that’s wot!’

Boyes recalled his own despair when he had entered the lower messdeck. Now, with almost everyone aboard and standing up in the small, confined space, it was a picture of utter chaos.

Men were changing into the rig-of-the-day as all the ships would have to look right and pusser when they left harbour, not merely for the F.O.I.C.’s sake but also the ever-watchful Spaniards. Some were trying to cram a last souvenir into lockers or kitbags.

Leading Seaman Ted Hoggan appeared to be the only one seated, at his usual place at the head of the table, apparently undisturbed by the packed bodies all around him, a rock in a tideway.

Boyes said, ‘I’ll show you where to put your gear. You’ll not have a place to sling your hammock, of course. There aren’t enough hooks in this mess.’

Gold nodded, then flinched as the tannoy squeaked and the boatswain’s call shattered the air. ‘D’you hear there! Special sea dutymen to your stations! Away motor boat’s crew!’

Able Seaman Suggit, his mouth spurting crumbs, pushed up the ladder, cursing through his food. ‘Bloody officers! Always want something!’

Boyes got to the table and waited for Hoggan to look up.

‘New one for the mess, Hookey.’

Hoggan eyed the newcomer without any change of expression. ‘You’ve put ’im in the picture, Gerry?’

Boyes nodded, i think so.’ He turned to Gold. ‘First sound from that bell, and you drop everything, run like hell for your action station, right?’

He did not see Able Seaman Jardine, the one who wore a wicked-looking knife in his hand-made sheath, give a broad wink, nor Hoggan’s acknowledgement.

Jardine said, ‘Take the advice of an old sweat , my son.’ He clapped Boyes round the shoulder as he had beside the burial party. ‘He’ll see you right—’

He might have burst out laughing but the tannoy made them all look up.

‘All hands! Hands to stations for leaving harbour! Stand by wires an’ fenders!’

Hoggan thrust a partly darned sock into his locker and grabbed his cap.

He watched Boyes leading the new seaman up the ladder and smiled sadly.

‘Here we go again—’ But he was alone; the messes on either side of the deck were empty.

Sub-Lieutenant Tudor Morgan lifted his face from the wheelhouse voicepipe and squinted into the fierce glare. ‘Steady on zero-four-five, sir!’

Ransome crossed to the opposite side of the bridge and grimaced as his bare arm touched the steel plating. It felt like an oven door.

He levelle^ his glasses above the screen and watched the flotilla taking station again for the next sweep, the hoisted black balls showing they were trailing their wires to port.

Their formation keeping was so good now that they could all have been connected by a cable, he thought. He moved the glasses along the echelon of dazzle-painted hulls, the occasional flash of colour from the little flags on their scurrying Oropesa floats. Then Ransome trained his glasses directly astern. How unreal it all looked. More like an ocean than the approaches to Malta. They had begun sweeping at dawn as they had the previous day; now it was halfway through the forenoon watch. There was no horizon, and the great expanse of water was like pale blue milk, rising only slowly in a shallow swell. The sky had no colour at all, and the sun, although covered by haze, shone brilliant white like a furnace bar.

The men working aft with the sweep wire or employed about the upper deck were almost naked, their bodies either brown or uncomfortably reddened in these unfamiliar surroundings. So different from the North Sea and the English Channel, Ransome thought.

It was almost impossible to believe that the purple blur barely visible astern was actually Malta, that these very waters had been fought over continuously since the retreat from Greece and the start of the real desert war against Rommel. The seabed was littered with wrecks, ships of every size, from carriers to tiny sloops, even China River gunboats which had been sent to bolster up the embattled fleet and had soon paid the price for it. Ships of Rudyard Kipling’s navy against Stuka dive-bombers, E-boats, and crack Italian cruisers.