Douglas Reeman - In Danger's Hour

And now it was as if the war had never been. In the first dawn light they had headed past a vast fleet of minesweeping trawlers, of the kind which had kept the channels open around Britain since the beginning; many of them were veterans of that war, of Dunkirk and the ill-fated Norwegian campaign.

Ransome had been standing on the bridge, his first cup of tea in his hands as they had pounded through the scattered fleet of trawlers. It had reminded him of a picture his mother still treasured, of a Japanese fishing flotilla with Fujiyama in the background. The same unlikely sea and mist, the ships like models above their own seemingly unmoving images.

Rob Roy was steering north-east; the coast of Sicily lay about forty miles away. Just months ago this area had been dominated by the Luftwaffe, the killing-ground for any vessel which had dared to make for Malta with food and supplies. Overnight, or so it seemed now, all that had changed. Malta was relieved, new airstrips had been hastily laid there by the Americans so that daily fighter patrols could be maintained.

He heard Sherwood speaking with Morgan as they pored over the chart-table together. A good team now that they were at sea again.

Sherwood had apologised for his behaviour on the night of the party. Ransome had left it at that. Whatever had happened to throw Sherwood off balance seemed to be under control once more. That was part of his trouble. He held himself stretched out like a wire. He only appeared to be content when he was working.

Ransome looked aft to the quarterdeck and saw Richard Wakely with his cameraman speaking with Hargrave beside the new winch. He saw him smile as he put on a steel helmet, then point, squinting at the sky, while his cameraman recorded the moment. Even without using his binoculars Ransome could sense the first lieutenant’s embarrassment as the little act continued. Necessary probably, but somehow cheap against those sailors who were watching, who had seen the real thing far too often. Was that the real reason for Vice-Admiral Hargrave’s insistence that Wakely should be in Rob Roy ? So that his own son could get some of the limelight, if any was ever left over by Wakely?

Ransome crossed to the forepart of the bridge and trained his glasses ahead. The sea was empty, rising and falling so slowly, as if it was breathing. Nothing. Not even a gull or a leaping fish.

But there were mines here, or had been until this massive sweep had been mounted. British, Italian, German, it was a veritable deathtrap for any ship too large to avoid them. Yet many had braved the minefields; submarines had crept through that silent forest of rusty wires with their obscene iron globes, to carry aid to Malta. They had had to lie submerged in the harbour throughout the day to avoid air attacks which could be mounted in minutes from both Sicily and the Italian mainland. Then at night they would unload their precious cargoes of fuel and ammunition, tinned food, and anything else they could cram into their hulls. Even their torpedo tubes had been used to carry vital supplies although it left the submarines without teeth for the hazardous journey back to base. Many did not make it.

Rob Roy alone had put up twenty mines in these waters so far; Ranger had swept three more than that. If you were lucky it was a whole lot easier than in the Channel, with its troublesome currents and fierce tides. Here at least it was non-tidal, and if you picked up a mine – Ransome did not continue on that train of thought.

He said, ‘Another hour?’

Sherwood looked at him. His hair was even more bleached by the sun.

‘Near enough, sir.’ He glanced at the glistening water. ‘Surely they must know what’s happening?’

Ransome nodded. Probably what every Jack in the flotilla was thinking. The enemy, silent and unseen, must have known for weeks what to expect.

He replied, ‘Four days from now.’ He thought about the pack of intelligence reports and plans in his cabin safe. The sea was empty, and yet from Gibraltar and the battered North African ports where Rob Roy had refuelled, and from Alexandria in the I astern Mediterranean, the huge fleet of landing-ships and their protectors was massing for this one-off assault on Sicily.

He added, ‘They’re probably more worried than we are.’

Richard Wakely appeared on the bridge ladder, his round face dripping with sweat.

‘What a day, eh, Captain?’ He mopped his features with a spotted silk handkerchief. ‘Just a few more shots in case the light changes, I think.’ He beamed to the bridge at large. ‘I don’t want to leave anything out!’

Sherwood had replaced the dark glasses he often wore on the bridge.

‘You must have seen quite a lot of different types of action.’

Wakely smiled gravely. ‘That’s true, I suppose. I’ve been lucky.’

Sherwood asked, ‘Did you ever run across a Brigadier de Courcey in the Western Desert, sir?’ He seemed suddenly very intent. ‘Alex de Courcey?’

Wakely mopped his throat vigorously. ‘Can’t say I have. But then I meet so many, y’know.’ He looked at Sherwood for the first time. ‘You know him?’

‘Friend of my late father, actually. They used to shoot together.’

‘I see.’ He turned away. ‘Must be off. Still a lot to do.’ He called for his cameraman. ‘Where are you, Andy?’

When he had gone Ransome asked quietly, ‘What was all that about?’

Sherwood removed his glasses and polished them with his shirt. His eyes looked bitter.

‘He knows who I’m talking about, right enough, or he should. Alex became a staff officer after he was promoted out of the tanks. He told my father all about Richard Wakely in the early days in France when he was a tank commander.’

‘I take it you don’t care much for him?’ Ransome added sharply, ‘Come on, spit it out, man!’

Sherwood glanced briefly at the nearest bridge look-out. The man was crouching by his mounted binoculars, his eyes protected from the glare by a frame of deeply tinted glass. He was apparently out of earshot.

‘Wakely’s a phoney, a complete fraud. Never went near the front line the whole time. After Dunkirk he shot off to the States to protect his precious skin.’ He faced Ransome and gave an apologetic smile. ‘That’s what he said.’

Ransome climbed on to his chair and winced from the contact.

‘You are too cynical by half.’

Sherwood glanced at the ladder as if he expected to see Wakely there, listening.

‘That famous broadcast from El Alamein.’ He shook his head. ‘I’ll bet he did it from his suite at Shepheard’s in Cairo!’

They both turned as Leading Signal Mackay shouted, ‘Signal from Dunlin , sir! My catch, I think!’

Ransome strode to the opposite gratings and steadied his binoculars against the slow roll.

He watched the stab of Dunlin’s signal lamp, the bright hoist of flags breaking from her yard.

‘Signal Dryaden to close on Dunlin.’

Ransome ignored the clatter of the signal lamp, the stir of excitemenf around the bridge. One more mine. Should be all right. He shifted his glasses on to the graceful Icelandic trawler and saw the mounting white moustache of her bow wave as she increased speed, her marksmen already up forward in readiness to dispense with yet another would-be killer.

‘There it is, sir! Dunlin’s quarter!’ There was an ironic cheering from aft and Ransome wondered if Wakely’s cameraman was recording the moment.

Leading Signalman Mackay was using the old telescope, his lips moving silently as he spelled out another signal.

‘From Scythe , sir. Senior Officer closing from the south-west.’