Douglas Reeman - In Danger's Hour

Ransome waited for Dryaden to forge ahead until he could train his glasses astern again.

So Bliss was moving up to join them. He had been content to stay with the main force of minesweeping trawlers until now. A compliment or a snub, it was hard to say.

‘From Bedworth, sir!’ Mackay braced his legs wide apart. ‘ Aircraft approaching from the north!’

Ransome let his glasses fall to his chest. ‘Acknowledge.’ His mind seemed to click into place, to remind him of Sherwood’s earlier words. They must know what’s happening.

He said, inform the first lieutenant, recover sweep immediately.’

He stared at the red button below the screen, the metal around it worn smooth by all those other emergencies.

They might think he was losing his grip. Going round the bend at last. Plenty had.

He vaguely heard a cheer, then the rattle of small-arms fire as Dryaden’ s marksmen punctured the released mine and sent it on its way to the bottom.

Too careful, or like the ill-fated Viper’s captain had been, too bloody confident for his own good?

He did not realise he was speaking aloud as he exclaimed, ‘They can think what they bloody well like!’ Then he pressed down the button and heard the shriek of alarm bells coming up the rank of voicepipes.

’Action Stations! Action Stations!’

The calm was shattered, the momentary interest of a mine made harmless forgotten, as the barebacked figures scampered to their stations, groping for anti-flash gear and helmets, making sure their lifebelts were tied loosely around their bodies.

All down the line the alarm was picked up, and Ransome felt the hull shiver as the new winch hauled on the sweep wire like an angler with a giant marlin.

‘Short-range weapons crews closed up!’

‘Coxswain on the wheel!’

‘Main armament closed up.’ The latter was Bunny Fallows’ voice on the intercom, his Scots accent strangely noticeable.

So many reports for so small a ship.

Ransome dragged his white-covered cap from beneath a locker and tugged it across his ruffled hair.

‘From Bedworth, sir. Do not engage.’

Sherwood muttered, ‘Must be some of ours after all.’

Ransome felt chilled despite the unwavering heat. If there was such a thing as instinct, he had never felt so certain.

‘Aircraft, sir! Red one-one-oh! Angle of sight-’

Ransome gripped his glasses until they hurt his fingers; he did not hear the rest. Did not need to.

There they were, not just two or three, but maybe a dozen or more, strung out against the empty sky in a fine curve, catching the sunlight like chips of bright glass.

’Start tracking!’

Sherwood was watching the tiny slivers with his binoculars. Young Morgan looked up from the chart-table. ‘Heading for Malta, d’you think?’

Sherwood did not turn. ‘Not this time. It’s us they’re after.’

Ransome said, ‘Signal Dryaden to drop dan buoys now.’ Someone would have to complete the sweep after this was over. He watched the leading aircraft, still without shape, as it began to turn, until it appeared to be flying straight towards him.

‘Warn the engine-room. Full revs when I give the word.’

Richard Wakely’s voice broke through the chilled concentration.

‘What the bell’s happening?’

Sherwood still did not take his eyes off the plane.

‘Some good shots coming up, sir. We are about to be attacked.’

‘Alter-Course signal from Bedworth , sir. Steer zero-nine-zero in succession.’

Ransome nodded. ‘Bring her round.’ It had been a near thing. If Bliss had not had a change of heart the whole flotilla might had ended up in a minefield with their sweeps snug and useless on deck.

’Here they come!’

’Full ahead together! Starboard twenty!’

Ransome felt the gratings bounding under his shoes. They were going to attack from astern, and use the sun’s glare to best advantage. Pictures flashed through his mind. The old instructor who had said, ‘Always watch out for the Hun wot comes out of the sun!’ Of David down aft where Hargrave was, the suddenness of his death, the women in black, and the girl who had looked like Eve.

He closed his mind against all of them. This was his purpose for being. Nothing else must matter now.

‘Midships! Steady!’

He saw Morgan crouched behind the gyro repeater, a boatswain’s mate cocking one of the old stripped Lewis guns they had ‘borrowed’ from the army. Even the cook would be down there with the damage-control party or helping the doctor. There were 110 passengers in Rob Roy.

He thought suddenly of Moncrieff and his last words about the ship he had loved above all others.

Ransome pounded the rail beneath the screen as the revolutions continued to mount in time with the increasing vibration.

‘Come on, old girl – for him if not for me!’

Of course the enemy knew. No minesweepers meant no invasion, not until they were ready to repel it.

Wakely called, his voice shrill, ‘What shall I do, for God’s sake?’

Sherwood smiled as he picked up the parallel rulers, which had jerked to the deck from the shaking chart-table.

‘What about a nice hymn, sir?’

The wheelhouse seemed to shrink as the door was clipped shut, and all but the slitted observation panels slammed into place.

Boyes wedged himself in a corner by the plot-table, his eyes everywhere as he tried to form a picture of what was happening, what had begun with the sudden scream of alarm bells.

Midshipman Davenport was leaning over the plot and making some adjustments for a new chart. His shirt was plastered to his spine by sweat, and Boyes could see it dripping on the chart from his face. Beckett was on the wheel as usual, the quartermasters manning the engine and revolution telegraphs. A messenger crouched by the emergency handset, and through the bell-mouthed voicepipe by Beckett’s head Boyes could hear much of what was said on the upper bridge.

He heard the captain call for full speed, the deft movements of the waiting hands near the wheel, then Beckett’s harsh reply, ‘Both engines full ahead, sir!’

Faintly through the open intercom he heard Fallows’ voice. ‘All guns load with semi-armour-piercing—’

Then the captain’s intervention, curt but seemingly untroubled.

Fallows mumbled, ‘Sorry, sir, I mean high-explosive!’

Beckett turned aside from the voicepipe. ‘Poor old Bunny’s lost ’is bottle!’

Boyes whispered, ‘How many, d’you think, er, sir?’

Davenport peered at him, his eyes wild. ‘How the hell should I know? Just shut up and wait for orders!’

Boyes found to his astonishment that Davenport’s tirade left him unmoved. At the same instant he realised he was unafraid. That really did surprise him.

The captain’s voice sounded different; he was speaking directly to the engine-room.

i know that, Chief, but I want everything you’ve got. Now.’ There was the merest hesitation, and he was heard to add, ‘Bale out if I give the words. No heroics, right?’

Davenport opened and closed his fists, his voice thick with disbelief. ‘ Bale out?’

Leading Seaman Reeve clung to a shuddering telegraph and said cheerfully, ‘Better swim than fry, sir!’

Right aft by the second four-inch gun, Lieutenant Hargrave shaded h^s eyes in the glare to watch the damage-control party taking cover, the Buffer calling out last minute instructions.

It was getting harder to hear anything clearly. The wake frothing up from the racing screws had risen level with the deck, and spray surged over the sides as if they were sinking by the stern. He saw the other ships astern, some making too much smoke, others almost lost in haze and drifting spume. He saw Bedwortb, her yards alive with flags, turning in a wide sweep, showing all the grace of a thoroughbred as she displayed her streaming deck, the guns already pivoting round to track the target.