Douglas Reeman - In Danger's Hour

He said aloud, ‘There they are, Buffer! Port quarter!’ He felt a catch in his throat. ‘God Almighty!’

The Buffer sucked his monkey-teeth and watched the tiny, glinting aircraft through slitted eyes.

He saw ‘Gipsy’ Guttridge, gunlayer on the four-inch, looking down at him, like a member of some forgotten monastic order in his anti-flash hood. As he turned his controls effortlessly in his strong hands he was singing quietly to himself, the words set against a well-known hymn.

‘Six days a man shall work as long as he is able, and on the seventh shall scrub the deck and holystone the cable—’ They grinned at one another and the Buffer called, ‘That’s bloody true, Gipsy!’

The gunnery speaker crackled into life, ‘Aircraft starboard quarter! Angle of sight three-oh!’

The gunlayer and trainer spun their polished wheels and Guttridge muttered, ‘I just ’ope Bunny’s got that bloody right!’

The speaker again. ‘ Barrage – commence – commence – commence!’

Hargrave watched the other ships astern open fire, the sky suddenly filled with drifting balls of dirty smoke, then as the leading aircraft burst into view above their mastheads, the livid tracer and the steady thud-thud-thud of pom-poms added their weight to the barrage.

‘Shoot!’

The four-inch recoiled violently and the breech was wrenched open, streaming cordite fumes before the shock-wave had receded.

‘Gunlayer, target!’ Then, ‘Trainer, target!’ And another sharp explosion cracked out towards the aircraft.

Hargrave heard a tremendous explosion, felt it punch against the hull like a ram, and saw a column of water beginning to fall. It looked as if it was right beside the third minesweeper, but they were still afloat, following in a sharp turn as Rob Roy’s rudder went over for a violent zigzag.

An aircraft just seemed to materialise right over Hargrave’s head. It must have dived low after dropping a bomb, and he saw the stabbing flashes of its machine-gun fire, and gasped as the Buffer grabbed his arm and pulled him against the hot steel.

‘Watch out, sir! That bugger’s taken a real dislike to you!’

Hargrave tried to smile, but his mouth felt like leather. He saw the twin-engined plane roaring away ahead, pursued by bright balls of tracer, and one very near-miss from ‘A’ Gun. He even saw the black crosses, so stark on either wing, streaks of oil near the open bomb-bay doors.

He took a grip on himself. ‘Nobody hurt?’

The Buffer pointed. ‘They’re attacking from both sides, sir!’

Hargrave saw Kellett, the P.O. steward, still wearing his white jacket, hurrying to the opposite side, a Bren gun cradled in his arms as he squinted at the sky.

The Buffer sighed. ‘Where’s the bloody RAF now that we needs ’em?’

Shoot Hargrave winced as another plane roared down through the gunsmoke. His ears throbbed as if they would never hear again, and his eyes felt raw from the constant firing.

Brrrrrrr! He heard the harsh rattle of machine-gun fire, and stared at the advancing feathers of white spray until the metal clanged and cracked across the deck like a rivet-gun.

One of the damage-control party was down, kicking wildly, blood everywhere, so bright and unreal in the hazy glare.

The Buffer yelled, ‘ Get that man!’ He glanced at Hargrave. ‘You be okay ’ere, sir?’ The he was gone, his stocky figure pushing men where they were needed, pausing to restrain the wounded seaman as ‘Pansy’ Masefield, his red-cross satchel bouncing from one hip, appeared from nowhere.

‘Nasty, Pansy.’ The Buffer grinned at the wounded man, whose eyes were filled with dread, like a terrified child’s. ‘But we’ve seen worse, eh?’

Masefield glared at him then beckoned to his assistants. ‘Take him to the real doctor, chop-chop!’ Then he patted the wounded man’s face and said gently, ‘You’ll be fine, Jenner. I’ve stopped the bleeding.’

The hull swayed as the wheel went over again, and a great shadow swept above them like some nightmare seabird.

The Buffer looked for Hargrave. It was as if he had never moved. He turned to the plane again, even saw the bomb as it tumbled untidily from its belly.

He watched it with tired resignation. Why here, he seemed to ask. Why now?

From his position on the upper bridge Ransome saw the bomb too. ‘ Hard a-port!’ He gripped the voicepipe as the wheel went over and the ship seemed to reel to the thrust of screws and rudder.

‘Thirty-five of port wheel on, sir!’

He heard men gasping and slipping as Rob Roy continued to pivot round, and he thanked God, not for the first time, that she had twin screws.

The bomb, which seemed to fall so haphazardly, suddenly righted itself and appeared to gather speed as it hurtled down while the plane, a Messerschmidt 110 fighter-bomber, bellowed low over the bridge, cannon-fire and machine-gun bullets raking the forecastle while the Oerlikons continued to pursue it with tracer.

The explosion felt as if the ship was being lifted bodily from the sea, and for a few seconds Ransome feared the worst, and prepared to stop engines before his ship charged headlong for the seabed. Then the towering column of water from the explosion fell. It was like something solid, as if the ship had been engulfed by a tidal wave.

He heard himself coughing and retching, trying to keep on his feet as water surged through the bridge and crashed to the deck below. As he wiped the spray and stinging salt from his eyes he saw a fireball suspended in space, then droplets of flame breaking away, to speckle the sea’s face with bright feathers.

As his hearing returned he heard men cheering, and realised that the ME 110 must have been caught in the cross-fire even as the bomb had exploded so near to the ship.

Voicepipes crackled on every side and Ransome looked quickly to make certain his small team was still intact.

Sherwood was hanging on to the gyro repeater while Morgan was groping for the remains of his chart and scattered instruments. Leading Signalman Mackay was peering at his telescope and saw Ransome’s glance. ‘No damage, sir, thank God!’

The ship or his precious telescope, it was hard to tell.

‘Bring her back on course!’ Ransome wiped bis sodden binoculars and peered astern. The aircraft were gone, the edge of their attack blunted at the sight of their companion’s horrible end.

Cease-fire gongs were ringing, and he saw figures emerging from cover, as if dazed by their survival.

‘Report damage and casualties.’ Ransome looked at the sea ahead, the small fragments of the ME 110. There would be no survivors.

‘First lieutenant for you, sir!’ The boatswain’s mate had put down his stripped Lewis, and Ransome noticed that there were several empty magazines by his feet.

‘Captain here.’

‘No damage aft, sir.’ Hargrave sounded muzzy, a hundred miles away. ‘One casualty. Ordinary Seaman Jenner. Not serious.’ He hesitated. ‘You all right, sir?’

But Ransome handed the telephone to the boatswain’s mate and raised his glasses again.

The cheering had died away and some of the gun crews had left their stations to line the guardrails and watch.

Like a crude memorial, Ransome thought later. The forward section of a minesweeper seemed to rise amongst the others, pointing towards the white sun, the sea boiling around the hull like steam. Huge, obscene bubbles and a spreading blanket of escaping oil fuel. A ship dying. One of their own.

Morgan said huskily, ‘It’s Scythe , sir.’

Mackay called, ‘From Bedworth , sir. Sen]a will search for survivors’

Ransoijie nodded as he watched the upright hull, feeling the pain, wanting her to go, to get it over with. He could see her young captain, a mere lieutenant who had held the command for four months. Was he alive, he wondered? If so, how would he get over it?