Douglas Reeman - In Danger's Hour

‘No damage below, sir. Engine-room request permission to reduce speed.’

‘Very well. Half ahead together. Signal Bedworth and tell them what we’re doing.’ He spoke without emotion, as if he had none left to give.

Feet scraped on the ladder and Richard Wakely, his eyes almost bulging from his head, dragged himself into the bridge.

‘Is it over?’ He stared round, his chest rising and falling as if he was about to have a seizure.

Ransome said, ‘For some it is.’ He steeled himself as the broken ship began to sink very slowly, stern-first, tiny figures struggling in the filth of oil and worse while the big Norwegian trawler Senja manoeuvred almost against the wreckage.

Ransome gritted his teeth together. They should have had air cover, but perhaps there was none to spare after all, or it was all being used to protect the troop convoys. The same German ME 110’s had probably made a strike against those mine-sweeping trawlers they had seen in the dawn light.

Someone let out a sob as Scythe seemed to drop very suddenly from view. They heard several dull explosions, and more flotsam burst to the surface as if to torment further the gasping survivors.

Ransome turned his back and looked at his ship.

That violent turn had saved her. This time. Otherwise he and all the rest of them might be out there trying to keep afloat; waiting to die.

He saw Sherwood’s eyes, Morgan’s honest features twisted in pity and despair, Mackay gripping his telescope, his eyes smarting but not from the sun. One of their own.

The Buffer appeared on the bridge, his battered cap hiding his expression.

‘Beg pardon, sir, but Jimmy – I mean the first lieutenant is askin’ for orders. I think our phone ’as gone dead on us, like. The Gunner (T) ’as got one of his torpedomen on the job.’ He looked around until his glance settled on Wakely.

‘They’ve gone ’ome, sir.’ He barely hid the contempt in his voice.

Ransome could feel the shock and despair closing its grip on all of them. It was often like that.

‘Orders, Buffer?’ He dragged out his pipe and prayed to God his fingers would not shake as he tamped down a fill of tobacco. ‘We shall resume sweeping to port in fifteen minutes. What did you expect?’

Their eyes met, each man in his own way needing the other.

The Buffer grinned. ‘From you, sir, nothin’ but the best!’

Ransome looked away. They had come through again.

Nothing but the best.

The tiny chart-room which adjoined Ransome’s sea-cabin was unbearably sticky and humid. Condensation ran down the sides and dripped from the deckhead to add to the discomfort of the officers who were squeezed around the table.

Ransome glanced through the solitary open scuttle. The light was strange, the sky like smoky bronze. He waited for the deck to lift, to roll uncomfortably to starboard in a steep corkscrew motion. Anyone with a weak stomach would know it by now, he thought.

It was like a warning, an omen. From first light the weather had started to deteriorate with a wind strengthening from the north-west. It was unusual for July – the one flaw in all the planning and preparations for Operation Husky.

It was now late afternoon and the wind had risen still further, so that the angry, choppy sea had changed to a parade of crumbling rollers.

How could they hope for any sort of success? With a heavy sea running many of the landing-craft would never reach their objectives in time; some could be swamped with terrible loss of life.

He glanced up at their intent faces. Hargrave, more tanned than any of them, always clean and tidy no matter what was happening. Sherwood, eyes hidden by his pale lashes, examining the chart with its transparent overlay of Ransome’s secret orders, the coloured markers which had to be translated into action – into results.

Sub-Lieutenant Morgan, his body swaying easily to the sickening plunge and roll, had his pad already half-filled with notes. As assistant navigator he was directly involved. Surgeon Lieutenant Cusack was also present, his intelligent features and keen eyes recording everything. Beyond the bulkhead, voices murmured from the duty watch, clicks and groans of steel under pressure, the endless stammer of morse and static from the W/T office.

Ransome said, ‘The first landings are due to take place at 2:45 tomorrow morning.’ He felt his words move around the chart table like a chill breeze through reeds. Not some hazy plan any more, some grand design, but right here, and just ten hours away.

Sherwood said, ‘They’ll have to call it off, sir.’ He looked up, his eyes searching. ‘Won’t they?’

Ransome pointed at the chart. ‘Every flotilla and convoy is assembling at this moment to the east and south of Malta. It involves hundreds of ships, thousands of men. The RAF and the American Air Force have been pounding the enemy airfields and defences for weeks. Everything was set fair – the High Command allowed just twenty-four hours to cancel the whole operation or give the go-ahead.’ He heard the wind howl around the superstructure, the blown spray lashing the bridge like a tropical downpour. It made a mockery of all the plans and hopes. ‘If this wind holds out, the Americans making for the southern shore will be hard put to get their landing-craft in position.’ His hand moved to Sicily’s south-eastern coastline. ‘Here the Eighth Army will land with the Canadians on their left flank. The Royal Marine Commando will go ashore to the left of the Canadians slightly earlier than H-Hour to seize vital objectives which otherwise might cover the landings.’

Hargrave rubbed his chin. ‘I can’t see it going ahead, sir.’ He looked at the open scuttle and the strange, angry glare. ‘It would be a shambles.’

Ransome nodded. ‘It could be a greater one if they try to cancel Husky at the last moment, Number One. There would be even more confusion, some might not even get the signal on time and attack without knowing they were unsupported. And if the assault was delayed for another day, the landings would be ragged, ill-timed. I think most of us know what that would mean.’ He let his words sink in. ‘The Met people were caught with their pants down, but then so were the enemy.’ He forced a smile. ‘It’s not much, but it’s all we have. Our role is to give close support to the first wave of landing-craft under cover of a bombardment from the heavy boys.’ He glanced at Cusack. ‘You’ll be dealing with the wounded if there are any – troops, sailors, anyone we pick up.’

Cusack nodded. ‘I thought there was a catch in it.’

Sherwood smiled. ‘Ain’t that the truth!’

The others relaxed slightly. Ransome pictured those on watch, Fallows and young Tritton, Bone and Campbell, and all the rest. They had no say in any of it. They obeyed. It had to be enough.

Hargrave asked, ‘When shall we know, sir?’

Ransome looked at the bulkhead clock. ‘There will be airborne attacks on certain objectives, gliders and parachutists all with precise instructions on their objectives. They will be taking off from their bases in Tunisia this evening. After that—’ He did not need to finish.

Insteadjie said, ‘This is just a small ship, a minute part of what might be a great campaign. Most of our people are little more than boys. I’ll bet that fifty percent were still at school when Hitler marched into Poland, and even after that. Give them all you’ve got. They deserve it.’ He dragged a folded signal pad from his hip-pocket and flattened it on the chart.

‘This is part of a signal from the C-in-C, Admiral Cunningham. I think you should hear it.’

He read it slowly, very conscious of the wind’s deathly moan, the stillness around the table, the ship around all of them.