Douglas Reeman - In Danger's Hour

"On every commanding officer, officer and rating rests the individual and personal duty of ensuring that no flinching in determination or failure of effort on his own part will hamper this great enterprise."

He looked up, expecting some witty cynicism from Sherwood or Cusack, but it fell to the young Welshman, Morgan, to say what they were all really thinking.

He said simply, ‘Like Trafalgar in a way, see? Nothing grand, just the right words—’ He fell silent as the others looked at him.

Ransome said quietly, ‘Tell your departments. I want, no, 1 need them all to understand—’

They filed out and Ransome sat for some time before opening his oilskin pouch and adding the last lines of the letter she might never read, or after tomorrow might never wish to.

Then he made his way to the upper bridge and watched the sea curling back from the bows, the spray bursting through the hawse-pipes and flooding the scuppers. Huddled shapes in oilskins, sweating despite the constant soaking, men at their guns and look-out stations. Men he knew.

The rest of the flotilla were like ghost ships in the bursting wave-crests and driven spray, the formation smaller now without Scythe. Already that seemed like a month ago instead of days. And tomorrow – what then? He saw Bedworth butting diagonally across the waves, her forecastle slicing through the troughs so that her solitary bow-chaser appeared detached from the rest of the ship as the foam surged around it.

He heard angry voices, the sharpness of resentment from men who were busy enough trying to prepare themselves for tomorrow. Richard Wakely stormed across the bridge, his shirt plastered to his body like another skin, oblivious to his hair, which was all anyhow in the blown spray.

‘What are you doing, Captain?’ He peered across the smeared screen. ‘That’s Bedworth Ransome looked at him, feeling neither anger nor pity. ‘It is.’ ‘I want—’ Wakely clung to a stanchion as the bows dipped again, and water thundered past ‘A’ Gun and along either side-deck. ‘I demand to be transferred to that ship at onceV When Ransome remained silent he shouted, ‘You sent that injured sailor across to her! Don’t deny that!’

Ransome thought of Ordinary Seaman Jenner. He had left the bridge to see him swayed over to the destroyer lashed in a stretcher. He might well lose his left foot. It depended how soon Bedivorth had been able to transfer him to one of the big transports. But he would live. Ransome had taken his hand and had been shocked to hear the youngster plead despairingly, i don’t want to go, sir! I’m with me mates here!’ All that had happened, and he still wanted to stay in Rob Roy.

The memory touched his mind like a hot wire and he said sharply, ‘He actually asked to stay aboard, Mr Wakely, did you know that?’ He saw some of the watchkeepers turn to listen but did not care. ‘God, I’d have sent you with pleasure, believe me, but the S.N.O. thought otherwise!’ He waved his arm across the dripping metal, only then aware that he had forgotten to put on an oilskin. ‘You wanted to see our war – well, that is precisely what you will be doing!’

Wakely stared at him as if he could not believe his ears. ‘You don’t know what you’re saying! I’ll see that you regret this!’

Ransome turned away. ‘I hope so. That will mean that we’ve both survived. Now get off my bridge.’

He heard feet slithering down the ladder and then Hargrave coughed politely.

i think he got the message, sir.’

Ransome breathed out slowly, and wiped his streaming face with his forearm.

Then he stood up on the gratings and held the top of the screen with both hands.

He said^’Feel it? The wind’s started to drop, Number One.’ He had his head on one side like old Jack Weese did in the boatyard when he was gauging the day’s weather.

He swung round and looked at the glistening bridge. It was like hearing a voice. The ship, perhaps?

He said, ‘So it’s on. No turning back.’

‘You knew, didn’t you, sir?’

‘I’m not sure. Just a feeling.’ He shrugged and repeated, ‘Not sure.’

Leading Signalman Mackay watched the Bedworth just in case she might want to talk. He had heard every word, and earlier had seen the skipper leave his bridge to see the lad Jenner over the side.

Of course he knew. That was why Rob Roy was still afloat when so many others were so much scrap.

It made him feel better, and he began to hum a forgotten tune to himself.

By the time darkness finally closed over the flotilla the tension had become like something physical. Reports and requests whispered up and down the voicepipes and telephones, like nerve-ends; and in each ship those ends led directly to her captain.

Ransome made himself remain in one corner of the bridge where he was within reach of the voicepipes, but able to watch the faint outline of Ranger , which was steering about two cables to starboard.

Bedwortb had ordered the fleet minesweepers to form two small columns, with the big trawlers following up astern.

Ranger’s outline was little more than a jagged edge of lively spray around her stem, the occasional glassy shine of her hull as she rolled in a deep trough.

An hour earlier they had passed a slow-moving formation of landing-ships, butting through the choppy seas like huge, ungainly shoe-boxes. They were the first they had seen, and it was still hard to accept that the sixty miles of water between Malta and Sicily was probably packed with landing-craft, transports and heavily armed escorts.

Landing-craft of any size were difficult to handle even in calm seas. What it must be like for them in this wind, which had still not completely died, did not bear thinking about. They had had little chance to operate and manoeuvre together before as they had been needed for the build-up of men and stores, tanks and armoured fighting vehicles. Most of them were commanded by youngsters, RNVR officers like Sherwood and Morgan, who were standing side by side near the chart-table.

And what of the troops, Ransome wondered? Many of them must surely be sick from this savage motion, and in no fit state to charge ashore into God alone knew what the Germans had waiting for them. The tank crews would be in no doubt. When exercising with the army along the Welsh coast Ransome had heard a tank commander explain exactly what happened if one of their number would not start, or broke down at the moment of disembarking.

He had said with all the casual experience of a 23-year-old, ‘You just shove the poor bugger ahead of you into the drink!

‘Radar – bridge.’

‘Bridge?’ That was young Tritton, the other Bunny, facing up to something he could barely imagine.

’Bedworth is taking up station astern, sir.’

Ransome nodded. ‘I heard that.’ Bliss was preparing to place himself in the best strategic position, where he could watch the supporting craft as well as the landing-ships when they eventually gridironed through to the beaches.

Ransome fixed the picture of the chart in his mind. He had studied it until he thought he could draw it blindfold.

As if to jar at his nerves the radar reported, ‘Headland at three-five-zero. Ten miles.’

Ransome peered at his watch. ‘Shut down all transmissions. This weather seems to have kept the Eyetie patrols in their beds, but the R.D.F. will still be working.’ Somebody, probably Mackay, gave a chuckle. It was something.

Sherwood called, ‘That will be Cape Passero, sir.’ He sounded pleased. ‘Right on the button.’

Ransome wished he could smoke his pipe. Rob Roy was leading her little pack and might be the first to come under fire. It was still better than groping blindly astern. The night could play cruel tricks on the watchkeepers. You would stare at the ship ahead so hard that it would vanish like a mirage. You might panic an<3 increase speed to catch her, only to see her looming up beneath your stem. Terrible moments with the added knowledge that the vessel astern of you might well be charging in pursuit, her bows like a giant cleaver.