Douglas Reeman - In Danger's Hour

The gun crew started to cheer as the pale silhouettes of landing-craft began to slide past beyond Ranger’s station abeam.

Hargrave snapped, ‘Keep silent!’, feeling their resentment but knowing that any second the communications rating might be passed an order from the bridge.

Between the thundering roar of heavy gunfire they heard the armada thrusting ahead, the choppy water surging against their blunt bows and ramps while the smaller, infantry landing-craft followed close astern as if afraid they might lose their way.

Once, just once, Hargrave heard the sound of bagpipes. What brave, crazy soldier could find the wind to play at a moment like this, he wondered? The next salvo blotted out the sound and Hargrave pictured the tanks lined up behind their steel doors, the air choking with fumes as they revved their engines. In the smaller, boxlike craft there would only be flesh and blood, eyes staring from beneath their helmets, bayonets fixed, legs braced for the moment of impact.

The Buffer appeared below him. ‘I’ve spread the fire parties about.’ He watched the lieutenant and wondered. ‘Good idea of yours, sir.’

Hargrave had the great desire to yawn despite the gunfire. He dared not. Others had often told him it was the first sign of fear.

Gipsy Guttridge wiped his gunsight with his glove. ‘Gettin’ lighter already!’

The Buffer grunted. ‘I remember once when I was in Sicily afore the war—’ He broke off as the sea exploded in a towering spire of water between the two lines of minesweepers. ‘ Strewth!’

The spray drifted across the deck and Hargrave spat out the taste of cordite.

The enemy had woken up at last.

The next pattern of shells fell to port. Hargrave gripped a stanchion as the wheel went over, and the deck began to shake to an increase of speed.

He peered astern and saw Dunlin following her leader while the others remained shrouded in darkness.

The communications rating had his headphones pressed against his ears and did not realise he was shouting.

‘Why don’t we shoot! Can’t we ’it the buggers?’

Gipsy Guttridge twisted round on his little seat and gave him a pitying glare.

‘Wot, with tbisV He slapped the breech. ‘Like a fart in th’wind against that lot!’

More explosions threw up great columns of torn water. Against the dull sea they looked like solid icebergs. They seemed much closer, and Hargrave guessed they were around the headland now, and felt the change in the motion as the sea levelled off.

He saw dark orange flashes from the land, the occasional glitter of tracer. Too soon for the landings, so it must be the commando, or maybe some of the airborne who had found their objectives after all. Shells continued to whimper overhead but only daylight would measure their success.

Someone muttered, ‘I just ’ope they know wot they’re doin’!’

Gipsy Guttridge grinned. ‘’Ear that, Buffer? Pathetic, ain’t it? I seen more blokes killed by our admirals than the bloody enemy!’ He looked defiantly at Hargrave’s back, but the lieutenant did not rise to it.

Turnham said, ‘Stow it, Gipsy, enough’s enough!’

Hargrave was staring at the pale stars, the way they seemed to leave part of the sky in darkness. He felt his heart begin to thump.

It was the land, not an illusion. The high ground beyond the beaches which pointed north to Syracuse. They were that close. He gripped a stanchion as hard as he could while he assembled his thoughts. All the while, one stood out in his mind, like a voice yelling in his ear. If the captain fell today, he would be in command. Can I do it?

The Buffer seized his wrist. ‘ Down , sir, for Gawd’s sake!’

Hargrave watched the glowing ball of light as it tore across the sea barely feet above the water.

His mind had time only to record that it was a flat-trajectory shell, probably fired by an anti-tank gun of some kind, when it hit the ship like a giant hammer.

A man shouted incredulously, ‘ Didn’t explode! Went straight out the other side!’

Hargrave watched the second shell and waited for their luck to run out.

Chief Petty Officer Joe Beckett shouted up the voicepipe, his eyes concentrating on the gyro repeater tape, ‘Steady on zero-three-zero, sir! Both engines full ahead!’

Nobody else in the wheelhouse spoke now and the men at the telegraphs watched Beckett’s hands on the polished spokes, and drew comfort from his strength while the hull quivered to the shock of falling shells.

Beside the plot-table Boyes gripped a fire-extinguisher bracket, as much to be doing something as to retain his balance. The ship felt as if she was moving at a tremendous speed, even though he had heard the others say often enough that she could barely manage eighteen knots with a following wind.

He stared at the others, their eyes and expressions illuminated only by the compass and indicator lights, although like the tense figures near him he had already noticed that the sky was lightening outside the bridge, the observation slits pale instead of black.

Beckett said between his teeth, ‘Reckon they’ve landed by now, poor sods!’

Leading Seaman Reeves murmured, ‘Don’t feel all that bloody safe meself!’

Beckett roared, ‘Close that door, you stupid oaf!’

The starboard door clanged shut again, and Boyes found himself forced painfully into his shrinking corner as Richard Wakely and his cameraman Andy crowded inside the wheelhouse.

Wakely peered anxiously round in the darkness. ‘What’s happening?’

Beckett bit back an angry retort and twisted the wheel a few spokes to hold the line steady on the gyro repeater.

It would do no good to take it out of Wakely, he thought. He was a celebrity , everyone knew that, and civvy or not could make a lot of trouble if he wanted to. He felt his stomach muscles tighten as the hull bounced to another explosion. Big shells from some Kraut shore battery. He gave a bitter smile. Or their own bombardment falling short of the target. He thought of Wakely again. Shit-scared. But how could that be, after all he was supposed to have done? Or was that just a line of bull, the sort that old Goebbels and Lord Haw-Haw gave out on the German radio?

Midshipman Davenport stared at Wakely. ‘We’re under fire, sir!’

It was meant to come out like it did on the films, but Davenport sounded near to breaking-point.

Wakely looked at the plot-table, then at the other figures near the wheel, if they’re landing troops now, why are we still being fired at?’ *

Beckett snapped, ‘ Listen! —’ He nodded his head at the voicepipe. ‘Up there on the bridge, they can tell you better than I can!’

Andy the cameraman unslung his heavy leather case. ‘I’m going to get some shots as soon as it’s light enough.’ He was a small, rat-like man, everybody’s idea of the downtrodden male, but there was no doubting his determination as he reached for one of the door-clips. He grinned. ‘See you all later, gents – least I hope so!’ Then he was gone.

Wakely exclaimed, ‘Thinks he knows everything. Just because he was in Manchuria and the Spanish Civil War he imagines that—’ He broke off and ducked as a voice came down the pipe. ‘ Tracer to port!’

Boyes felt the hull jerk as the shell struck the side like a fiery bolt. He did not know it, but the shell punctured the plating as if it was paper and ripped across the upper messdeck and cracked through the opposite side without exploding.

Wakely cried shrilly, ‘ Get me out of this!’

Beckett glared briefly at the midshipman. ‘Keep that lunatic quiet, Mr Davenport! It’s bad enough without ’im!’