Douglas Reeman - In Danger's Hour

Above all he was conscious of a great feeling of pride.

Ransome trained his glasses above the screen and saw the land looming in the early dawn light, the sea criss-crossed with the wakes of other craft while closer inshore tall columns of water showed a regular concentration of artillery fire.

‘Starboard ten.’ He craned over the screen and stared down at I he port Oerlikon mounting; it was pointing uselessly towards the quarter, the bright scar where the shell had smashed into it surprisingly sharp in the pale light. The Oerlikon gunner was squatting on the step massaging his head with both hands, seemingly oblivous to what was happening around him.

Ransome had called down to him immediately after the second shell had exploded beneath his feet in the wheelhouse, but the seaman had merely shrugged and spread his hands with disbelief. His guns were knocked out of action and yet miraculously he had been left untouched, apart from his headache.

Hargrave clambered on to the bridge, his face and arms streaked with dirt.

‘Three killed and two wounded by splinters, sir.’ He sounded out of breath.

Ransome waited as another massive salvo thundered overhead to burst somewhere inland. He could see the smoke now against the brightening skyline, like something solid which would never disperse. Fires too, with the more livid stabs and flashes from small-arms fire and mortars.

Ransome already knew about those who had died. It seemed incredible that anyone could have survived down there. The youngest and the most seasoned, Boyes and Beckett. If it was true what he had heard about Wakely it seemed a pity that others had fallen when he had done nothing to help them, but whimpered only for his wretched skin.

Hargrave said, ‘Sorry about young Davenport, sir.’

They faced each other, each knowing that few people in the ship, if any, had liked the midshipman.

But he had tried, and with his eighteenth birthday hardly behind him, it was a bitter way to end everything. In his heart Ransome knew that in days, provided Rob Roy was spared, few would remember his name. Only at home in England – he closed his mind like slamming a door.

‘Did you check the other damage?’

‘Yes, sir. The messdeck was barely marked. No need to plug the holes at this stage. Too high above the waterline.’

They both looked up as two flights of fighter-bombers, their RAF roundels like staring eyes in the strange light, screamed low overhead towards the land.

Perhaps the most marked change of all, Ransome thought. Air-cover, and plenty of it. Not sitting ducks – not this time.

Morgan looked up from a voicepipe. ‘R/T signal from Bedworth , sir. Two mines adrift to the south-west.’

Sherwood grunted. ‘Not surprised after that gale.’

Ransome nodded. ‘Signal Dryaden to investigate. Right up her street.’

Hargrave smiled sadly. ‘Pity to get your bum blown off by a drifter at this stage of an invasion.’

Sherwood’s eyes widened in surprise. ‘Did I hear a joke from our first lieutenant?’ He strode over and offered his hand, i salute thee!’

Ransome watched the unexpected gesture, the way Morgan and even young Tritton appeared to relax, while Leading Signalman Mackay gave a great grin.

Bedworth’ s signal lamp glittered across the water and revealed the great rolling bank of smoke which covered the slow moving landing-vessels like a blanket.

Mackay read, ‘From Bedivorth , sir. Detach vessel to assist landing-craft which is out of command.’’

Sherwood murmured, ‘Bliss likes to make signals, that at least is obvious.’

Ransome said, ‘Signal Dunlin to assist. We will support her if required.’

A loud bang, familiar to all of them, made the air quake. Dyraden had found and destroyed one of the drifting mines.

Ransome watched Dunlin alter course away from Rob Roy’s straight wake and head towards the mass of landing-craft closer to the beach. As the light hardened it looked as if there was an impossible tangle of vessels with neither order nor purpose, landing-craft thrashing sternfirst from the beach, their box-like hulls higher now without their tanks and other vehicles, while others pushed ahead, following darting motor-launches with their bright pendants to mark their passage to a prescribed landing-place.

The gunfire was getting louder, and Ransome felt the air quiver to an unbroken artillery duel somewhere to the right of the beach. Probably the road to Syracuse, known to be heavily defended by crack German troops. If the Eighth Army could not break their line of defence the rest of the invasion would be left in stalemate.

‘Half ahead together!’ Ransome levelled his glasses again. There appeared to be fighting everywhere, grenades, tracer, with a fiery backdrop of falling bombs as the RAF and American planes battered away at the enemy’s support lines and gun emplacements.

Hargrave murmured, ‘I’ll never forget this.’

Ransome did not lower his glasses, but watched as Dunlin swung broadside on near a large landing-craft.

‘You still here, Number One?’ He smiled. ‘It’s something I never thought I’d see either, as a matter of fact.’

The Buffer appeared on the bridge. ‘Wheel’ouse cleared, sir. I’ve put two ’ands in there to ’elp the cox’n.’ He sighed. ‘But you know wot ’e’s like, sir, won’t budge from that wheel!’

Ransome stiffened as two waterspouts shot up from the sea near Dunlin.

’Hell! They’ve got her ranged-in!’ He beckoned to Mackay. ‘Signal Dunlin to stand off immediately!’

More explosions made the sea boil and leap in bright columns through the drifting smoke.

Sherwood shouted, ‘One of them hit the landing-craft, sir!’

Morgan called, ‘ Dunlin’s captain for you on R/T, sir!’

Ransome ducked down and snatched the speaker from the boatswain’s mate.

‘Obey that order and stand awayl’ He pictured the man’s face, one more lieutenant like Scythe’s C.O., called Paul Allfrey. He came from the Isle of Wight.

‘I can’t, sir!’ His voice ebbed and flowed through the roar of explosions. ‘The L.C.T. is full of wounded! Must get a tow-line rigged!

Just when you thought that death was elsewhere. Ransome snapped, ‘Affirmative. We will assist you.’ He ran back to the forepart of the bridge again. ‘Signal Ranger to assume command. Then make a signal to Bedworth. We are assisting.’

He stared down at the side-deck and saw the corpses being lashed down under some bloodstained canvas. He knew them all. Reeves especially. A good man who had been hoping to take a petty officer’s course.

‘Get down there, Number One. The Buffer and the Gunner (T) will assist you. A towing job is never easy, and we’ve not much time.’

‘Oh God!’ Morgan clutched the rail and pointed as Dunlin took a direct hit just abaft her squat bridge. She was smaller than the other minesweepers, and the shell seemed to tear her upperworks apart in one blinding flash of fire. Falling debris, her mast and radar lantern hurled over the side and the sea pockmarked with falling fragments. Two more columns shot up in a tight straddle, and even above the roar of gunfire they heard the grating crash of splinters gouging through steel.

Hargrave had gone, and Ransome watched the gap between the ships narrowing.

‘Cox’n?’ He raised his eyes level with the glass screen. ‘Bring her round to port. Hold her on a bearing with the L.C.T.’s stern.’ It cut out the confusion of too many helm orders, and Beckett, injured or not, knew Rob Roy’s behaviour better than anyone.