Douglas Reeman - In Danger's Hour

The cameraman, on the other hand, had taken a few moments to say his farewells. To the men he had watched and photographed in action, the petty officers’ mess where he had been quartered, and lastly the bridge where he had apparently shot some of his best film.

‘So long, Captain. Stay lucky. It would have been a privilege to meet you even if we’d stayed in dry dock the whole time!’

A small, undistinguished figure, yet somehow head and shoulders above the man he worked for.

An army lieutenant-colonel was squatting on a shooting-stick, smoking a cheroot. He smiled amiably.

‘Come to stretch your legs, Commander?’

Ransome saluted, it still looks a mess here, sir.’

The soldier watched his men chattering to one another as they worked beneath the cover of some mobile A.A. guns. ‘It’ll take weeks to sort it all out. There are so many Italians deserting from their old ally and surrendering to us, or scampering off in civvies, I reckon Jerry must be browned off with the whole bunch of ’em!’

He turned as Sherwood sauntered along the beach, his hands in his pockets. ‘You’ve got a good lad there, a great help until our experts came.’ He smiled, some of the strain passing from his face. ‘He caught some of my chaps in a bombed church just up the beach. You know how it is, looking for souvenirs. There was a dead Jerry in there, one arm sticking out with a really tempting watch strapped on it. One of my lads was about to ‘commandeer’ it when your lieutenant arrived. He apparently tied a line to the corpse, ordered my soldiers outside – much to their irritation according to the sergeant-major – then he pulled on the line.’ He spread his hands. ‘The stiff was booby-trapped. Blew down the church wall. Near thing!’

Sherwood joined them and gave a tired salute. ‘Your own bomb disposal blokes are there now, Colonel. Should be okay.’

Ransome watched him. That close to danger and yet Sherwood seemed so calm, almost disinterested. It was unnerving.

The lieutenant-colonel said, ‘Anyway, I just wanted to thank you for all you’ve done in the past days. It will come officially, no doubt, through channels ,’ he became grave, ‘but you and I understand. We do the job when the planners have finished theirs.’ His gaze strayed around the beach, remembering, holding on to the images, the faces of those he had known and would never see again.

‘No matter what, we made it come true, Commander. Together.’

Ransome slowly filled his pipe. ‘I’ll pass the word, Colonel.’ He watched his hands and expected them to start shaking now that it was over. When had he last slept? When would he again?

‘Well, well, we’ve found them at last!’

Ransome turned and saw a small procession of soldiers, most of whom were wearing Red Cross brassards and carrying stretchers. The officer who had spoken was a major, his face still smudged from the dawn action, his eyes red-rimmed as if looking through a mask.

The major said to his companion, a lieutenant, ‘I just knew the British would have someone who smoked a pipe!’

They were Canadians, some of those who had landed to the west of Cape Correnti.

They all solemnly shook hands and grinned at each other.

Ransome handed over his pouch and both Canadians took out their pipes.

The major said, ‘I’m going to be greedy, Commander. Most of the guys smoke fags, and all our pipe tobacco was lost in the attack.’ He shook his head with mock sadness. ‘That was a real disaster, I can tell you!’

The colonel said, ‘This is Lieutenant-Commander Ransome, by the way. His ship towed out those wounded on the first day.’

The major studied him curiously. ‘Ransome?’ He turned to his lieutenant. ‘Hey, Frank, why does that name ring a bell?’

The lieutenant paused, his unlit pipe halfway to his mouth. ‘You know, the partisans.’

The major nodded. ‘That’s right. We flushed out some Sicilian partisans who’d been hiding from the Jerries up in the hills. Bandits more likely. They came to my boys so as not to get shot up by mistake.’

Ransome stood motionless and despite the unwavering, dusty heat, felt like ice.

The major continued, ‘Just a coincidence, of course, but they’d been hiding some kid from the Krauts – a young officer some fishermen picked up a while back—’

Ransome gripped his arm. ‘Where? Which one?’

The major did not understand but sensed the urgency, the quiet desperation.

‘Go and get him, Frank.’

Ransome watched two stretcher-bearers descend the slope to the beach.

The major added, ‘The partisans say he was wounded and they got a doctor from some village. He had to operate immediately, but had no anaesthetics apparently—’ He broke off as Ransome ran along the beach.

‘What is it?’

Sherwood said quietly, ‘Don’t ask. Just pray.’

They lowered the stretcher to the ground and Ransome dropped to his knees beside it.

With the greatest care he pulled the blanket down across a heavy, stained bandage, and gently brushed some sand from his brother’s hair. Then, oblivious to the watching eyes, he put his arm round Tony’s bare shoulders and hugged him for several moments, quite unable to speak.

His brother opened his eyes and stared at him, first without recognition, and then with disbelief.

Ransome whispered, ‘You’re going to be all right, Tony, I promise. All right!’

Sherwood said, it’s his kid brother. Reported killed. He carried it with him day and night, but most of us never saw it.’ He watched Ransome cradling the boy’s head against his shoulder. ‘We were all too busy thinking of ourselves.’

The lieutenant-colonel said, ‘Leave them another minute, then take him along with the others to the field dressing-station.’

The Canadian major held a match to his pipe. ‘And I thought they said miracles were out of fashion, eh?’

Lieutenant Trevor Hargrave turned and touched his cap as Ransome climbed up from his sea-cabin.

‘Starboard watch at Defence Stations, sir.’ He waited while Ransome walked to the gyro repeater and wiped it with his glove before adding, ‘Course is zero-seven-zero, revolutions for eleven knots.’

Ransome stretched his arms and fought the desire to shiver.

‘Very well, Number One.’ It was eight o’clock in the morning, with the forenoon watchkeepers scattered throughout Rob Roy’s private world, at their weapons or in the engine-room. Ransome had donned an oilskin over his old duffle-coat and had wrapped a dry towel around his neck, and yet he was still cold. Too long on the bridge; or perhaps he had been foolish to snatch a few moments to be alone in his sea-cabin, to enjoy the luxury of piping-hot shaving water, and a mug of Ted Kellett’s strong coffee. His face felt raw from the razor and he questioned the sudden need, the importance attached to shaving on this particular day.

He moved to the chart-table and saw Sub-Lieutenant Morgan step aside for him.

Surely there should be a feeling of relief, of joy even at returning home?

He turned the page of the ready-use log while he held it close against the shaded lamp bulb. Eight o’clock in the morning, but it was almost as dark as night. He saw Sherwood’s writing at the ( lose of the previous watch. The last day in November 1943. perhaps time and distance were already making that other war seem unreal, the memories of Sicily and the months which had followed blurred, like mixed images.

Two months after the fear and excitement of watching the first troops surge ashore, the Allies had launched their second invasion, Operation Avalanche, on the Italian mainland, first on to l he bloody beaches of Salerno, and later in a daring pincer-movement at Anzio. The enemy had been more than ready that lime and every yard of the way had been fiercely contested. New weapons in the shape of glider-bombs had appeared over the landing-sites; controlled by parent aircraft they had been homed on to the heavier warships, many of which, including the battleship Warspite, had suffered casualties and damage. Another ship, the American cruiser Savannah , had received a direct hit, which had penetrated a turret and burst deep inside her hull, causing serious flooding and over a hundred casualties. The Germans, no doubt aware of their Axis ally’s desire to declare a position of either neutrality or surrender, threw in everything they had with a total disregard for the rules of war. Two hospital ships, Newfoundland and Leinster, were bombed, although they were brightly lit to display their identity and purpose; the former sank with a heavy loss of life.