Douglas Reeman - In Danger's Hour

Like some of the others O’Connor had good cause to dislike Fallows – he had smelt his breath once, and accused O’Connor of drinking on watch. It had been a rare and unfortunate occasion for O’Connor that Fallows had been stone cold sober.

Fallows had taken him in front of the first lieutenant as a defaulter, with the result that he had lost his only good conduct badge, and had been given extra work as punishment. He had never forgotten.

At the Christmas party, Fallows had taken more than usual and had lurched on deck, without his jacket despite the wind and rain, and fallen dead drunk on a rack of depth-charges.

He had gone to rouse the officer, but as he had gripped his outflung arm he had been horrified to find that he wanted to tip him over the side. He had even levered the unconscious officer against the guardrails before he knew what he was going to do. Nobody would have noticed, and with a stiff tide running past the buoy, everyone would think Fallows had stumbled overboard.

A stoker had appeared through an engine-room hatch and had offered cheerfully, ‘’Ere, Pat, I’ll give you a ’and to get the pig down aft again!’

Fallows had known nothing about it. O’Connor watched him balefully. Would I have done it? He was afraid of the answer.

Ransome said, ‘Take her round, Sub.’

An oilskinned figure clambered into the bridge and handed Ransome a folded signal flimsy.

‘Thanks, Sparks.’

He held it below the screen to shield it from the rain and spray and read it before the telegraphist’s lettering began to run down the paper.

‘They found A.B. Parsons. He was dead. Drowned apparently.’

He heard Tritton exclaim, ‘The turn , Bunny!’

Ransome snapped, ‘Starboard twenty!’ He pushed past Fallows and peered across the compass repeater. ‘What the hell’s the matter? You’ve taken over the con many times by now, man!’

Fallows opened and closed his mouth. ‘I – I’m sorry, sir.’

‘Midships.’ He heard the quartermaster’s response. ‘Steady.’

The quartermaster called up the voicepipe. ‘Steady, sir! Course zero-seven-zero!’ It was exact. They had done this channel so often it was hardly surprising.

Ransome stepped away and raised his glasses to watch the faint splash of colour as a fresh dan buoy was dropped by the trawler Senja.

Only then did he looked at Fallows. ‘You know the narrow margin, Sub. So in future just watch it!’

He was being harsh with someone who could not answer back. But Rob Roy and all her company were far more important than some bruised feelings.

He settled in his chair and said, ‘Make the signal. Out sweeps to starboard. Take station on me.’

And so it went on, in weather so bad that it was hard to hold station on their set courses; and there was the additional fear they might not see a drifter if it came amongst them, its obscene horns hidden by the North Sea’s steep waves.

He thought of Eve, of the letters she had written, of the ones which might be waiting when they returned to harbour to refuel and restock their provisions.

Fallows moved away from the chair and trained his glasses abeam. They had found Parsons. He must have been trapped under the bombed destroyer. Fallows had made himself walk back past the basin on the following day. Some men had been working on the damaged ship, but there was no alarm, not even Parson’s cap.

He had sweated about it for days. Suppose Parsons had dragged himself clear? Maybe a watchman had found him alive?

At Christmas it had become too much for him, and only Hargrave’s fury had made him take a grip on his nerves.

Now it was all behind him. Parsons was really dead. They’d say he had fallen in by accident, drunk.

He felt the same insane grin cracking his jaws and had to grate his teeth together to prevent it.

It had all been a mistake, but Parsons was the one who had made it.

It was mid-February, while Rob Roy and Ranger lay alongside each other in Hull to refuel, that their private worlds were upset once again.

Ransome sat in his cabin reading a letter from Eve, while the ship stood at arm’s length beyond the door, and routine flowed around him, leaving him momentarily alone. Heavy rain pattered on the decks and made thick silver bars across the scuttles, with only the occasional creak of tackles or a muffled shout to show that anything was actually happening.

Hull seemed an unhappy place to be, even when they had been at sea with barely a break. It had been bombed so many times that the place was barely recognisable. But the work went on, and it was said that the turnround of ships in the port was quicker than ever.

He put Eve’s letter down as Petty Officer Kellett opened the door a few inches.

‘Beg pardon, sir, but Ranger’s captain ’as come aboard.’

Lieutenant Commander Gregory strode into the cabin, nodding only briefly to Kellett. ‘Sorry to barge in, Ian.’ He dragged a tin of duty-free cigarettes from his pocket. ‘Knew you wouldn’t mind.’

Ransome watched him, the quick nervous movements of his hands as he lit another cigarette.

‘What is it, Jim?’

Lieutenant Commander James Gregory tried to settle in the other chair and blew a thin stream of smoke to the deckhead.

‘I’m leaving, Ian. That’s what.’

Ransome waited. They had come through so much together.

Their small, hardworked group of fleet minesweepers, each one a personality. They had watched others go down, those whose luck had run out. Fawn, Dunlin and Scythe, with other names they could scarcely remember. Ships and men torn apart in a war which was without glamour and beyond the headlines, yet one which was as vital today as it had been right from the start.

Gregory shrugged. ‘It’s all part of the scheme for a bigger support group for the next invasion. I’m to take over a new flotilla of motor minesweepers as senior officer. I shall have a free hand, with Bliss’s blessing of course.’

Ransome asked, ‘Are you pleased? It shows what they think of you – I agree, you’re just the bloke for it. Somebody who knows what it’s all about.’

Gregory glanced around the cabin; it was an exact replica of his own.

‘I’ll miss her, Ian.’

‘I know. We’ll all miss you too.’

Outside the tannoy bawled, ‘D’you hear there! Cooks to the galley! Senior hands of messes muster for rum!’

Ransomg grimaced. ‘The right idea, I think.’ He took out a bottle and two glasses. Ranger would not be the same without Gregory. He felt the same about losing her.

He pushed a full glass across the table. ‘Cheers!’

Gregory drank some of it and swallowed hard. ‘Christ!’ Then he studied Ransome and said, ‘You really don’t know, do you?’

‘Know what?’

’Ranger’s new skipper is Lieutenant Trevor Hargrave.’

Ransome stared at him with astonishment. ‘No, by God, I didn’t!’

Gregory smiled. ‘I suppose I shouldn’t care. I’ve served under skippers who thought that nobody could ever be good enough to take their places. All the same—’

Ransome refilled the glasses. He was losing Hargrave. A command of his own. He felt suddenly angry. The Old Pals’ Act; it had to be. Hargrave’s father had pulled strings. On the face of it, Gregory was being promoted, and as Ranger’s Number One was fairly new to the job, Hargrave might seem the logical choice. He was experienced, a good ship-handler, and even if he was new to Ranger, he was not to the flotilla.

The door opened and Leading Writer Wakeford peered into the cabin.

‘Oh, sorry, sir. I’ll come back later.’

Ransome saw the thick envelope in his hand and said, ‘Bring it in.’