Douglas Reeman - In Danger's Hour

‘Just a moment.’ He took it from the bag and held it to his face, the memories of their brief time together sweeping over him to torment him further.

‘Such a lovely smell. I shall never forget.’

Their eyes met and held like a last embrace.

She said simply, it was the sachet. Roses and rosemary.’ Then she came to him and whispered against his face. ‘Love and remembrance.’

HM Minesweeper Rob Roy completed another slow turn and settled on to the next leg of her prescribed sweep.

Standing in the forepart of the bridge Ransome watched the sweep-wire’s float with its little green flag cutting above the waves, then trained his glasses on the other ships taking up station astern.

It was evening, very dull with a hint of drizzle, not at all like the end of a June day.

He heard Beckett’s voice from the wheelhouse. ‘Steady on two-zero-zero, sir.’

Ransome tugged his cap down over his hair and shifted restlessly. Like any other day and yet so completely different. He could feel it all around him: expectancy, relief, anxiety, and, most of all, the sailor’s attitude of resignation. The waiting and the doubts were all behind them, although to the men working aft by the sweep, or at their guns and lookout positions, they could have had the Channel to themselves.

Ransome heard Morgan speaking to the coxswain again, and pictured his small company throughout the ship, on deck and in the engine-room. Commander Bliss had called a conference of all his captains as soon as Ransome had returned to Falmouth. The group was to be at first-degree readiness, no matter what the Met buffs had threatened about the weather. More delays and uncertainties, with some of the old hands already suggesting that the top brass had made another timely cock-up. Forty-eight hours of conflicting signals, more intelligence packs and recognition instructions.

Then Bliss had sent for Ransome and had announced without fuss, ‘It’s on. Tuesday morning we hit Normandy as planned.’

Now they were here in mid-Channel, heading towards the French coast. It was no longer a plan or a conception of one; it was not even next month. It was dawn tomorrow.

Ransome felt a shiver run through him. It was hard to imagine it. All those vessels, hundreds of them, converging from east and west to the great assembly point south of the Isle of Wight, already aptly nicknamed Piccadilly Circus. From Harwich, Chatham and the Nore. From Portsmouth and Weymouth Bay, from Plymouth and every inlet in the West Country; all those ships. Only a cruising gull would be able to get a complete picture. The forty-eight hour delay might cost them dearly. Too much. For even with air supremacy over the south coast, with the American and British squadrons keeping up unbroken patrols by day and night, the enemy must surely know by now what was coming.

When the minesweepers and other small support vessels of Bliss’s group had sailed directly to their prescribed areas from Falmouth, they had only caught a glimpse of the massive buildup. Every type and size of landing-ship, tanks, men, and weapons, while other strange-looking craft followed close behind carrying steel bridges, portable jetties, and the vital supplies of fuel to keep it all moving.

They had been challenged several times by vigilant patrols and escorts, but Ransome had been fired on in the past by over-zealous commanders, and had ordered Mackay to be ready to flick the minesweeping lights on to reveal their intentions, rather than risk unnecessary injury or death.

He heard Fallows’ sharp voice from ‘A’ Gun below the bridge and pondered again over Bliss’s last-minute, private comments.

‘That subbie of yours, Fallows. I’ve had a signal about him from the security chaps. A spot of bother about some forgery on a supply docket – pusser’s paint going to the black market, would you believe!’

Fallows had certainly been behaving strangely, Ransome thought, but he had imagined it was over something else.

Bliss had added smoothly, it will probably mean a court martial – you know how it is, Ian. He’ll certainly be required to face a full inquiry. It’s your responsibility, of course, about when you tell him. You don’t want any changes or upsets at this stage, with all hell about to break loose, eh?’ He had smiled warmly. ‘Entirely up to you.’

In other words, if anything misfired, Ransome and not Bliss would carry the can.

Ransome moved across the bridge past a look-out, and the young replacement signalman named Darley. It was all so fresh and new to him that he kept jumping up and down, fetching things for the yeoman, like a puppy with an old dog.

He peered astern, his glasses misting in the drifting drizzle and salt spray.

Ranger was on the quarter, dipping and lifting again in the steep swell; her outline was already blurred. It would be dark soon, but the sweep would have to be completed whatever happened.

He wondered briefly how Hargrave was managing with his first command, and what Gregory thought of his gaggle of motor minesweepers, which were somewhere astern with the Rescue M.Ls and Bedworth. Someone handed him a mug of cocoa, ‘kye’, and he felt it sticking to his throat like treacle. There was more than a hint of rum in it. Beckett’s work, no doubt.

Ransome rested his elbow on his bridge chair and tried not to let his mind stray from his ship, the wires and voicepipes which connected him with the men who listened and waited; who had only him to rely on.

But he thought of that short stay in Polruan, the room which had been so small and yet barely able to contain their love. He recalled his surprise at seeing his own photograph in a frame by the bed lamp, as if it belonged there, had always been a part of the place. He had mentioned it, but she had said little about it. There was another story there somewhere, he thought.

He touched his coat pocket and felt the outline of his oilskin pouch. This time it held another picture, a small self-portrait she had shyly offered him just before they had set off for that last walk along the cliffs.

It showed her sitting at an easel, her knees drawn up and displaying those familiar paint stains. She had put Barracuda in the background – remarkably accurately, considering the boat had been under canvas for so long.

On the reverse of the painting she had written, ‘To the dearest of men.’

It had not been the only message she had given him. The last one had been in a sealed envelope; she had handed it to him just before the naval car had driven him away, before he had had time to open it. She had called, ‘Read it later on!’ Then as the car had gathered speed she had shouted, 7 love you!’ And she had turned away. He had known it was because of her tears.

She must have selected the sonnet with great care. It had reminded him of his schooldays, but she had somehow brought it up to date, to their dangerous world, in her own handwriting. Like a calm pool in a forest.

Let me not to the marriage of true minds Admit impediments. Love is not love Which alters when it alteration finds, Or bends with the remover to remove…

There was more, but in those first lines he could hear her speaking to him, reassuring him. As if she were here beside him.

Ransome recrossed the bridge, knowing that Morgan wanted to talk, but had been respecting these remaining moments of privacy.

He peered at the shaded compass repeater and felt his ship rolling heavily in the troughs. With an opposing current, and the heavy sweep trailing astern, Rob Roy was barely making seven knots.

He stamped his old leather seaboots on the deck and felt the restless strain thrusting into him again. Was it fear? Or was it fear of failure, of overlooking some small but vital point?