Douglas Reeman - In Danger's Hour

It prompted him to call, ‘Yeoman! Hoist battle ensigns! Let’s show ’em!’

Mackay stared at him, then nodded. ‘Aye, aye , sir!’ He jabbed the young signalman. ‘Here, Nipper, help me bend them on!’ He laughed aloud. ‘Something to remember, eh, kid?’

Morgan raised his glasses as the lenses glowed red from a fiery reflection across the water.

‘Some poor devil’s brewed up, sir.’

Ransome turned away as more waterspouts burst skyward amongst the lines of landing-craft.

He looked above and watched as the first great ensign floated from Rob Roy’s starboard yard, then a second one to port. This ship was too small for such a display; but it might give some of the watching soldiers heart while they waited, counting seconds, hoping the ramps would fall and their helplessness would end.

An upended landing-craft floated abeam, with two soldiers standing on the keel, casting off their boots and weapons as the hull began to sink beneath them. One of them waved, or it could have been a mock salute.

Great shells thundered overhead, and once when Ransome trained his glasses on a hardening ridge of land he saw a four-engined bomber fall like a leaf to vanish into the smoke. There was some sort of electrical storm making the clouds shine like silver, and a second plane fell without ever sighting its objective.

Ransome watched, and found himself hoping. Praying. But no tell-tale parachutes drifted clear. Their war had ended, here.

‘Port ten. Midships. Steady.’

Morgan turned and looked up at him. ‘Steady on one-six-zero, sir.’

The minesweepers had achieved what they came to do. Even as the thought crossed his mind, Ransome saw some of the big warships which had doubtless been the last to leave the assembly point surging past, guns high-angled and already shooting far inland.

Sherwood climbed to the bridge. ‘Sweep secured, sir.’ He watched the tall waterspouts shredding down near the landing-craft, some of which appeared to be swamped, only to emerge as determined as ever.

Ransome said, ‘Go and clear the after guns. Stand by scrambling-nets. We’ll be needed in support soon.’

He heard cheering and saw some of his men pointing and gesturing astern. Ranger and the rest of the flotilla had followed his example, and looked even smaller under their big White Ensigns.

Sub-Lieutenant Fallows stood with his hands on his hips and glared as Leading Seaman Guttridge strolled toward him on the forecastle.

‘Buffer said you want some ’elp, sir?’ It was as close to being insolent as he could get. Guttridge was still smarting over the hiding he had received when he had gone home to sort out his wife and her boyfriend. He had not expected the latter to be a six-foot tall commando, nor had he anticipated that her two brothers, both squaddies, would be there to fill him in.

She had screamed, ‘You talk about bein’ faithful, you slag! Wot about all the girls you’ve put in the club?’ They had beaten the hell out of him. His body was still a mass of bruises. He was in no mood to put up with Bunny Fallows, bloody D-Day or not.

Fallows barked, ‘This guardrail—’ He pointed at the trailing wires. The explosion had snapped a small shackle like a carrot. ‘It’s a mess!’

’Wot d’you expect me to do about it?’ Guttridge saw the crew of ‘A’ Gun rising above the shield to listen to this unexpected diversion.

Someone shouted, ‘’Ere come the Glory Boys!’

A tight arrowhead of motor gunboats roared diagonally towards the port bow, their cannon and machine-guns already tracking round towards the land. With their ensigns streaming from each gaff, and the oilskinned officers wearing their dashing white scarves, they looked every inch the schoolboy’s dream of the country’s heroes.

Some of the seamen waved as Rob Roy plodded on at a steady eight knots.

Fallows yelled, T’m speaking to you! Don’t you be so bloody insolent or I’ll have that hook off your arm!’

He had to grip the remaining guardrail as the combined wash of the three fast-moving gunboats thundered around the bows and lifted them effortlessly on a small tidal wave.

Guttridge watched the sub-lieutenant and hoped he would lose his balance and pitch over the side. There was not a single matelot who would offer him a line.

But Fallows was clinging to a stanchion, his eyes popping from his head as he stared down past the receding bow wave.

He wanted to cry out, to make himself heard and obeyed. But in those swift seconds he saw only the mine as it spiralled lazily from the depths, where it had probably been lying for years undisturbed.

Guttridge saw his terror and yelled, ‘Hit the deck! Get down!"

Then the mine rasped against the hull, and the world fell apart.

Lieutenant Trevor Hargrave stared overhead as another great salvo of shells thundered towards the shore. It sounded like a dozen express trains passing at the same time, so loud that you almost expected to see something.

The seaman with the quarterdeck handset reported, ‘Sweep secured, sir!’

Hargrave nodded. How long would it take, he wondered? To stop fitting Rob Roy’s faces to the men he now commanded?

He glanced around the bridge, at the crouching look-outs, the leading signalman who should have been Mackay as he took a couple of turns on a signal halliard and watched the big, clean ensign streaming out on the wet breeze.

Ranger was his command. Mine. He felt pride matched only by an unexpected sense of loss.

He saw Bedworth tearing through the groups of motor minesweepers, and smiled bitterly. In Falmouth he had bumped into an old classmate who was now a lieutenant-commander on the naval staff.

He had asked him about Bliss, and why he did not appear to get on with Vice-Admiral Hargrave.

His friend had grinned and punched his arm. ‘By God, Trevor, they must be a close bunch in your family to smother such a juicy secret!’

When Hargrave had pressed him further he had explained, ‘Your old man was once Bliss’s commanding officer in a fleet destroyer. The word went round that he was chasing Bliss’s young wife – and with some success to all accounts. No love lost since, it seems.’

Hargrave bit his lip. He found it easy to believe now, when once he would have defended his father’s name from any quarter.

He felt the pain and the humiliation returning. The beautiful Ross Pierce had offered him her private telephone number.

‘Next time we meet, Trevor, we may start a few fires together!’

And he had believed it.

He had phoned her at that number, a flat she owned with a Mayfair exchange, two nights before Rob Roy had received her final orders for Operation ‘Neptune’, the navy’s equivalent of ‘Overlord’. Obviously she liked him quite a lot, but had held him at arm’s length, which only made him want her all the more.

His father had answered the call, and Hargrave put down the receiver without speaking. It still hurt him more than he would have thought possible.

Sub-Lieutenant John Dent, whose sister drove staff cars in the WRNS, exclaimed, ‘From the W/T office, sir. The first troops are ashore!’

Hargrave looked at the bleak sky, the choppy sea with its mounting litter of upended or burned-out landing vessels.

They had done it.

He thought of his father and the Wren officer together and tried to accept what he must do. He would use them both, just as they were using one another.

He heard muffled cheers from the wheelhouse and leaned over the voicepipe.

‘Stow the noise down there.’ He glanced at the gyro repeater. ‘The course is one-six-zero, not two degrees off!’