Douglas Reeman - In Danger's Hour

Sherwood climbed onto a locker, the same one that the young signalman named Darley had been using when he had reached up to free one of the ensigns which had become tangled in the halliards. The blast had flung him from the bridge like a bundle of rags. His slight figure lay on the deck below, his eyes still staring at the clouds as if he could not accept what had happened.

Ransome said, ‘Get down there, Number One.’

Sherwood faced him. Was there any point in prolonging it? Then he saw Ransome’s despair. ‘I’ll do what I can.’

Beckett climbed on to the bridge and touched his cap.

Like Boyes and the terrified midshipman who followed him he was speckled with chips of white paint from the deckhead, as if he had been in the snow.

‘No casualties in the wheel’ouse, sir.’ He stared at the L.S.T., which was now fiercely ablaze from bow to stern. ‘A few bleedin’ ’eadaches, that’s about all.’

He saw Mackay and added roughly, ‘Never mind, Yeo. Coulda bin anyone.’

Mackay picked up his father’s telescope and wiped it on his sleeve. He did not even look up as another shell exploded in the sea less than a cable away.

Ransome tried again. Abandon ship. He had no choice, unless he put the ship before her people, his pride before their survival.

Morgan said hesitantly, ‘Some R.M.Ls are heading our way, sir.’

Ransome levered himself to his feet. Thank God, Cusack had gone elsewhere where he was needed. He winced and clapped one hand to his side.

‘Muster the wounded. Stand by to lower the Carley floats and rafts.’

He stared at the sloping deck, the corpses lying where they had fallen.

He was leaving her. After all they had done together. All those miles, and all those bloody mines she had swept so that others might be safe.

The hull gave another shudder, and the remains of the topmast, which had been felled by the blast, slithered over the bridge with the remnants of the shattered radar lantern.

If only they could move. He would get her home somehow, if he had to go astern on one screw all the way.

The Buffer appeared at the top of the ladder, his face like a mask.

‘’Ands mustered, sir. Eight wounded. Five killed.’ He hesitated. ‘Two missing.’

Ransome pushed his fingers through his hair. The latter must be Fallows and Guttridge. They would never be found. There would be nothing left.

The Buffer glanced anxiously at his friend. ‘Okay, Swain?’

Beckett sighed. ‘Not ’appy, Buffer.’

The Buffer looked around, like a man who has been robbed of something precious.

‘Me neither.’

Some one said in a dull voice, ‘There goes our bloody Senior Officer.’

So Bliss had seen what had happened. Rob Roy was already in the past, written off.

Ransome moved to the rear of the bridge and stared at the deck’s stark angle. Both screws must be almost out of the water; the forecastle was well down, the anchors awash. If only—

Sherwood came back and reported, ‘Bulkhead’s holding, sir, though God knows how.’ He thought of the gaping hole in the messdejfk which had begun deep in the bilges before exploding upwards to the sky. Their private world invaded, soiled. Seaboot stockings hung to dry, floating in the gushing, foul oil. A letter from home, a man’s cap with its best shoregoing tally, HM Minesweeper, still managing to shine through the filth. Like an epitaph.

Sherwood watched him, feeling it, as if she was his ship; sharing it.

‘Shall I give the word, sir? If we stay here, the Jerries—’

i know.’ The two words were torn from his lips.

His hand touched the oilskin pouch in his pocket. Eve would know. Would be reaching out to him.

He nodded abruptly. ‘I’ll do it.’

He cupped his hands and saw them all staring up at the bridge, unable to accept it. Unwilling to leave.

Mackay stood up and stretched his cramped muscles. Then he trained his long telescope and said brokenly, if only you could see this, Nipper!’

Ransome thought he had finally cracked. Nobody could blame him.

Then Mackay said in a stronger voice, ‘From Ranger, sir. Intend to take you in tow.’

Ransome stared at him. The flotilla had gone ahead as ordered; so how could Hargrave be here to offer assistance?

Sherwood looked at him.

‘What do you think, sir?’

Ransome faced them. They had never been closer than at this moment.

‘Make to Ranger. We shall stick together .’ He heard the clatter of Mackay’s lamp and said, ‘We’ll tow from aft, Number One.’ He was surprised at the new strength in his voice. ‘We might just do it.’

While Sherwood and the Buffer hurried aft to prepare the towing-hawser, Ranger was already turning steeply towards them, her deck angled over as far as Rob Roy’s as she came in on a diagonal course. Hargrave had assessed the danger from the coastal battery and was not wasting any time.

Ransome looked down at the great oil slick which was spreading out around his ship, flattening the waves like a greasy blanket. It might just help when the hawser took that first, critical strain.

There were more men on deck now, moving to the shouted commands, but their eyes were on the damage all around them. Most of the extra hands were stokers, sent on deck by the Chief, who with an E.R.A. had remained in the engine-room to nurse the pumps, as they fought to contain the great weight of water trapped between two bulkheads. If one more collapsed Rob Roy would sink in minutes.

Ransome heard Able Seaman Jardine exclaim, ‘You should see the bloody hole in the side! You could drive a double-decker bus through it!’ That was certainly how it felt.

He was relieved to see that the wounded were gathered near one of the big Carley floats, so that they would have a better chance if the worst happened. The dead had been covered with strips of canvas, and the little S.B.A. sat beside Sub-Lieutenant Tritton, oblivious to all that was happening, even when a shell whimpered overhead. He watched Tritton’s face, which was the colour of chalk, holding his wrist and listening to his laboured breathing. It was to be hoped that Cusack had made sure he would feel nothing until —

He watched another float being manhandled toward the side. Could anything worse happen? Could he even begin to believe that the worst was behind them?

He thought of the one mine which had found them. After all the miles they had steamed, the risks they had shared, the mines they had destroyed.

It had probably lain there for years after being dropped, very likely by the British, to delay coastal shipping. Its sinker must have jammed when it had first been laid, and it had rested there undisturbed all that time until those jubilant motor gunboats had awakened it with their impressive wash.

He moved around the bridge, his boots slipping on the slanting plates, his eyes seeking and feeling her pain like his own. The blast had buckled the wheelhouse’s protective steel like a piece of cheap tin, and swept down the starboard side, missing some, hurling others aside. Like the Oerlikon gunner who had died below the bridge. No wonder sailors hated wearing steel helmets, no matter how many times the order was enforced. The blast had ripped the helmet from his head so that he had been garrotted by the chinstay, as if by human hands.

He saw order emerging from confusion. Wires, ropes and strops filled one side-deck, and it all had to be moved by muscle-power. If they were attacked by an enemy aircraft there would be no point in trying to fight back. They needed every spare hand on the towing-hawser, and the power-operated guns were useless anyway.

He raised his glasses and saw Hargrave staring across at him while Ranger straightened up and backed stern first towards him, her screws beating up foam even through the great slick of oil.