The deck began to tremble and Boyes saw the backspring rise up and tauten like an iron rod.
Leading Seaman Guttridge, called Gipsy by his friends, exclaimed, 'Jesus, what's the Old Man up to?'
Another voice said, 'It ain't him. It's the new Jimmy takin' us out.'
Mr Bone snapped, 'Slack off the spring! Stand by sternrope!' He gestured into the gloom by the boat davits. 'Chief Bosun's Mate! More fenders down aft! Chop-bloody-chop!'
The Buffer appeared with some extra seamen and Jardine grinned. 'Poor old Buffer, he won't like that, gettin' a bottle in front of the lads! I 'spect he was out on the batter again last night, the randy old sod!'
Boyes watched the Buffer hanging over the guardrail to point where the extra fenders were to be placed as the hull began to angle away from the Ranger, so that the two sterns seemed to be opening like one great hinge.
Jardine said, 'See?' He watched happily as the Buffer snarled at a seaman for not putting the right hitch on a fender.
'If you lose that fender, you'll spend the rest of the war payin' for it!' He certainly sounded out of sorts.
Jardine nodded. 'Anything in a skirt. Like a rat up a pump, 'e is.'
It was»still too dark for him to see Boyes blush.
The communications rating called, 'Let go sternrope!'
Men ran amongst the jutting objects, the wire clattering inboard behind him where it was overpowered and lashed down like an endless serpent.
The hull was still swinging out, and when Boyes glanced up towards the bridge he saw the first lieutenant leaning right out to watch the remaining mooring wire.
No matter what, he thought. I'll be like that one day.
Froth and spray burst up around the low stern and Jardine said, ' 'Ere we go again then.'
'Let go aft, sir!'
Mr Bone watched the last wire snaking inboard through its fairlead and snapped, 'Take this message to the first lieutenant.' He thrust out a folded piece of paper to Leading Seaman Guttridge. 'We need a new wire afore we comes in again. Might as well break it out of the store now, right?'
Guttridge showed his teeth in a grin and looked even more like a gipsy.
He gestured to Boyes. 'You — Useless Eustace! Take it to Jimmy the One!'
Jardine winked. 'Take it off yer back, Gerry. They don't mean no 'arm.'
Boyes hurried along the side deck, watching out for more obstacles until he reached the first ladder to the bridge. He felt that he understood what Jardine meant. They might use the way he spoke or his lack of experience as a butt for their jokes. Sooner or later they would turn to another newcomer. Either way, they had accepted him.
'Where are you going?'
Boyes gripped the ladder to prevent himself from falling as the hull heeled unexpectedly to a sharp turn. It was the midshipman, whom he had not seen before.
'I've been sent to the bridge, sir.'
A shaft of frail sunlight broke through the clouds and brought out the colour of the dazzle paint on the bridge. But Boyes could only stare at the frowning midshipman.
He exclaimed, 'Good heavens, it's you, Davenport!'
It was amazing, he thought dazedly. Davenport was about his own age, and they had been at the same school in Surbiton, in the same class for most of the time.
Davenport looked as if he had been hit in the face. He seized Boyes' arm and dragged him past the starboard Oerlikon mounting where a seaman gunner was already strapped in his harness and testing his sights against the land.
Davenport asked wildly, 'What are you doing here?'
It was such a ridiculous question that Boyes wanted to laugh.
He replied, 'I was drafted —'
Davenport did not let him finish. 'You failed your C.W., did you?' He hurried on like an actor who has only just been given his lines. 'I can help you. But if they know we grew up together, I shall have to keep out of it.'
He straightened his back as a petty officer hurried down the ladder.
'And call me sir, next time!' Then he gripped his arm again, his voice almost pleading. 'Really, it will be better for your chances.'
Then he lowered himself to the deck and Boyes stood there unmoving while he took it all in. A friend in the camp? He doubted it; in fact he had never really liked Davenport at school. All the same . . .
He reached the bridge and handed the paper to a boatswain's mate. The latter said, 'I'll see Jimmy gets it. Things is a bit fraught up 'ere at the moment.'
Boyes took a lingering glance around the open bridge. The rank of repeaters and telephones, a leading signalman with his glasses trained on the tower ashore, a look-out on either side, some officers grouped around the compass platform, the occasional murmur of orders up and down the wheelhouse voicepipe.
An officer in a soiled duffle-coat, his binoculars dangling from his chest, brushed past him. Then he hesitated. 'Who are you?'
Boyes recalled Mr Bone's tirade and answered cautiously, 'Ordinary Seaman Boyes, sir.'
The officer nodded and gave him a searching glance which Boyes could almost feel. 'Oh yes, the replacement.'
He unexpectedly held out his hand. 'Welcome to Rob Roy.' Then he walked aft to peer down at the quarterdeck.
Boyes whispered to the boatswain's mate, 'Which one is that?'
The man laughed. 'That's the Guv'nor. The Old Man.' he nudged him roughly. ' 'E won't shake yer 'and again if you meet 'im across the defaulters' table.'
Boyes barely heard him. The young officer was the captain.
Boyes's day was made.
'Cox'n on th' wheel, sir!' Beckett's voice sounded harsh as it echoed up from the wheelhouse directly below the bridge.
Ransome nodded to the vague shapes of the watchkeepers, then made his way to the tall, wooden chair which was bolted to the deck behind the glass screens.
Around and beneath him he could feel the vessel moving restlessly against the other minesweeper alongside, caught the acrid downdraught of funnel-gas as the wind buffeted the bridge.
It was darker than he had expected, the sky still grey beyond the fast-moving clouds.
He settled himself in the chair and tightened the fresh towel around his neck. He recalled something his father had said on mornings like this. Spring in the air — ice on the wind.
Voicepipes muttered around the bridge and he watched as familiar figures and faces took on personality. Shapeless in duffle-coats, but he would know any one of them in pitch-darkness.
The leading signalman, Alex Mackay, his cap fixed firmly to his head by its lowered chinstay, binoculars to his eyes as he watched the harbour for unexpected signals. They would be unlikely to get any, Ransome thought. As soon as they quit harbour they faced death in every mile. But you had to accept that. Accordingly, the minesweepers' comings and goings were taken for granted. Routine.
And if the air cringed to a sudden explosion and you saw one of your group blasted to fragments, you must accept that too. The navy's prayer, 'If you can't take a joke you shouldn't have joined', seemed to cover just about everything.
Standing by the wheelhouse voicepipe's bell-shaped mouth, Lieutenant Philip Sherwood stood with his gloved hands resting on the rail below the screen, one seaboot tapping quietly on the scrubbed gratings. He gave the impression that he was bored, indifferent to anything which might be waiting outside the harbour.
Sub-Lieutenant Tudor Morgan, the assistant navigator, crouched on the compass platform, using the spare moments to examine the gyro repeater and take imaginary 'fixes' on dark shapes ashore.
Ransome glanced round towards the Ranger alongside, pale blobs of faces watching while the hands stood at the guardrails handling the mooring wire and fenders, ready to cast off.
Above Rob Roy's bridge their most valuable addition, the radar lantern, like a giant jampot, glistened in overnight damp or drizzle. It was their 'eye', all-seeing but unseen. Not even a dream when Rob Roy had first slid down into salt water some six years back.
Ransome wanted to leave the chair and prowl ar
ound the bridge as he always did before getting under way, but knew Hargrave would take it as a lack of confidence. He saw the heavy machine-gun mounting abaft the funnel swivel round, the six muzzles moving in unison as its crew tested elevation and training. The two four-inch guns and a single Oerlikon on either side of the bridge completed their official armament. Ransome recalled Hargrave's surprise when he had seen some of the sailors cleaning an impressive array of light machine-guns which ranged from Vickers .303's to a couple of Bren guns. The previous skipper had taken Rob Roy to Dunkirk and had helped to rescue several hundred soldiers. When Ransome had assumed command and had asked the captain much the same question as Hargrave, he had replied, 'The army seemed to forget their weapons when we landed them in England.' He had given a wink, 'ft seemed a pity to waste them, eh?'
Feet clattered on a bridge ladder and Ransome heard Sherwood mutter, 'God, I didn't know it was a black tie affair! A bit formal, what?'
Ransome shot him a glance to silence him and saw Hargrave taking a last glance at the forecastle deck where he had been speaking with Bunny Fallows, who was standing in the eyes of the ship near the bull-ring while he waited for Hargrave's order.
Ransome wondered what Hargrave thought of the sublieutenant. A temporary officer he might be, but he could not be faulted at his job. Beyond that he was a bloody menace, Ransome had decided. He was one of his small team he would not be sorry to lose.
Fallows would be waiting for just one seaman to make a mistake, and his clipped, aristocratic voice would be down on the man's head like a hammer. Fallows was really two people. At sea he was the perfect officer, with both eyes firmly set on the next step up the ladder of promotion. In harbour he often drank too much, and had been warned several times for abusing the hands when he could barely stand. As Campbell, the Chief, had once wryly commented, 'On the bridge he's a real little gent. When he's awash with booze I seem to hear the accent of a Glasgow keelie!' It was unusual for Campbell to make personal remarks about anyone. He certainly had Fallows' measure.
The loud hailer on Ranger's bridge gave a shrill squeak, then Ransome heard the unmistakable tones of her captain, Lieutenant Commander Gregory. A good friend over the months they had been sweeping together, but one you would never really know in a hundred years.
'Did you have a party last night?'
Ransome glanced at Hargrave as he spoke to Morgan while they stooped over the hooded chart-table. It was taking Hargrave far too long. Rob Roy should have been through the gate by now. Even to mention it would throw him off balance, and might discourage him from asking advice when it could prove to be vital. For all of them.
The magnified voice added, 'I suppose your ship is aground on gin bottles? I can give you a wee push if you like!'
Some of Ranger's seamen grinned broadly.
Lieutenant Sherwood muttered, 'Stupid bugger!'
Hargrave crossed the bridge. 'Ready to single up, sir.' He seemed oblivious to the banter alongside.
'Carry on, Number One.' He tried to settle down in the chair. It was a strange, uncomfortable feeling he had never experienced before. It was like having an unknown driver take the wheel of your new car.
'Single up to backspring and stern rope!'
The dark figures came to life on the forecastle, and Ransome heard the scrape of wires along the steel decks, the throaty bark of the Gunner (T), Mr Bone, from the quarterdeck, his personal domain when the ship moored or got under way.
'Stand by wires and fenders!' Hargrave looked even taller on the starboard gratings as he watched the activity on both ships. He was going to pivot the ship round, using Ranger's hull like a hinge. There was not enough room ahead to make a simple turn. Men scampered aft with extra fenders, and Topsy Turnham, the Buffer, could be heard threatening death to anyone who scored the new paint. 'Stand by!' Hargrave gestured to Morgan. 'Warn the wheelhouse!'
Ransome leaned forward to watch the ship's forecastle deck, like a pale spearhead in the feeble light.
Bunny Fallows cupped his hands. 'All clear forrard!'
Hargrave glanced briefly across the bridge at Ransome, but he did not turn. Hargrave waited for his breathing to steady. 'Slow astern port.'
The deck responded instantly and a steady froth of disturbed water surged away from the stern. The remaining spring took the strain, the Buffer and a leading seaman watching the wire tightening as the ship put all her weight against it. Turnham growled, 'Slack off there!' Or, 'Watch that bloody fender, man!' The bows began to swing outwards away from the other ship, from which came a muffled, ironic cheer.
Wider and wider until the two ships angled away from each other at about forty-five degrees.
Ransome cleared his throat, and knew that he was gripping his unlit pipe so tightly that it might snap unless Hargrave stopped the ship.
Hargrave called, 'Stop engines! Let go aft!'
'All clear aft, sir!' The boatswain's mate holding the bridge handset licked his lips. He must have been sharing Ransome's anxiety.
Hargrave nodded. 'Slow ahead together. Port twenty.'
Ransome did not raise his voice. 'Back the port engine, Number One.'
Their e^es met and Ransome smiled. 'I know from near misses that this corner is tighter than it looks.'
Hargrave lowered his mouth to the voicepipe but kept his eyes on Ransome. As if he wanted to see what he really meant, or if it was a criticism.
'Slow astern port!'
Back came Beckett's reply. 'Port engine slow astern, sir. Twenty of port wheel on!'
The ship moved very slowly beneath the shadow of the wall, whilst in the shadows astern the other minesweeper was already casting off her lines, her screws churning the water brilliant white against the weathered stone.
Ransome nodded. 'I've got her, Number One.' He moved to the voicepipe. 'Slow ahead together. Follow the markers, Swain.'
He looked at Hargrave. 'Best to leave it to the man on the wheel. Joe Beckett is the best there is. You can lose precious minutes by passing and repeating orders.' He touched his sleeve. Hargrave's jacket felt like ice. 'That was well done.'
Hargrave stared at him. 'Thank you, sir.'
The tannoy intoned, 'Hands fall in for leaving harbour! Attention on the upper deck, face to starboard!'
When Ransome looked again, Ranger was in line directly astern, her hull beginning to shine as the light grew stronger. The seagoing ensign, patched, tattered and grubby from funnel smoke, flapped stiffly from the gaff, and already most of the wires and heavy rope fenders had vanished, stowed away until the next time.
Ransome raised his powerful glasses and studied the undulating silhouette of the land. South-east England, which had had just about everything thrown at it. Blitzed, bombed, shelled, and nearly starved on more than one occasion when the convoys had been cut to ribbons in the Atlantic long before they had been close enough to face the lurking hazards of enemy mines.
'But not invaded.'
'Sir?' Hargrave looked at him.
Ransome glanced away. He had not realised he'd spoken aloud.
He said, 'It's never stopped. We sweep every day, whether there's anything to sweep or not.' He smiled sadly as he remembered the ladies in black at the funeral, the schoolgirl in her blazer with a cardboard gas-mask container hanging from her shoulder. 'For as the King once said, how else do you know there's nothing there?'
The bows lifted and made the uneven lines of men on forecastle and quarterdeck sway like drunken sailors waiting for the liberty boat. It was as if the sea was already groping into the harbour to find them. To take them back where they belonged.
Ransome moved the gyro compass repeater and found he no longer wanted to talk. But he said, 'Fall out harbour stations. We'll exercise action stations and test guns in fifteen minutes.'
He heard Morgan whispering behind him. When to make the first turn. The course to steer. The latest wrecks to be checked against the chart. Above their heads the radar kept its silent vigil, and once into deeper waters the Asdic would
begin to sweep the darkness beneath Rob Roy's pitted keel.
Ransome had seen it so many times, and yet it was always new. He smelt cocoa, 'kye' as the Jacks called it, and felt his stomach contract. He had slept like the dead, and was regretting the whisky it had taken to do that for him.
As he stepped down from the compass platform his hand brushed against the picture in his duffle-coat pocket. If anything went wrong this trip, he would still have that.
He tried not to think of the funeral, and of the boy called Tinker he had sent on compassionate leave.
A young seaman appeared on the top of the ladder, and was speaking with the boatswain's mate. A new face.
Behind him he heard Hargrave ask, 'Are the hands always dressed like that when we leave harbour?'
Morgan made to reply but Sherwood's voice was sharp and incisive.
'What, no swords and medals, Number One?' His voice was quieter as he swung away. 'It's not a cruiser. There's no safe way in this job!'
Ransome frowned. There was bad friction there. He would have to do something about it. But first he crossed to the young seaman, who had apparently carried a message to the bridge.
'Who are you?' It was not much, but it was the best he could do.
In line ahead the two fleet minesweepers pounded out of the harbour, their tattered ensigns making them appear strangely vulnerable.
They were back in the war.
Battleground
Ransome half-turned in his chair and took a steaming cup from the boatswain's mate. Eight-fifteen. It was tea this time. As he sipped it, feeling its hot sweetness drive away the last of the whisky, he watched the horizon as it tilted slowly from side to side as if to slide Rob Roy back towards the land. It looked as if it was going to be a better day after all, he thought. Still heavy patches of cloud, but the sky above was blue, and when he looked towards the land he saw sunshine on the cliffs, the light reflecting from house windows. Bed-and-breakfasts in those far-off days, now billets for the army, every man doubtless aware of the enemy's nearness. It looked peaceful for all that, except for a cluster of barrage balloons, probably towards Walmer and Deal. Like basking whales, placid in the sunlight.
In Danger's Hour Page 5