He felt the deck lift and dip down again, and found that he was on edge with a kind of eagerness to see the rest of the flotilla again. Actually it was only half the full group, as the fleet sweepers were working in these waters mainly to back up the many other vessels, ex-fishing trawlers, and the even smaller motor minesweepers, Mickey Mouses as they were nicknamed.
When the whole flotilla of eight ships was together they carried the Senior Officer aboard. Now he had to be content with his office ashore, a gaunt, former holiday hotel which had had its windows blown out so many times they used plywood and sandbags instead.
He smiled as he thought of the Senior Officer. Commander Hugh Moncrieff, a proper old salt from the Royal Naval Reserve, was always good company, but Ransome was glad that his trips to sea in Rob Roy were rare these days. For he had been in command of this ship until handing over to Ransome. Even during the simplest manoeuvre you could feel Moncrieff's eyes everywhere, no doubt comparing, remembering how he would have performed it. Moncrieff had begged to be returned to a seagoing appointment so many times that even the Flag Officer Minesweeping was getting nasty about it.
Ransome glanced around the bridge. Hargrave had the forenoon watch, and was busily checking the chart. Davenport the midshipman was beside him, supposedly learning from his betters. He was unusually silent, Ransome thought. Sub-Lieutenant Morgan was staring ahead, ever watchful. The others, a signalman and two lookouts, also kept their eyes outboard, back and forth, their glasses sweeping an allotted arc, while overhead the radar, which had already reported the rest of the flotilla on a converging course, watched for anything they might miss.
The ship was at defence stations, with the short-range weapons permanently manned, and the remainder of the hands working akout the upper deck, whilst aft the minesweeping party were busy preparing the float and otter for lowering once the sweep was begun. He could picture Mr Bone directing operations, although it would be Hargrave's job when they started in earnest. What had got Bone into sweepers, he wondered? They did not normally carry a torpedo gunner, so he must have volunteered. A hard, unyielding man who should have been at home with his grandchildren.
Hargrave stood beside him. 'Alter course in five minutes, sir.'
'Very well.' Ransome groped for his glasses as he saw some men on the forecastle pause to peer across the port bow.
Hargrave said, 'When I came on watch some of the off-duty hands were hanging about, a few even sleeping near the funnel for warmth.' He shrugged. 'I'd have thought they'd be glad to use the extra messdeck rather than that.'
Ransome raised himself in the chair and levelled his powerful glasses. The tide was on the turn so it was closer to the surface, like a slimy, abandoned submarine.
Take a look, Number One.'
Hargrave fetched his glasses from the chart table and stared hard on the bearing.
Ransome watched his profile. 'That's a destroyer, HMS Viper, an old V & W class from the Great War.' He remembered the nausea when he had first passed near the submerged wreck; the sea was even shallower then. He had been in his first minesweeper, an old Grimsby trawler with an RNR skipper who seemed to feel his way about the Channel by the smell of it.
Ransome heard himself say, 'She hit a mine and went down in fifteen minutes.'
He waited for Hargrave to look at him. 'You mentioned the hands' "rig of the day" when we left harbour, right? And just now you wondered why they prefer to shiver on deck rather than go below? The Viper's commanding officer was a thoughtful man. He sent half his company below to change into their number ones for a run ashore. They would waste less time that way. You can see how near home she was when the mine caught her.' He did not hide his bitterness. 'For weeks we had to pass that wreck, and at low water, until the Royal Marine divers could hack their way into her you could see their faces at the scuttles, arms moving in the water as if they were still trying to get out. Those old destroyers had no escape-hatches then, and the scuttles were too small to climb through.'
Hargrave lowered his glasses. It was as if he had seen it for himself.
'I — I'm sorry, sir. It answers both my questions.'
Later, as the other ships lifted from the sea, Leading Signalman Mackay climbed to the bridge and took over from his assistant. It was as if he knew. A lot of the old hands were like that. Men like Beckett, and the chief boatswain's mate. They were always nearby when their extra skill might be needed.
Almost at once a diamond-bright light began to blink across the grey, heaving water.
Mackay was using his old telescope. It had been his father's; he in turn had been a chief yeoman of signals in the peacetime navy.
'From Firebrand, sir. We were getting lonely.'
Ransome watched the rising pall of smoke as the leading ships drew nearer. Smokey Joes they called them, and no wonder. More veterans from the other conflict, and just about the only coal-fired warships still afloat.
He said, 'Make to Firebrand. Take station as ordered.' His mouth softened only slightly. 'Follow father.''
Hargrave was watching him. 'Your last command was one of those, sir?'
Ransome nodded. He could still feel the devastating impact when the mine had caught them halfway along the side of the forecastle. It was like being pounded senseless although he could not recall hearing any sound of the explosion.
He answered slowly, 'Yes. The Guillemot.' His eyes were distant while he studied the other minesweepers as they started to turn in a wide arc. 'Good ships in spite of the coal. They could manage seventeen knots like Rob Roy, with a following wind anyway.' He smiled, the strain falling away. 'And we never lost a man.'
Hargrave watched, feeling his hurt for the ship which had gone down under another captain. They had picked up only two. He thought, You never lost a man, you mean.
Ransome raised his glasses and waited for the third vessel to harden in the lenses.
He said,'Firebrand and Fawn are twins, but the rearmost ship is Dryaden, an ex-Icelandic trawler.'
'I gather they're a bit cramped, sir?' He suddenly did not want Ransome to stop, to shut him out as he had that morning.
Ransome studied the Dryaden's perfect lines, her high raked stem and a foredeck which would ride any sea, even a hurricane.
'This one is a thoroughbred, Number One, not like my old tub. They just threw out the fish and pitched us in. Not like Dryaden at all. She was taken from the Icelanders when our patrols caught her smuggling diesel and stores to U-boats.' He nodded again. 'A fine piece of shipbuilding.'
Hargrave remembered the pencil drawing in Ransome's cabin.
'Was that your line, sir?'
'My father owns the yard. I was beginning to get the hang of designing boats.' He heard the girl's voice as if she had called out on the wind. Show me what you do. Please.
He said, 'Fix our position again, then make the turn, Number One.' He waved towards the salt-smeared glass screen. 'We lead, the others follow in echelon.' Ransome forced a smile. 'Just like you learned in training, eh?'
'What about Dryaden, sir?'
His eyes hardened. 'She drops the dan buoys to mark our progress. They call her the blood-boat. No need to stretch the imagination for that, is there?'
As Hargrave returned to the chart Ransome listened first to the radar reports, then to the starboard look-out as he called, 'Fast-moving craft at Green four-five, sir!'
The short-range weapons moved their muzzles on to the bearing until the gunnery speaker barked, 'Disregard! All angels!'
Ransome watched the low hulls as they flung up great wings of creaming spray. M.T.Bs, back from the other side, making for their base, probably Felixstowe. How many had they lost?
He tried not to think of Tony, always the one in a hurry. Falling from a horse, capsizing a sailing-dinghy, everything was a great game to him. He listened to the throaty, animal growl of engines. He would find this a very different kind of game.
He heard the leading signalman say contemptuously, 'There they go, the Glory Boys!'
<
br /> Ransome turned. 'Maids-of-all-work maybe.' His voice had an edge to it. 'We're just the charwomen, so let's bloody well get on with it!'
He slithered from the chair, angry with himself and knowing why, angry too at the hurt on Mackay's open features.
He leaned over the voicepipe. 'Cox'n?'
'Sir?' As usual, Beckett was ready.
'Half ahead together!'
Beckett repeated the order, then. 'Both engines half ahead, sir. Revolutions one-one-zero.'
Ransome moved to his gyro repeater and stared through the V-sight while he steadied the compass with the azimuth circle.
He said, 'Starboard ten.'
He ignored Beckett's voice in the pipe as he watched the bright flickering colour of the dan buoy's flag creep across the sight.
'Midships.' He licked his lips. I must not get rattled. Bad memories meant death. 'Steady!'
Beckett would be down there peering at his steering repeater as it ticked round in the sealed wheelhouse.
'Steady, sir, course zero-two-zero.'
Ransome could just make out the next dan buoy's flag beyond this one. The breathing-space.
'Steer zero-two-two.'
He straightened his back. 'Pipe the minesweeping party aft, Thomas!' To Hargrave he said, 'Ready?'
Hargrave tugged his cap over his forehead. At least he had discarded his collar and tie, and wore a white sweater instead.
'When you are, sir.'
Ten minutes later Ransome hoisted the signal Out sweeps to starboard.
As the leading signalman and his mate watched the flags streaming out from the yard Ransome said simply, 'Didn't mean to bite your head off, Mack.' He turned to watch the other ships acknowledge the signal and so did not see Mackay's pleasure, or Midshipman Davenport's disapproval.
Ransome searched the sky too. If it was fine for sweeping so was it for aircraft. Originally one of the minesweepers had hoisted a tethered barrage balloon in case they were pounced on by a single fighter or dive-bomber.
It had its drawbacks. For it had acted as an accurate marker for the German guns across the Channel.
He thought of Hargrave's face when he had told him about the sunken destroyer Viper.
Feet clattered on the deck below, while heavy gear was dragged aft by the Buffer's party. At the big winch the P.O. stoker and Mr Bone would be watching the sweep-wire, hoping or dreading as the mood took them. Hargrave was with experts. He should be all right.
He climbed on to his chair as Morgan took over the watch.
And why not? You shouldn't have joined etc. etc.
The boatswain's mate put down his handset.
'Sweep's out and runnin', sir!'
Ransome dug out his pipe. Now the waiting game began.
Petty Officer 'Topsy' Turnham banged the palms of his thick leather gloves together and said cheerfully, 'Sweet as a nut, sir!'
Hargrave watched the fat, torpedo-shaped float with its little flag cruising jauntily through the water. He had to admit that it had gone much more smoothly than he had dared to hope. He glanced round at the sweeping party as they secured their gear yet again without the need for any comment or order from anyone. And that was the real difference, he decided. On the mine-sweeping course they had all been novices. For every manoeuvre ashore and afloat they had constantly changed places with one another, taking, then giving orders, enduring confusion and caustic comments from their instructors.
In Rob Roy the business of putting out the sweep-wire had gone like clockwork. First the heavy Oropesa float, which had required manhandling clear of the side while it was lowered outboard. All available men were piped aft to assist, and Hargrave knew that any error of judgment could mean at best a crushed hand, or someone's arm pulped between the float and the ship's side. Next the otter-board, a clumsy device which looked something like a farm gate, with toothed and explosive wire-cutters, and finally, at the end of the Oropesa sweep and closest to the hull, was the kite, which like the otter would hold the sweep-wire beneath the surface at the required depth and veer it some forty-five degrees out and away from the ship's quarter.
Now, as the black balls were hoisted to masthead and starboard yard to show any stranger which side the sweep was dragging, Rob Roy and her consorts were on station in an overlapping line, in echelon.
The ship felt heavier in the water, which was not surprising with five hundred yards of stout wire towing astern.
Hargrave said, 'How is it in rough weather, Buffer?'
The petty officer rubbed his chin with the back of his glove. It made a rasping sound.
'Dicey, sir. It's when th' wire snares somethin' you gotta be all about. You can't see nothin' in a drop of roughers, and the bloody thing can be right under yer counter before you knows it!'
He winked at the petty officer stoker who was controlling the powerful winch.
'Old Nobby 'ere was blown right off 'is last ship.' He raised his voice above the din. 'Blew the ruddy boat right out of yer 'and, didn't it, Nobby?'
The other P.O. gave a grim smile. 'Coulda been worse,' was all he said.
Hargrave thought of the disciplined world of the cruiser. It was impossible to compare with this one, amongst men who never seemed to take death and disaster seriously. Not openly at least.
Hargrave returned his gaze to the Oropesa float as it appeared to bound across the water like a pursuing dolphin. He had seen the incoming M.T.Bs, just as he had watched a flight of Spitfires when they had lifted from the land like hawks, before taking formation and heading towards France and the enemy. They were fighting, hitting back.
'And we keep this up all day, Buffer?'
Turnham glanced at him, enjoying the officer's despair. 'Aye, we do, sir. Up this way, drop our dan buoys in case some careless geezer decides to take a short cut through the swept channel an' misses itjike, then back to do it all over again.'
Hargrave wanted to remain silent and not display his uncertainty by asking questions. But the Buffer was a professional seaman, and a regular of the old style, although you would hardly think so to see him in his patched jacket with its faded red badges, and a cap which looked as if he slept in it.
He persisted, 'And at night?'
Turnham gestured savagely at a seaman who was casually coiling some wire.
'Not that way, you numbskull! Like I showed you!' He seemed to realise what Hargrave had said. 'Well, sometime we 'ave to sweep at night.' He grinned at a sudden memory. 'We 'ad some Yankee brass 'ats visitin' the flotilla a while back, and one of 'em says we'll soon 'ave the know-how to sweep in pitch-darkness.' He shook his head. 'The Old Man gives 'im a saucy look an' says, we bin doin' that for months, sir.''
Hargrave knew that the Buffer was quite a bit older than Ransome. Old Man did not seem to fit.
The leading seaman called, 'All secure, sir.'
Turnham nodded.' 'E's a good 'and, sir. Bit too much mouth, but knows sweepin' inside out.'
Hargrave heard feet on the deck and saw the gunnery officer striding aft with one of his men hurrying to keep up.
Bunny Fallows would take some getting used to, he thought. Like now, for instance. He was wearing a bright balaclava helmet on his trim red hair, and on the front of his headgear he wore a large knitted rabbit. It seemed out of character for an officer who spent his time trying to be more pusser than any gunnery officer at Whale Island. At the same time Hargrave sensed that if Fallows was no good at his job the Old Man would get rid of him. It was an odd mixture.
Turnham had seen his glance, and had guessed what he was thinking. He would have liked to add his own twopennyworth, but he knew better than to push his luck. Nobody on the lower deck, and in the petty officers' mess in particular, had any time for Fallows. A good woman would snap the little bugger in half.
Instead he said, 'We're due for a spot of leaf soon, sir.'
It was the first Hargrave had heard of it. 'Really?'
Turnham almost licked his lips. 'Six days up the line with a nice little party.' His eyes
gleamed at the prospect. 'Beats cock-fightin' anytime!'
Hargrave turned and looked up at the bridge as the signal lamp began to flash towards the other ships.
He said, 'They've sighted wreckage ahead.'
Turnham strode aft and called to his team. 'Stand by on the winch, wreckage ahead!'
The leading hand called Guttridge eyed him with surprise. 'I always thought you said you can't read morse, Buffer?'
Turnham showed his teeth. 'Can't neither, Gipsy. But the new Jimmy can!'
The telephone buzzed in its case below the gun and the communications rating called, 'From the bridge, sir. Wreckage ahead!'
Turnham grinned even wider so that he looked like a small ape. 'We knows that, sonny! The first lieutenant told us!'
Hargrave dug his hands into his pockets and looked away. He did not belong here. He must not allow himself to fall into the trap. And yet he knew that Turnham's obvious pleasure at knowing something before being told by the bridge had made him feel just the opposite.
The wreckage was no hazard to the sweep-wire; it was all too small and scattered for that.
Turnham watched the pathetic remains drift down either beam: broken planks, some charred, a few lifebuoys, great disconnected patches of oil, and a solitary deckchair.
He said, 'Last convoy that went through, I 'spect, sir.' He shaded his eyes and added, 'No dead-uns though, thank Gawd. We got no room for corpses in this ship. The convoy's tail-end Charlie would 'ave picked 'em up.'
The watches changed, soup and sandwiches were carried to the gun crews while the work continued with a new dan buoy to mark each section as they swept it.
Planes passed occasionally overhead, some of them probably hostile, but today nobody was interested in the staggered line of minesweepers.
Hargrave knew that he was being watched by the men working around him, and tried not to show any emotion or surprise when he saw the extent of this largely unknown war. The masts and upperworks of so many ships which had been mined, shelled or torpedoed in sight of safety. The wrecks were marked on all the charts, but seeing them like this was totally different from a dry correction in A.F.Os. Some had tried to struggle into the shallows to avoid blocking the swept channel, others had run amok, on fire and abandoned, to line the channel like gravestones.
In Danger's Hour Page 6