Somewhere to port lay the great expanse of the Thames Estuary, but the land in the early sunshine was merely a purple blur. No Channel guns to watch and estimate their positions, and some chance of an early warning of any sort of air attack.
Ransome greeted him with, 'What it is to feel the sun, Number One!' He stretched his arms and gave a huge yawn. In those few seconds he looked like a boy again, Hargrave thought.
'And another thing.' Ransome groped in his pocket. 'Just had a signal. The flotilla is to enter Chatham Dockyard at the completion of the next sweep. Just think, a proper refit for once!'
Emotions chased one another across Hargrave's features. A chance to see his father perhaps, to obtain a transfer, a different appointment somewhere.
'That's good news, sir. I hope it reflects on the defaulters' table.'
Ransome wedged his pipe between his teeth and regarded him gravely. 'There's responsibility on both sides of that table, Number One.' He changed his mood with the subject. 'I might have guessed why the Boss is taking us out of Able Yoke. We'll be nice and close to Chatham on this sweep.'
Hargrave tried to concentrate on what he was saying. Rob Roy and the others had been ordered to sweep another sector of the war channel, to the east of Shoeburyness. There had been no explanation, and Hargrave thought it was more likely because they were short of sweepers as usual, rather than caring about Rob Roy's proximity to Chatham for a refit.
Ransome said, 'I want to begin the first sweep at noon. Make a signal to that effect to the group.'
'Something up, sir?'
'A fast southbound convoy. The RAF are laying on a bit of hostility over the other side to keep their minds occupied. So it's obviously important. Put the word about the ship, although I expect most of the lads knew of the leave before I did. It may not be a long break this time so make sure that the ones with the farthest to go leave first. The rest can have local leave, so take every case on its merit. But no defaulters' grudges, Number One.' He watched him, his eyes level. 'All right?'
Hargrave nodded and climbed on to the compass platform to check the course which required to be steered in this powerful offshore current. He saw Morgan watching him, the way he dropped his eyes when he saw him.
Hargrave gestured to the signalman. 'Write this down, Bunts. To Ranger, repeated to the rest of the group —'
He looked at the glassy swell as it tilted the hull more steeply in the path of the sunshine.
They dislike me for my ideas on discipline, do they? The sooner I'm off this damned ship the better!
In the wheelhouse beneath Hargrave's feet, Ordinary Seaman Boyes was carefully polishing the glass of the automatic plot table. By day, the thick black-out curtains which separated it from the rest of the bridge were lashed up to the deckhead. It made the place seem larger, and with the windows and scuttles clipped open Boyes sensed a new atmosphere, relaxed and cheerful.
Reeves the chief quartermaster, a ruddy-faced leading seaman with two good conduct badges on his sleeve, watched the tape of the gyro-repeater as it ticked a fraction this way or that, to be corrected effortlessly by his hands on the wheel. On either side of him a telegraphsman stood by his engine-room and revolutions speed control, but they were chatting quietly, telling jokes but careful not to stand too close to the voicepipe's big bell-mouth.
By the opposite door which opened on to a bridge wing, Topsy Turnham the Buffer was expertly splicing a signal halliard and muttering fiercely, 'Bloody green 'orns, they don't teach 'em nothin'!' But he obviously enjoyed showing off his skills.
The chief quartermaster asked casually, 'Wot you doin' when we gets leave, Buffer?'
Turnham's eyes twinkled. 'Nice little party up the line, I got.' He did not see the others exchange winks. 'Tender as a boiled owl, she is —'
Boyes listened while he concentrated on his polishing. Sharing
it.
'I shall come back a new man!'
'Make sure she don't give you summat else to bring back with you, Buffer!' They al! joined in the laughter until Hargrave's voice echoed down the pipe.
'Less noise in the wheelhouse! Report to me, Reeves, when you're relieved!'
Reeves lowered his head. 'Christ Almighty!'
Turnham scowled and straighted his battered cap. 'Leave Jimmy to me. I've just about 'ad a gutful of 'im'
One of the telegraphsmen grinned. 'Ain't that the truth?'
Dead on noon the four fleet minesweepers hoisted their black balls and took station on the leader, like sheep responding to a familiar shepherd.
The sky remained clear, and apart from the deep unbroken swell, the sea was without malice.
Boyes went to the bridge to join Sub-Lieutenant Morgan by the chart-table, while Lieutenant Sherwood took several fixes from the gyro-compass to make certain Rob Roy was exactly on course. Boyes took it all in, from the clatter of Leading Signalman Mackay's Aldis lamp, to the regular reports from the W/T Office, or from the quarterdeck as the sweep streamed away on the starboard quarter.
Most of all he watched the captain as he moved occasionally from side to side, or levelled his glasses on the next astern. Ranger had signalled that she had lost a dan buoy overboard and had requested time to recover it. Now she too had her sweep in the water, but was following astern of the two coal-burners. At this slow speed, that same black smoke would come gushing on to Rob Roy once they turned to sweep in the opposite direction.
Mackay had remarked to a boatswain's mate, 'Just about due for a bloody refit, the lot of us, me especially!'
Ransome had thrown off his duffle-coat and was sitting sideways on his chair. He saw Boyes watching him and said, 'Settled in?'
Boyes nodded and blushed. 'Aye, aye, sir.' He grew redder as Morgan grinned and Sherwood exclaimed softly, 'Another admiral, no less!'
Ransome smiled. 'Ignore it.'
Boyes was stunned at being spoken to like this, and the fact that even Sherwood, a man who was said to be a bit 'round the bend', seemed able to accept his presence.
He replied, 'Yes, sir. I — I'm still not quite sure what happens when the sweep goes out, but —'
The look-out yelled, 'Mine, sir! Green four-five!'
The others ran to the side, glasses trained, all humour gone.
'Make a signal to the group, Bunts! Mine to starboard!'
He ignored the clatter of the lamp's shutter, the bright stabbing light of the next ship's acknowledgement. Flags soared up to the yard, and Boyes could feel the tension like a vice closing around his heart and lungs.
'Clear the lower deck!' Ransome raised his glasses again. 'Tell the Gunner (T) to check all watertight doors.'
Sherwood said tightly, 'Must have just broken adrift. There's still some cable on it.'
A voice murmured in the pipe. 'Cox'n on the wheel, sir.'
Ransome watched the mine; in the powerful lenses it was huge and obscene. It was within the scope of the sweep-wire, but might well pass over it somewhere in the middle. 'Signal Dryaden to open fire as soon as the mine's clear.'
He saw Boyes staring at him, his eyes filling his face.
'Your question, Boyes. This is what happens.'
Boyes was to remember that for a long time to come.
Down aft with his sweeping party Hargrave hung over the guardrail and stared at the mine. It was imagination but it seemed to be swinging towards him.
Turnham said, 'Stand by on the winch, Nobby!' Then to Hargrave he added sharply, 'Clear the quarterdeck, sir?' It did not sound like a question.
Hargrave nodded and heard the leading hand telling the others to move into the shelter of the superstructure.
Turnham said, lFawn\ put a few shots into the bloody thing. If not, the blood-boat'll fix it.'
He shaded his eyes to look up at the signal halliards. No order to withdraw sweeps. With a drifting mine so close it could be fatal.
Hargrave felt his mouth go quite dry, like a coat of dust. He could not tear his eyes from the mine, half-submerged, turning slightly to reve
al its pointed horns. Just a playful touch from one of those and —
The mine seemed to hesitate, then spiralled round in a complicated dance.
Someone called, 'It's free, sir!'
Turnham saw the first lieutenant give a great sigh. Do him good, he thought savagely. Nearly shit himself that time.
Hargrave did not even know or care what the Buffer thought at that moment.
He was remembering his first meeting with Ransome, his crisp comment about accuracy of navigation. Thirty yards. Further than that you're bloody dead. He could almost hear his voice as he watched the mine dropping slowly astern. With the ships in echelon, Fawn's overlapping sweep would either pick up the drifter, or marksmen would do the job. Some mines made a fantastic exploding column of water; others, once punctured by small-arms fire, sank in silence to the seabed.
Mackay's lamp began to stammer again from the bridge.
Hargrave turned to read it. What happened next was blurred, unreal like a nightmare.
The explosion flung him from his feet, so that he collapsed over the depth-charge rack with the Buffer on top of him.
He struggled frantically to his feet, vaguely aware that the winch was hauling in the sweep, that the ship was leaning forward, sliding from a great wave-crest which seemed to be thrusting them through the water like a surf-board.
He stared wildly at the ship astern. Through belching smoke he caught a brief glimpse of buckled plates and dangling frames; her bows had completely gone, torn off by the force of the explosion. She was already dropping back, the other ships fanning out to avoid a collision.
The tannoy bellowed, 'Away sea-boat's crew! Stand by scrambling nets!'
It was already too late. Hargrave found that he was bunching his fists so tightly that they throbbed with pain while he stared at the stricken ship. One of their own. The front of the bridge was caved in like wet cardboard, and he knew that the threadlike scarlet lines down the plating were in fact blood. Everyone on the bridge must have been wiped out.
The communications rating shouted, 'Bridge, sir!'
Hargrave took the handset, his whole body quivering, out of control.
'This is the captain.' He sounded miles away. 'Take in the sweep. I have told Ranger to take charge. Go with the whaler and see what you can do.'
Hargrave wanted to scream. For God's sake, why me? He did not recognise his own voice. 'Very well, sir.'
On the bridge, Ransome returned the instrument to the boatswain's mate. He saw Sherwood's pale features, the way he was staring astern like someone stricken by fever.
Ransome said, 'The mine's remaining cable must have snared something and pulled it into Fawn's side. She was an old ship.' He wanted to shrug, but felt too drained to move. 'She stood no chance.'
As if to confirm his words Mackay called, 'She's going, sir!'
Ransome walked to the gratings and stared at the other vessel's blunt hull as it began to rise up in the midst of her own wreckage. The bows had dropped completely off, and her forepart, what was left of it, was already hidden. The funnel was still gushing smoke as if she was at full speed, while her abandoned Oropesa float wandered aimlessly nearby as if it had suddenly gone blind.
He saw the whaler pulling through the smoke, Hargrave standing in the sternsheets, the Buffer at the tiller.
Huge bubbles, horrific because of their size, began to rise around the sinking hull, where men thrashed about in oil and coaldust, and others floated away as if asleep.
Ransome had known her captain, Peter Bracelin, a mere lieutenant, very well. He was to have been married in the summer.
There was a great sigh from the watching seamen and stokers as with a sudden lurch the Fawn dived, her unused Carley floats and rafts tearing free when it was already too late to help anyone.
Ransome said, 'Stop engines.' He looked at Sherwood. 'Pipe the motor-boat's crew away; it'll save time. Some poor bastards might still be out there.'
Sherwood watched him, his pale lashes covering his eyes. 'And then, sir?' He already knew the answer.
Ransome walked to his chair and seized it with both hands.
It could have been us. It should have been.
He said, 'We will carry on with the sweep, what else?'
Sherwood gave what might have been a smile.
'Indeed, sir. What else.'
When Ransome made himself look again there was only the usual slow whirlpool of filth and debris to mark the passing of another victim.
He said, 'Tell W/T to prepare a signal for their lordships.'
He watched the whaler pause on the swell, willing hands reaching down to drag some gasping survivors to safety.
Tomorrow or the next day there would be the usual curt communique in the newspapers, one which would only affect a few people when compared with the whole, mad world.
It would end in the usual way. Next of kin have been informed.
Ransome ran his fingers through his hair and felt his mind cringe.
It's not enough, he wanted to shout. But then, it never was.
Commander Hugh Moncrieff RNR, the flotilla's Senior Officer, slumped in the other chair and watched Ransome pouring brandy and ginger ale into their glasses.
Around them the little ship murmured with unusual sounds, strange voices of dockyard maties and their foreman, equipment being winched or dragged aside with tackles. One scuttle was blacked out by part of the basin wall, beyond which Chatham dockyard sprawled out towards the barracks.
The four ships had entered the basin this morning after the usual tortuous manoeuvring through the yard. It looked more like a scrapyard than one which worked day and night to repair and patch up the ravages of war, Ransome thought.
He sat down and pushed a glass towards Moncrieff. 'Sorry it's a Horse's Neck, sir. There's not a drop of Scotch aboard until I can have a word with the supply officer.'
Moncrieff sat back and pretended to study the glass. It was a bit early in the day for both of them, but what the hell. He watched the strain on Ransome's face, the dark shadows beneath his level grey eyes.
'Cheers!' Moncrieff said. He was a thickset, heavy man with a circlet of pure white hair around his tanned head. His reddened face was a mass of wrinkles, with deep crow's-feet around his eyes. Dressed in his naval reefer jacket with its three intertwined gold stripes, with a bright patch of medal ribbons above the breast pocket, he looked every inch the old sea-dog. You would have known him for that even if he'd been wearing a pin-striped suit in the City.
Moncrieff said, 'Got a fast car as soon as I read the signal. Bad show about Fawn. Still —' He did not finish it.
Ransome tasted the brandy's fire on his tongue. He felt that it was his first time off the bridge for years. He had not even found time to bath and change before Moncrieff had bustled aboard.
Ransome glanced at the envelope he had put aside for Moncrieff. The full report. He supposed it would be filed with all the others, and then forgotten. In war it was best to forget.
Moncrieff said, 'You've done wonders with Rob Roy.' He nodded firmly. 'Smart as paint. I see you've not been able to get rid of that rascal Beckett?' He kept his right hand deep in his pocket while he tilted his glass with the other. 'What about this Hargrave chap?'
Ransome smiled wearily. 'Settling in, sir.'
Moncrieff frowned so that his twin white brows were joined like a rime of snow.
'Bloody hope so.' He looked round the cabin. 'God, I do miss her.'
He had shown less emotion when his wife had died, Ransome thought.
Moncrieff was one of those men you rarely heard about. He had been everywhere and done just about everything. A deck officer in the Union Castle Line, he had fought pirates in the Malacca Strait when he had been a mate aboard some clapped-out tramp steamer, had sailed in the Fastnet Race, and had been in so many obscure campaigns that even his medal ribbons seemed a part of a world long gone.
'Anyway.' He made up his mind. 'I'm putting Ranger's captain in charge during the leave period.
He was the last commanding officer to have any decent time ashore.'
Ransome thought of Lieutenant-Commander Gregory, Ranger's captain. He had hurried aboard within minutes of docking in Chatham, just ahead of Moncrieff.
He had said, 'But for that bloody dan buoy, Ranger would have been astern of you, as always.' He had looked round despairingly, which was rare for him. 'God, it would have been us!'
Ransome had replied, 'We all think that, James, every bloody time. So forget it.' He smiled sadly. He was a fine one to talk.
Moncrieff saw the small smile. It did not reach the eyes, he thought. A man would only stand so much. Command of any ship, battle-cruiser or M.L., took its own toll of a man's last resources. This small offering of leave might do the trick. It must help anyway.
Moncrieff asked, 'Where will you go, Ian?'
Ransome shrugged. 'Home, I suppose. I've not had much time with my parents since I got Rob Roy.'
He did not want to talk about it. He asked, 'Are you going to tell me why we're here, sir?'
Moncrieff's bright eyes twinkled and almost vanished into folds of crow's-feet.
'Cheeky bugger, Ian.' He offered the empty glass. 'Fill this up, eh?'
Ransome did as he was told. In some ways Moncieff was more like a father than his Senior Officer. But God help him if he had bumped the dock wall as they had moored. He had seen Moncrieff's keen stare as he examined the ship for possible damage, neglect, he would call it.
Then Moncrieff said, 'It's Top Secret, of course.' Their eyes met.
Ransome waited, wondering how he would react, preparing himself.
Moncrieff said, 'It's the Med. We're going to need a lot of fleet minesweepers out there. So that's what this overhaul is all about. You'll not get much opportunity later on.'
'That's nothing new, sir.'
They both smiled. Then Moncrieff added, 'In Rob Roy's case, it'll mean a couple of new gun mountings. Two pairs of Oer-likons instead of the two singles, and a few other bits and pieces. No need to bother your head about that just now.'
In Danger's Hour Page 8