Ransome did not remember much else of the interview. He found a lieutenant waiting for him by the operations room, who explained that Moncrieff had already returned to Falmouth. A car was provided for Ransome, and a signal had already been sent to the flotilla to announce his time of arrival there. So there would be no walks away from the sea.
Moncrieff wanted to be alone, to face up to the decision in his own way.
The same Wren was leaning against the staff car, and opened the door for him as he approached.
He tried to smile. 'Home, James.'
She studied him and liked what she saw. She knew all about Ransome; most of the girls at the Wrennery did.
Past the saluting sentries and the neat sandbags, Ransome watched her gloved hands on the wheel as she steered the big Humber with reckless enthusiasm around a convoy of army lorries.
»
'How long have you been in the Wrens?'
She puffed out her cheeks and blew some hair from her eyes.
'Six months, sir. Does it show?'
'No. I was just thinking of someone.'
She grimaced. Pity. She said, 'My brother's in Ranger, by the way, sir.'
He looked at her. 'Who?'
'The subbie, John Dent.'
A face fell into its slot. A navy within a navy. Like a family, with its own pride and pain like any other.
They reached Falmouth in record time. The girl was still staring after him as he walked towards the jetty where a boat was waiting.
Hargrave was standing with the side-party as he climbed up from Rob Roy's motor boat, the 'skimming-dish', while the boatswain's mates split the air apart with their shrill calls.
It was the one part of the job he had never got used to, or took for granted.
Hargrave saluted. 'Welcome back, sir.' He looked relaxed and pleased about something.
As they walked towards Ransome's quarters Hargrave said, 'Orders have just arrived, sir.'
Ransome smiled. The S.O.I, must have known that even as they were talking together. In case I got killed on the road, perhaps?
Hargrave added, 'Commander Moncrieff is aboard. Sorry, sir, I forgot.'
'How is he?'
Hargrave was surprised at the question. 'Er - much as usual, sir.'
So he had said nothing.
Moncrieff was sitting in the cabin, his legs crossed while he thumbed through an old log-book.
He looked up and shrugged. It made him look as if he was in pain.
'He told you?'
'Yes, sir. I can't say how bad I feel about it.' He watched the disfigured hand resting on the open log, like a pair of crude callipers. It was his old log. When he had still been in command.
'The admiral is probably right. I'm too old for new tricks. I'm a sailor, not a bloody robot. No doubt the new senior officer will have it at his fingertips. Conferences and meetings all the time, that kind of caper.' He smiled at some old memory and added, 'You know what I think? From the ashes of today's conferences will arise the phoenix of tomorrow's fuck-ups!'
Then he said, 'Your orders are here. You're under twenty-four hours' notice. I'd like to see all the commanding officers this evening, sometime in the dog-watches. I don't want to make a thing of my immediate future. We've still got to reach Gibraltar, you know.'
'I understand.' He looked at the clock.
Moncrieff grinned. 'I thought you'd never bloody well ask. Yes, young man, I'd relish a large drink right noivV
Ransome glanced round the cabin. He was glad Moncrieff would be using it on his last passage in Rob Roy. Ransome would spend most of his time on the bridge or in his sea-cabin there.
It would be bitter for Moncrieff all the same, no matter how he tried to disguise it.
Later, with the other nine commanding officers packed into the wardroom, he had seen no weakening in Moncrieff's aggressive enthusiasm or his ability to tell all of them what he needed from them; what he expected.
Moncrieff said afterwards, 'I'll be ashore tonight, Ian. See you an hour before we leave harbour.' He studied him thoughtfully. 'You're looking better. You'll tell me why, when you want to, I expect.'
By eight bells that evening every man in the flotilla had been told about sailing orders. Bags of letters would be going ashore in the morning, all carefully censored, just in case. Like the humorous posters you saw in canteens and bars. Be like dad, keep mum! Or a sailor shooting his mouth off to his girl-friend with a barely disguised Hitler or Goering crouching under their table.
After North Africa, the Germans and their Italian allies would be expecting an attack. They could not guard the whole coastline from Greece to France. But just one hint . . .
There was a tap at the door. Hargrave stepped in and asked, 'I was wondering, sir, would you join us in the wardroom? They would all appreciate it.'
Ransome smiled. 'Of course. We may be a bit busy later on.' He would go ashore and telephone from there. His parents too.
He glanced up as Leading Telegraphist Carlyon hovered outside the open door. 'Come in, Sparks.'
To Hargrave he said, 'After you've had your meal, Number One, all right?'
Neither of them noticed Carlyon's stricken expression.
Ransome took the signal flimsy from the telegraphist's hand.
Hargrave smiled. 'Don't tell me it's cancelled after all.'
Ransome reread the neat printing. It was like hearing a voice.
He said quietly, 'It's my brother. He's been reported missing, presumed killed.'
He recalled her voice. Was it only last night? It was not our choice.
Hargrave looked at Carlyon and jerked his head. As the rating left he asked, 'What can I do, sir?'
Ransome thought of the boatyard. His parents must have been told about the same time as he had been with Eve.
He replied, 'You're doing it right now.' He glanced at the old personal log which Moncrieff had left behind.
'I've seen a lot of people just lately whose lives have been knocked about.' But in his heart he was screaming. Not Tony. Not him, for Christ's sake. His voice was flat and unemotional as he said, 'We still have a war to worry about. Deeper than that, we have this ship and the eighty-odd people who depend on us because they have no choice either.'
Hargrave watched him, stunned by it. Unable to think clearly.
'I - I'll tell the others, sir.'
'No. I'll come down as I said I would.' He stared at the slip of paper which had changed everything, it's nobody's fault.'
Hargrave tried not to glance at the framed photograph, of a midshipman who looked so like Ransome. Just a boy. It made the war stamp right into the cabin like a monster.
Ransome looked up from the desk. 'Just leave me a while, Number One. I've a couple of phone calls to make.'
As the door closed silently behind him the ship seemed to withdraw too.
He remembered his stupid jealousy when Tony had taken her to a dance, of his perpetual eagerness to get the most out of life. He picked up the telephone, and after a lot of clicks he was connected to the switchboard ashore.
What shall I say to them? They'll expect me to come home, when I belong here, now more than ever . . .
I must speak to Eve. Tell her I can't see her until. . .
He ran his fingers through his hair and stared at the signal until his eyes stung.
Aloud he said, 'Oh dear God, help me'
The operator coughed. 'The number's ringing for you, sir.'
It happened all the time, every day. Others had had to cope with it. If he could not contain his despair he was not fit to command. Men would die, and it could be his fault because —
He heard the familiar voice in his ear and steeled himself.
'Hello, Dad, I've just heard about Tony . . .'
To the Deep
Ordinary Seaman Gerald Boyes gripped the ready-use chart-table for support and watched as the side of the upper bridge dipped steeply in the heavy swell. It was as if the great shark-blue procession of rollers was climbing ove
r the ship before Rob Roy skittishly lifted her stern and pitched over on the opposite beam. It was all so new and breathtaking he could barely drag his eyes from it.
The bridge was filled with all the usual watchkeepers, but no one seemed to be paying him much attention. He had cleaned the chart-table, sharpened the nagivator's pencils and checked the bulb in the tiny, hooded bracket which by night was concealed by a canvas screen. It was halfway through the forenoon watch, the little ship lifting and plunging, hanging motionless for seconds or so it appeared, before attempting a different position.
Boyes glanced at the captain's chair in the forepart of the bridge behind the glass screens. It looked wrong to see it empty. Ransome was always there, had been for the long four days from Falmouth into the vastness of the Atlantic before joining up with an impressive convoy.
Boyes had sensed new excitement and tension as the ships had been rounded up like sheep, chased and harried by powerful fleet destroyers before forming into columns for the long haul to Gibraltar. Boyes, in his duty of acting-navigator's yeoman, felt privileged to pick up the rumours which circulated every watch amongst the elite on the bridge.
It was a convoy to rouse anyone's attention, he thought, but the escort had been equally exciting. A heavy cruiser as well as the destroyers, and bang in the middle, a carrier. Not one of the big fleet ones, like the famous Ark Royal or Illustrious, but a stubby escort-carrier. A merchant ship's hull with a wooden flight-deck, a banana boat as some of the old hands called them. But the little escort-carriers had changed the whole face of every convoy lucky enough to enjoy their protection. No longer were there great areas of ocean where air-cover could not reach or be provided.
A Focke-Wulf Condor, one of the huge long-range maritime bombers, had found the convoy the second day out. But the sight of three Seafires being scrambled from the carrier had soon sent the enemy racing for home. Whereas before, these same aircraft would circle a convoy, day in, day out, just beyond the range of the guns, and all the while homing U-boats on to a helpless target.
They had not seen another enemy plane after that incident.
The ships in convoy were all big ones, including two troopers, ex-liners, and several fast freighters, their decks and hulls crammed with tanks, crated aircraft, and other vehicles. No wonder they had taken such precautions. Far out into the Atlantic, zigzagging ponderously in response to irate signals from the commodore, then around Biscay and south into warmer waters. Some of the sailors, especially those on the open bridge, were already sporting healthy-looking tans.
Boyes glanced at his companions. Lieutenant Sherwood was the O.O.W., with the new sub, Tritton, assisting him. Leading Signalman Mackay was studying the Ranger, which was steering a parallel course some four miles away, the rest of the minesweepers divided between them in two lines.
It was strange to see the ocean so deserted, Boyes thought. Just yesterday the convoy had increased speed and had gone on ahead. Each ship had been capable of much greater haste than the sweepers, but they had all kept together until the worst part of the passage was astern.
By glancing at the vibrating chart Boyes knew that neutral Portugal lay some two hundred miles across the port beam; they should be passing the invisible Lisbon about now. It was the furthest he had ever been in his life.
He looked at the empty chair again. Everyone knew about the captain's brother. Occasionally Boyes had watched him, had found himself searching for some sign of grief or anxiety. He had discovered nothing but a remoteness, something respected by the other officers.
He thought about the radar plot beneath his feet in the wheelhouse. The chief quartermaster, Reeves, was on the wheel, while Beckett was down below somewhere dealing with some requestmen. It never seemed to stop. Midshipman Davenport always managed to avoid him. It was as if they belonged to a separate society. Difficult at any time in the two-hundred-and-thirty foot hull.
He found himself thinking back to his leave again. His mother saying how she had seen young Davenport in his officer's uniform. So smart, so dashing. She could have had no conception just how much it had hurt.
And then, out of the blue, had come the great adventure. One evening when he had been having tea with his parents the telephone had rung.
Boyes's mother had bustled away, and his father had murmured, if it's another bridge-party I shall really do some extra fire-watching to get out of it!'
But she had returned, her eyes questioning, even suspicious, it's for you, Gerry.' It had sounded like an accusation. 'A girl!'
Boyes had hurried to the door. Over his shoulder he had heard his father ask mildly, 'Who was it, dear?'
'Someone who met our son. Sounded rather common —'
Boyes had not even noticed.
The girl named Connie had sounded very easy and matter-of-fact over the phone. Boyes had had virtually no experience of girls apart from the school dance once a year. His arrival on the lower deck of a fighting ship had made him flush with embarrassment, even if half what the others said was true.
She had said, 'You're not doing anything then?'
'N — no -' he had imagined his mother listening through the closed door. 'I'd been hoping, actually -'
She had laughed. 'You naughty boy!'
He had felt himself flushing all over again.
'What about the pictures? There's a good one on at the Regal -'
When he had remained tongue-tied she had added, 'But if you've something better —'
'No. I'd love to.'
'In an hour then.' The adventure had begun.
The cinema had been packed, mostly with servicemen and their girls, so that when a cracked, much-used slide was thrust across the screen to announce that an air-raid warning had been sounded, there had been a great bellow of protest. 'Get it off!' Plus whistles and derisive laughter. She had leaned against him in the cinema, until halfway through the main film when he had put his arm around her shoulder.
As the light blazed from the screen, he had seen her looking at him. Surprised? Curious? But then Boyes knew nothing about women.
Afterwards they had walked to the square in Kingston where the army had thoughtfully sent a truck for its army girls, a sort of liberty boat to get them back to camp safely.
They had stood in a shop doorway, and to hurrying passers-by it was just another sailor on leave with a girl in khaki. To Boyes it was something else. But he had had a sense of disappointment, not in her but in himself.
He had asked desperately, 'May I see you again, Connie? Please?'
She had watched him, her eyes bright despite the black-out.
She had expected the usual wrestling-match in the cinema, a groping hand, the sense of shock when it touched her. Boyes was different. God, he was so different.
'You've never had your own girl, have you?'
He had hesitated. 'Not before.'
She had wanted to hug him. To weep for his innocence, his old-world sense of honour.
'I'm free tomorrow, if you like.'
They had met in the warm afternoon, and had gone into a pub by the river for a drink. He had told her about the navy, about the ship, and all the while she had watched him, her bright lips around the straws in her port-and-lemon, her other hand close to his across the table. She had taken him to another cinema, a smaller one than the Regal, one which had been known as a flea-pit in his schooldays. It had been practically empty, and she had led him to the back row of seats. They were in pairs.
She had whispered, 'Must have been a right lot of lovers in your neck of the woods, Gerry!'
During an interval he had blurted out, i'm off tomorrow, Connie.'
She had straightened up, her eyes suddenly anxious.
'Already? 1 thought -'
He had said, 'I've loved being with you so much. I can't tell you.'
She had waited for the lights to dim. 'Kiss me.'
He had tried, but had pressed his face into her hair. 'Sorry.'
She had stood up. 'Keep my seat warm. I'm going
to the Ladies.' She had reached out and touched his mouth. 'It was sweet. Just need a bit of practice.' But she was not making fun of him.
For a time Boyes had imagined she had left by one of the fire-exit doors, but then he saw her hurrying up the aisle and felt her sink down beside him. He put his arm round her and kissed her again. She had her hand behind his neck and had pulled him against her, so that their mouths were locked until she opened hers and touched his tongue with hers. She had taken his hand and moulded it to her body. Her tunic had been unbuttoned, and he had felt the fullness of her breast through the shirt, her heart thumping as if to break free.
She had spoken into his ear. i got rid of the army-issue in the Ladies.'
He slipped one of the shirt buttons open and touched the bare skin beneath. Then another button until he had held her breast in his hand, the nipple hard between his fingers.
She had been gasping. 'Don't stop, Gerry! Oh, for God's sake!'
He had felt her reaching for him in the same wild desperation, finding and gripping him until he could barely control himself.
When they had finally left the cinema and made their way to the same square where the army lorry was waiting, he had hugged her again.
She had pushed him away, her voice breathless. 'Not here! Not like those others! Next time She had kissed him hard on the mouth, then had run through the night to the throbbing lorry.
Afterwards he had realised that he could not remember the name of the film or anything about it.
Sometimes now he would touch himself as she had done, and relive the moment when he had slipped his hand into her open shirt.
'Ranger's calling us up, sir.'
Mackay's voice shattered his dream and made him stare around the bridge like a stranger.
The leading signalman's mouth moved in time to the diamond-bright signal lamp across the heaving swell.
'Wreckage in the water at one-six-zero degrees, sir.'
Sherwood nodded. 'Better tell the captain.'
'I'm here.' Ransome strode from the ladder and climbed into his chair to reach for his binoculars. 'What was that bearing?'
Mackay called, 'From Dryaden, sir. Shall I investigate 'Negative.' Ransome ignored the clatter of the Aldis lamp. 'Alter course to close. Inform Ranger.'
In Danger's Hour Page 15