In Danger's Hour

by Douglas Reeman

  Moncrieff lumbered to his feet. 'New appointment, Ian. It's a supply dump in Orkney!' He dropped his eyes and stared blindly at his maimed hand. 'A bloody stores clerk!'

  Bliss had turned away to peer through a gleaming scuttle.

  Ransome said quietly, 'I'd hoped to lay something on for you, sir. After all this time. To leave like this -'

  Moncrieff gripped his hand. It was like a vice. 'No more, Ian -1 can't take it, y'see.' He groped for his cap with its cherished peak of oak leaves. 'Just tell the others -' He seemed to regain some of his old power and added fiercely, 'Tell 'em I'm proud of them!' The power faded; Ransome saw it dying in his eyes as he added huskily, 'Look after the ship, eh? My old Rob Roy.' They walked to the door and Bliss and Ransome saluted as he clambered down into a harbour-launch alongside.

  While the boat surged away towards the white buildings ashore Moncrieff looked back only once. But he was staring at Rob Roy.

  Bliss said absently, 'Last of his kind, I shouldn't wonder.'

  Was it meant with contempt, Ransome thought?

  He replied calmly, 'No better way to be remembered, I'd say, sir.'

  Bliss made no comment until the 'skimming-dish' sputtered back to the accommodation ladder. He stood with his feet wide apart, his strong fingers interlaced behind his back as he stared gravely at the mass of assembled ships.

  'You will meet the new vice-admiral tomorrow, Ian. He will want to speak with you, and your other C.O.s of course.' He turned suddenly and fixed him with a blue stare. 'But I command the group now and my head will be on the block if just one captain screws this up. Am I making myself clear?' Again, he did not wait. 'I am, how do you say, unused to failure.'

  He saluted as Ransome climbed back into the motor boat. He had disappeared before the bowman had even cast off.

  All the way back to Rob Roy Ransome tried to accept Bliss for what he appeared to be. A man of courage and ability; his record said all that and more. He knew that it was like to fight the enemy at close quarters and it was obvious that that experience plus his training as a regular officer made him a perfect choice for this task.

  He was ruthless too; his attitude to Moncrieff and the hint of his displeasure if anyone else screwed things up left little to the imagination. But then you could not fight this kind of war with a book of naval etiquette.

  It was something else. Ransome watched the ships passing on either side, guns being swivelled round in their turrets, seamen and marines working on deck and in the various superstructures. Like some vast iron hornet's nest waiting to be unleashed.

  He nodded to himself. That was it. Bliss made it all sound so personal, as if nothing and nobody would be spared to make his part of the operation a success.

  Ransome smiled inwardly. In the navy, that was not unique.

  Later, as he was sitting in his cabin, Hargrave came to see him. Ransome glanced up and nodded to the other chair. He felt different now in his clean shirt and shorts. Like someone playing a part. As for Hargrave, he looked almost a stranger in white, although he was obviously quite used to it.

  Ransome said, 'I should like you to organise a party for tomorrow, Number One. If you're short of anything, I'll sign a couple of magic chits for you to take to the Base Supply Officer!'

  Hargrave watched him curiously. It was not just a change of uniform, he thought. He could picture Ransome's face right here in the cabin as he had read out the signal about his brother's death, and again when the three bodies had been tipped over the side.

  If it was an act, it was very convincing. Or was he really able to put things like that to the back of his mind in the name of duty? Hargrave had had all that rammed into him from early boyhood as a cadet in the Royal Naval College at Dartmouth. He had actually believed it, just as his father had insisted he would, given time. But never once, from midshipman to lieutenant, had he ever expected to see it as a physical presence. He was seeing it now, and from a man who had been a civilian until the outbreak of war.

  Ransome saw the look and thought he could guess what he was thinking.

  He touched a sheet of notepaper on the desk. 'This was waiting for me.'

  Hargrave nodded. 'The guardboat brought it shortly after you'd left, sir.'

  'It's from the vice-admiral's secretary, no less. In it he "suggests" that a party given by us might be the best and most informal way for the admiral to meet our commanding officers.'

  Hargrave replied quickly, 'My father said nothing of it to me, sir, and that's the truth.'

  'Thank you. I never doubted it. But it sounds like a command all the same, so lay on the party, right? It might be the last for quite some time.'

  He gave Hargrave a thoughtful glance. It's been brought forward. Two weeks from now. Top Secret, but you should know in case -'

  Hargrave stared at him. He had never considered it from that angle. That Ransome might be unable to retain command, that he could be injured, even killed, before the invasion began. He felt the sweat trickling down his spine. Surely that wasn't what his father had meant about a ship of his own.

  Ransome said, 'Arrange shore leave for all but the duty-part of the watch, Number One.' He was formal again. 'I believe there are two men requesting to see me?'

  Hargrave nodded. How did he know that already? 'Bad news from home for both of them, sir. I don't see what we can do about it now.'

  Ransome half-smiled, i can talk to them. It's the least I can do.'

  Hargrave stood and made to leave. 'The Chief wishes to discuss the new pumps with you, sir.'

  'Ask him to come now, will you?'

  As the door closed Ransome leaned back and massaged his eyes. It never ended. He thought of Bliss's words. I command this group now. He should have added, 'And don't you forget it!' Ransome recalled too when he had obtained his own first command, wthe poor old Guillemot. He had looked up the meaning of command in his dictionary. It had been quite an ancient version and one definition had been, 'To demand with authority.' It fitted Bliss rather well.

  It was evening by the time he had dealt with the Chief and his problem of spare parts for the new pumps, seen the doctor about a seaman whom he had put ashore with the first signs of gonorrhoea, and finally made several operational signals both to the Admiralty and to the Flag Officer Gibraltar. He felt drained. The one redeeming fact about the luckless rating sent to the V.D. clinic was that he was a new hand, who had joined the ship at Chatham. He would certainly miss the invasion anyway, and might well end up in the glasshouse as payment for a few moments of doubtful pleasure.

  Fie smoked his pipe, took a glass of Scotch and listened to one of his Handel records. The liberty boats squeaked their fenders alongside to mingle with the jubilant chatter of shore-going sailors, then came the pipe to clear up messdecks and flats for Rounds.

  At times like these he was grateful for his privacy. He pictured Moncrieff arriving in England. No ships to visit, to be part of. How would he cope? Ships were all he knew, all he had left.

  Eventually he knew he was ready. Very carefully he opened bis writing-case, the one his mother had given him for his last birthday, and picked up his pen.

  It was easier than he had dared to hope. It was not like writing to her. It was as if she was here, listening to him, or sitting with her bare legs tucked beneath her chin in the old boatyard where it seemed as if the sun had always shone.

  My dearest Eve, We did not have that walk together which I had promised for us, but I walk with you every day, and we are together . . .

  Apart from Sub-Lieutenant Fallows, Rob Roy's wardroom was deserted. Even the old hands like Bone and Campbell who had little to say in favour of the Rock's attractions had gone ashore, and aboard Ranger tied alongside the situation was the same.

  Fallows decided that he would go ashore tomorrow, perhaps before the wardroom party. He glanced down at the single stripe on his shoulder strap and considered his future. A second ring very soon now, but what then? You needed a push, a friendly word in the right places, and Fallo
ws was not so much of a fool that he did not know his own unpopularity. But it had not been easy for him. He had nothing but determination and guts. Even the captain had seemed satisfied with his work and would have to say as much in his personal report.

  He thought of the others. Bone and the Chief did not count, but young Morgan would do well because of his navigation qualifications if nothing else. Even the newcomer Tritton — just thinking of his name made Fallows burn with anger and humiliation. Bunny Tritton. He too seemed so full of confidence. Fallows had never got to know Sherwood, but then he suspected that nobody ever really knew him. On the face of it he should have had everything. He felt envy replacing his anger. Sherwood came from a prosperous family, should have had the world at his feet even after his family had been wiped out. Suppose my own family were killed? Fallows swallowed his neat gin and coughed.

  He did not need to seek an answer, not if he had been in Sherwood's shoes. Sherwood had known the life Fallows had only dreamed about. Cruise ships, and luxury yachts, good hotels and women probably eyeing him whenever he passed; Fallows could imagine it all. With his background, and especially when he had tempted death to gain the George Cross, second only to the VC, he could have found a safe and comfortable billet anywhere he chose. And after the war, he would never have to work again.

  Fallows avoided thinking of Hargrave. He had sensed his disapproval, dislike even, from the start. Another one who had it made, no matter how things turned out. A naval family, his father a flag-officer, and right here in the Med to offer a leg-up as soon as it presented itself — no, he would get nothing out of him.

  He saw the duty messman watching him. He was a seaman-gunner named Parsons who chose to act as a steward rather than work another part of ship when not employed on 'A' Gun. As gunnery officer, Fallows had been instrumental in getting him what was both a soft number and a lucrative one.

  'Another gin, Parsons.' Fallows never said please or thank you to a rating, £le thought it was beneath him.

  Parsons fetched the bottle and, while he measured the gin, watched the ginger-haired sub-lieutenant as a milkman will study a dangerous dog. The big shindig would be tomorrow. They would be working fit to bust, he thought. Ted Kellett the P.O. steward would have all his work cut out. He couldn't be everywhere at once. With the place packed with officers all downing free gins it would always be possible to fake a few records. There would be some bottles going spare, unaccounted for, and Parsons always knew where he could sell duty-free at the right price for a nice, handy profit.

  He put down the glass. So Bunny was drinking again. That was something. He was a bastard, one of the worst Parsons had known, but he had eyes like a bloody hawk when he was sober.

  Parsons began warily, 'I was wondering, sir, if we could clear up the accounts before the party?'

  Fallows frowned, his train of thought disturbed. 'What d'you mean?'

  Parsons had been a pub barman before the war in Southampton. Like the milkman and the dog, he could usually spot the signs. He said in a wheedling tone, 'It's not me, sir, you know that, but the Jimmy the One has been riding all of us a bit over the mess bills, an' things.'

  'And?' Fallows stared at him. He had not taken a real drink for so long it was making his mouth and tongue numb.

  'Well, sir, you didn't sign your mess chits -'

  Fallows slammed down the glass. 'What the bloody hell are you yapping about? I always pay my bills -' He contained his anger and asked sharply, 'When was this anyway?'

  'In Chatham, sir. You'd been working very hard, and Jimmy the One landed you with extra duty —'

  Fallows smiled gently. 'Don't crawl, man, it doesn't impress me!'

  Parsons licked his lips. 'There's ten quid to cover, sir.'

  'What?' Even Fallows lost his practiced calm. 'At duty-free prices, how the hell could that happen?'

  Parsons persisted; it was all or nothing now. 'It was the night when young Tinker came down to see you, sir, when you told him —' He did not go on. There was no need to.

  Fallows stood up and dragged at his short-sleeved shirt as if it was clinging to his body.

  'I told him what?'

  Parsons watched him. Just for an instant he had thought he had gone too far, chosen the wrong moment. But now . . . He said, 'Tinker asked to go ashore, sir, because of what had happened.'

  Fallows sat down heavily on the club fender and pinched the crown of his nose between finger and thumb as he tried to remember, to make the picture form in his mind.

  It was like a terrible nightmare. You knew it was bad, and yet you could never make any sort of form or sense out of it. He had been plagued by some vague, distorted memory about Tinker.

  Parsons added, 'You shouted at him, sir.'

  Fallows looked up. 'Did I?' The admission seemed to stun him. 'Then what happened?'

  Parsons could scarcely believe it, but the old in-built caution flashed its warning. Like the drunk in the bar who takes one too many, who picks up a bottle, thirsting for blood.

  'You were worn out, sir, like I told you. You shouldn't have been on duty that time.'

  Fallows nodded like a puppet. 'That's right. I do remember. Number One —' He checked himself just in time, and asked curtly, 'What did I say to Tinker?'

  Parsons took a deep breath. 'You told him he was not going ashore, that he was a disgrace to the ship and his uniform. Things like that.'

  Fallows eyed him like a man who has suddenly lost his memory, afraid of what he might be or do. 'There's more?'

  'You told him that his mother was an effing whore, sir, that it was the best thing that could have happened to her.'

  Fallows stood up and walked to the side and back again. He felt sick, trapped by the nightmare he could still not recognise or break.

  He said, 'I have to do Rounds in a moment.' He looked vaguely at the letter-rack. 'First I must go to my cabin.'

  'About the money, sir.'

  Fallows fumbled with his wallet. 'How much was it, ten pounds?'

  Parsons took the notes. They were damp from the officer's sweat.

  'Thank you, sir. We've all got to stick together in some things.'

  But Fallows had thrust open the door of the officers' heads and Parsons heard him vomiting helplessly.

  He folded the notes inside his paybook and smiled.

  'Bloody little bastard!' He poured himself a tall measure of brandy and swallowed it in one gulp. As he topped the bottle up carefully with water he added savagely, 'Now you'll know what it's like to bloody well crawl, Mr Bunny!'

  Unexpectedly, Vice-Admiral Hargrave stepped from the brow which crossed to Ranger's deck and touched his cap to the ramrod stiff side-party. He paused to listen to the music, the muted buzz of voices from the wardroom skylight, and said, 'Sounds like a good party, Ransome.'

  Ransome said, 'Sorry about the reception, sir. You caught us all on the hop, I'm afraid.'

  The admiral smiled. 'I didn't expect a guard and Royal Marines band — I happen to enjoy informality!'

  Ransome looked at the slender figure who followed the admiral across the brow. Like the admiral, she was all in white, the only touch of colour being the blue of her shoulder-straps; a second officer in the W.R.N.S.

  'This is Second Officer Rosalind Pearce, by the way, my flag lieutenant and guardian angel.' He laughed loudly.

  How like his son he was, Ransome thought. A bit heavier, but the same good looks, and the added confidence of age.

  He looked at the girl. She was tall, almost the same height as her admiral, with dark hair showing beneath her neat tricorn hat, and serious eyes which were probably blue.

  The vice-admiral added, 'She wanted to see all you rough, sea-going types anyway — another experience, eh?'

  They glanced at each other. Ransome could detect a closer relationship, the sense of understanding.

  He said, 'I'll lead the way, sir.'

  The wardroom was packed, and the guests overflowed into the passageway and at least one neighbouring cabin. />
  Hargrave pushed through the throng and then saw his father. 'Welcome aboard, sir!'

  Ransome saw his eyes shift to the girl.

  Vice-Admiral Hargrave made the same introduction and again they looked at one another. Ransome suspected that the admiral said the same thing quite often. Explanation, or defence, he wondered?

  Hargrave beckoned to a perspiring messman with a loaded tray.

  'A bit of a mixture.'

  She said,'That one looks nice,' but her eyes were on Hargrave.

  Comparing, perhaps?

  Ransome turned as a messman took the admiral's heavily oak-leaved cap from him. There was the true difference. The thinning hair, the deeper lines around his mouth and eyes. His immaculate white-drill uniform with its double row of decorations did not hide the slight belly either.

  The vice-admiral nodded to the officers nearest him and said, 'At last we're shifting my H.Q. to Malta, Ransome. Exciting, eh? After all the disappointments and the blockades, we'll be back where we belong.'

  The girl remarked, 'I'll not be sorry to leave that cavern under the Rock they loosely describe as our present H.Q.'

  The vice-admiral grinned hugely. 'You wait till you get to Malta, my girl! That dismal tunnel at Lascaris may be bombproof, but it's like living in a sewer, believe me!'

  Hargrave asked, 'How long have you served with my, er —with the admiral?'

  She regarded him thoughtfully. In the hard deckhead lights her eyes were violet, very relaxed, like a cat's.

  'Six or seven months, I think.' She had a low, well-modulated voice. Very self-assured.

  A boatswain's mate appeared in the door and gestured to the first lieutenant.

  'What is it?' Hargrave was irritated at the interruption, just as he was confused. His father had never mentioned the girl before. She was quite stunning, with the looks of an actress, and, he guessed, an intelligence as sharp as anyone he had ever met.

  The seamdh called above the din,' 'Nother guest, sir! A civvy!'

  The vice-admiral chuckled. 'Good old Jack, never changes, thank God.' He added, as he reached for a passing drink, 'My guest actually - you'll like him. He's Richard Wakely. Heard of him?'