Who hadn't? Right from the early days, the Phoney War as it was called by those who did not have to fight it, Richard Wakely had been a household name. As a BBC roaming journalist he had brought every aspect of the war to Britain's firesides. When England had stood quite alone he had rallied every heart with his stirring words. Even before Dunkirk he had toured the front lines of the British Expeditionary Force, and visited the unbreachable Maginot Line, where he had enthralled his massive audience when he had described the nearness of the enemy in the Siegfried Line; the Huns as he had called them. He had disappeared after Dunkirk for a time, and had carried on his broadcasts in the USA.
Then when Britain stood firm and her friends and allies rallied from all parts of the world, Richard Wakely came back. From a Lancaster bomber above Berlin, or in the Western Desert even within range of German snipers there, he had told his listeners what it was like, regardless of the risk to himself.
It seemed strange that such a famous figure was about to enter their tiny, private world in Rob Roy.
The vice-admiral turned aside so that nobody else should hear. 'I want you to meet him because the people at home need to be told about your war for a change. Just be natural.' He added sharply, 'I didn't know be was coming too!'
Ransome saw Commander Bliss enter with the man he knew was Wakely. He heard the admiral mutter, 'I thought he was at that damned meeting!'
The girl replied indifferently, 'Must have finished earlier, sir.' She watched him, gauging his mood.
Ransome watched Bliss being greeted by the admiral. What was it? Something from the past? He had assumed that Bliss was his choice; now he was not so sure.
Ransome took Wakely's hand and shook it. It was surprisingly soft and limp.
Wakely looked a lot like his pictures. Tall, heavily rather than powerfully built, with wispy fair hair and a round, plump face.
'I am really looking forward to this, Commander Ransome!'
Bliss asked, 'Have I missed something, sir?'
The vice-admiral shrugged. 'Mr Wakely has agreed to keep us company while he gathers material for his next series of broadcasts.' He lowered his voice although it was quite unnecessary as the noise, which had faded at Bliss's entry, had mounted again. 'Operation Husky.'
Wakely gave a childlike smile, 'All the way to Europe's soft underbelly, as Winston calls it!'
Bliss nodded approvingly. 'You honour us, Mr Wakely. I've often listened to your broadcasts.'
Wakely sipped what looked like an orangeade and blinked modestly. 'Then the honour is all mine, believe me.'
Bliss nodded again, this time to Ransome. 'Everyone here?'
'All the commanding officers anyway, sir.'
The vice-admiral dabbed his mouth with a handkerchief, i'd like to speak with them now.'
Bliss was saying, 'We'll do all we can to make you comfortable in Bedworth -
Ransome held up his hands and the conversation began to die away once more. It was unfortunate because the vice-admiral's voice was made to sound unnecessarily loud.
'Richard Wakely is sailing with Rob Roy as it happens. It's all about minesweeping, and bloody time too if you ask me!'
Ransome saw Lieutenant Commander Gregory, Ranger's C.O., chain-smoking as usual, nudge his companion, Stranach of the Firebrand.
Hargrave had placed himself beside the Wren officer again. They made a handsome pair, Ransome thought. Did he think so too? Or was he pondering on his father's morals, his mother and sisters in England?
Vice-Admiral Hargrave announced, 'You will be sailing very soon now to play an important part in a moment of history. Sicily is a stepping-stone and the pace will be hot and demanding. Our success will mean the opening of the Second Front, with all that that implies, and the end result, with God's help -'
Ransome saw the Wren officer's perfect mouth quiver very slightly in what could have been a smile.
Vice-Admiral Hargrave concluded, '— will be the eventual defeat of our enemies!'
They all applauded and the vice-admiral said softly to the girl, 'Pretty good, eh, Ross?' She nodded and clapped her hands with the others.
Ransome felt suddenly grateful as the admiral glanced at his watch. It was bad enough to have Bliss here with his face like thunder without the others sensing a rift between their superiors as Gregory had obviously done.
The vice-admiral seized a few hands. 'Malta, then. We shall all meet again before too long.' He smiled at Richard Wakely. 'I have some more people waiting to hang on your every word!'
Wakely shook Ransome's hand, his eyes distant. 'I'm getting the feel of it already.' He nodded firmly. 'I'm never wrong.'
Ransome accompanied them to the brow and wondered why the vice-admiral had chosen to board Rob Roy via Ranger. Perhaps he never threw away the chance to see and be seen.
The Wren officer turned to face him.
'It's been a pleasure, Commander.'
Ransome felt her gaze like an inspection. Outwardly cool and composed. But the admiral's use of her first name told a different story.
He returned to the wardroom and found Bliss in deep conversation with several of the commanding officers.
To Hargrave he said, 'It went well enough, I thought.'
Hargrave plucked at his shirt. 'All these people. Every mother's son seems to know about the invasion.'
Ransome thought about the peacetime Budget, when it was always touted as a total secret until the actual announcement in the House of Commons. And yet as his father had pointed out many times, there were hundreds who must have known the 'secret'. The secretaries, the financial advisers, and all the printers who produced the final budget papers. Like Second Officer Pearce and her staff, these officers and God alone knew how many others in Whitehall. There was no such thing as a true secret.
Bliss made his excuses and left. He seemed calm enough but his eyes were angry, like the moment he had been curtly put right about Wakely.
His boat was waiting on the outboard side and Bliss paused to say, if you have any problems, tell me, right?'
Ransome nodded. Before telling the vice-admiral, he might just as well have said.
Bliss added, 'So your Number One is the admiral's son?'
'Yes, sir.' It was a sounding remark. Bliss knew just about everything. Perhaps he and the vice-admiral were too much alike.
There was a commotion in the wardroom and Bliss said shortly, i'm off. Before the high jinks begin. Best to get it out of their systems now, eh?' It sounded vaguely like a threat.
Ransome paused by the wardroom where Petty Officer Kellett was hovering outside the curtained entrance.
He said anxiously, 'I'd like to offer you one of my special cocktails, sir.'
Ransome took the hint. 'Trouble?'
Kellett shrugged. 'Storm in a teacup, sir.'
Beyond the curtain, Lieutenant Philip Sherwood clung to the back of a chair and stared glassily at the mass of figures which filled the place. He had missed Bliss by seconds, having boarded Ranger's deck from a passing launch.
He looked tousled and crumpled and there was a wine stain on his shirt, like dried blood.
'Well, well, well! A celebration or a wake, which must it be?'
Hargrave made to step forward but Campbell touched his arm. 'Leave it, Number One. He's never been like this before.'
Sherwood beckoned to a messman and took a glass from the tray without even looking at it.
i am sorry 1 missed the party, I was elsewhere -' He swallowed the drink and swayed against the chair for support.
Someone called, 'For Christ's sake take it easy, or you'll spill a drop!' Another said, 'Don't anyone light a cigarette near him or you'll blow up the ship!'
Sherwood ignored the laughter and stared around with haunted desperation.
He said in a surprisingly clear voice, "If we are mark'd to die, we are enov^to do our country loss: and if to live, the fewer men, the greater share of honour —"
He almost fell and then pivoted round as Ransome entered the
wardroom.
Sherwood made a mock bow. 'Oops. I — I am so sorry, dear Captain, but I am slightly pissed —'
Surgeon Lieutenant Cusack stepped forward and caught Sherwood as he fell.
To the others he said, i think his party's over.'
Ransome looked around their faces, so different and yet suddenly bonded together, sobered by Sherwood's rambling quotation, which he had delivered like a prophesy.
As captain he was just another guest here in Rob Roy's wardroom. It was not the time or the place to make a stand on Sherwood's behaviour. He had not seen him like it before, and tomorrow he would have to put it all behind him. Otherwise . . .
He nodded to the others and left the wardroom, but even when he reached the companion ladder there was still no sound to mark his departure.
He opened his cabin door and switched on the light. It seemed to shine directly on Tony's face.
Sherwood was not the only one, he thought. Nor would he be the last once they were through the gateway.
Chief Petty Officer Joe Beckett tilted his cap further over his eyes and stared up at the Rock, the strange shimmering haze which swirled around the summit like smoke.
The Buffer stood beside him watching the last of the NAAFI stores boats alongside, another taking aboard the final sack of letters from Rob Roy and Ranger.
Beckett said, 'Any more for the Skylark, Topsy?' He glanced at some of the seamen in their clean shorts and white tops. 'Soon be their old scruffy selves again, eh?'
The Buffer nodded. 'Big White Cheese come aboard last night, I 'ear?'
Beckett grinned.' Yeh, an' you bloody missed it, scuttlin' about the Rock like a randy dog, no doubt!'
The Buffer shrugged. 'I've seen more admirals than young Boyes over there 'as 'ad 'ot dinners!'
Beckett savoured it. 'But 'e 'ad 'is Wren officer with 'im.' He blew a kiss. 'I'd rather be on 'er than the middle watch, I can tell you!' His grin faded as he took on his stern coxswain's expression.
'An' wot are all we, then?'
All we was one small, slightly built sailor who was being unceremoniously manhandled over the brow from Ranger, his frail body almost buried by hammock and kitbag, attache case and gas mask respirator. His uniform was new and did not fit very well.
The Buffer gave a theatrical groan. 'Must be twelve years old, eh, Swain?'
'No more, and that's the truth!'
He beckoned the small figure over. 'Wot's yer name, son?'
'G - Gold, sir.'
'Gold, is it? Wot're you, a four-by-two or summat?'
It was all quite lost on the newcomer, who looked as if he might burst into tears at any moment.
Beckett relented slightly. 'You must be the replacement for whatsisname.'
The Buffer showed his monkey teeth. 'The one wot got a dose of clap!'
'Don't shock the lad, Buffer!' He looked severely at the sailor. 'Last ship?'
'This is my f-first, sir.' He peered around the busy deck, clattering winches, order and purpose, none of which he could recognise. 'I — I was supposed to be joining a c-cruiser, s-sir.'
The Buffer stared outboard. 'A stutter too, that's all I bleedin' need!'
Beckett touched the youth's shoulder and felt him jump.
'No sweat, Gold. You'll soon settle in, though as you can see with yer own mincers, this ain't no bloody cruiser!'
Boyes walked past and Beckett seized him like a straw. ' 'Ere, Boyes, take this lad to Number Three Mess and get 'im fixed up.' He winked. 'Veteran like you should know wot to do, eh?'
Boyes helped the new hand gather his kit. The deck was begining to tremble, and there was a stronger trail of smoke from Rob Roy's single funnel.
Getting ready to slip from the buoy. Boyes shivered and glanced up at the bridge as if expecting to see the captain. But there was only a solitary signalman who was flashing his Aldis towards the shore.
'This way.' He picked up the hammock and led Gold towards the forecastle.
The Buffer shook his head. 'No experience. None. Wot do they expect us to do?'
Beckett made a few notes in his book about Gold's future. The machinery had already taken over.
He said abruptly, 'Try an' keep the poor little sods alive, that's wot!'
Boyes recalled his own despair when he had entered the lower messdeck. Now, with almost everyone aboard and standing up in the small, confined space, it was a picture of utter chaos.
Men were changing into the rig-of-the-day as all the ships would have to look right and pusser when they left harbour, not merely for the F.O.I.C.'s sake but also the ever-watchful Spaniards. Some were trying to cram a last souvenir into lockers or kitbags.
Leading Seaman Ted Hoggan appeared to be the only one seated, at his usual place at the head of the table, apparently undisturbed by the packed bodies all around him, a rock in a tideway.
Boyes said, 'I'll show you where to put your gear. You'll not have a place to sling your hammock, of course. There aren't enough hooks in this mess.'
Gold nodded, then flinched as the tannoy squeaked and the boatswain's call shattered the air. 'D'you hear there! Special sea dutymen to your stations! Away motor boat's crew!'
Able Seaman Suggit, his mouth spurting crumbs, pushed up the ladder, cursing through his food. 'Bloody officers! Always want something!'
Boyes got to the table and waited for Hoggan to look up.
'New one for the mess, Hookey.'
Hoggan eyed the newcomer without any change of expression. 'You've put 'im in the picture, Gerry?'
Boyes nodded, i think so.' He turned to Gold. 'First sound from that bell, and you drop everything, run like hell for your action station, right?'
He did not see Able Seaman Jardine, the one who wore a wicked-looking knife in his hand-made sheath, give a broad wink, nor Hoggan's acknowledgement.
Jardine said, 'Take the advice of an old sweat, my son.' He clapped Boyes round the shoulder as he had beside the burial party. 'He'll see you right -'
He might have burst out laughing but the tannoy made them all look up.
'All hands! Hands to stations for leaving harbour! Stand by wires an' fenders!'
Hoggan thrust a partly darned sock into his locker and grabbed his cap.
He watched Boyes leading the new seaman up the ladder and smiled sadly.
'Here we go again -' But he was alone; the messes on either side of the deck were empty.
One of Their Own
Sub-Lieutenant Tudor Morgan lifted his face from the wheelhouse voicepipe and squinted into the fierce glare. 'Steady on zero-four-five, sir!'
Ransome crossed to the opposite side of the bridge and grimaced as his bare arm touched the steel plating. It felt like an oven door.
He levelle^ his glasses above the screen and watched the flotilla taking station again for the next sweep, the hoisted black balls showing they were trailing their wires to port.
Their formation keeping was so good now that they could all have been connected by a cable, he thought. He moved the glasses along the echelon of dazzle-painted hulls, the occasional flash of colour from the little flags on their scurrying Oropesa floats. Then Ransome trained his glasses directly astern. How unreal it all looked. More like an ocean than the approaches to Malta. They had begun sweeping at dawn as they had the previous day; now it was halfway through the forenoon watch. There was no horizon, and the great expanse of water was like pale blue milk, rising only slowly in a shallow swell. The sky had no colour at all, and the sun, although covered by haze, shone brilliant white like a furnace bar.
The men working aft with the sweep wire or employed about the upper deck were almost naked, their bodies either brown or uncomfortably reddened in these unfamiliar surroundings. So different from the North Sea and the English Channel, Ransome thought.
It was almost impossible to believe that the purple blur barely visible astern was actually Malta, that these very waters had been fought over continuously since the retreat from Greece and the start of the real desert war
against Rommel. The seabed was littered with wrecks, ships of every size, from carriers to tiny sloops, even China River gunboats which had been sent to bolster up the embattled fleet and had soon paid the price for it. Ships of Rudyard Kipling's navy against Stuka dive-bombers, E-boats, and crack Italian cruisers.
And now it was as if the war had never been. In the first dawn light they had headed past a vast fleet of minesweeping trawlers, of the kind which had kept the channels open around Britain since the beginning; many of them were veterans of that war, of Dunkirk and the ill-fated Norwegian campaign.
Ransome had been standing on the bridge, his first cup of tea in his hands as they had pounded through the scattered fleet of trawlers. It had reminded him of a picture his mother still treasured, of a Japanese fishing flotilla with Fujiyama in the background. The same unlikely sea and mist, the ships like models above their own seemingly unmoving images.
Rob Roy was steering north-east; the coast of Sicily lay about forty miles away. Just months ago this area had been dominated by the Luftwaffe, the killing-ground for any vessel which had dared to make for Malta with food and supplies. Overnight, or so it seemed now, all that had changed. Malta was relieved, new airstrips had been hastily laid there by the Americans so that daily fighter patrols could be maintained.
He heard Sherwood speaking with Morgan as they pored over the chart-table together. A good team now that they were at sea again.
Sherwood had apologised for his behaviour on the night of the party. Ransome had left it at that. Whatever had happened to throw Sherwood off balance seemed to be under control once more. That was part of his trouble. He held himself stretched out like a wire. He only appeared to be content when he was working.
Ransome looked aft to the quarterdeck and saw Richard Wakely with his cameraman speaking with Hargrave beside the new winch. He saw him smile as he put on a steel helmet, then point, squinting at the sky, while his cameraman recorded the moment. Even without using his binoculars Ransome could sense the first lieutenant's embarrassment as the little act continued. Necessary probably, but somehow cheap against those sailors who were watching, who had seen the real thing far too often. Was that the real reason for Vice-Admiral Hargrave's insistence that Wakely should be in Rob Roy ? So that his own son could get some of the limelight, if any was ever left over by Wakely?
In Danger's Hour Page 18