In Danger's Hour

by Douglas Reeman

  Ransome crossed to the forepart of the bridge and trained his glasses ahead. The sea was empty, rising and falling so slowly, as if it was breathing. Nothing. Not even a gull or a leaping fish.

  But there were mines here, or had been until this massive sweep had been mounted. British, Italian, German, it was a veritable deathtrap for any ship too large to avoid them. Yet many had braved the minefields; submarines had crept through that silent forest of rusty wires with their obscene iron globes, to carry aid to Malta. They had had to lie submerged in the harbour throughout the day to avoid air attacks which could be mounted in minutes from both Sicily and the Italian mainland. Then at night they would unload their precious cargoes of fuel and ammunition, tinned food, and anything else they could cram into their hulls. Even their torpedo tubes had been used to carry vital supplies although it left the submarines without teeth for the hazardous journey back to base. Many did not make it.

  Rob Roy alone had put up twenty mines in these waters so far; Ranger had swept three more than that. If you were lucky it was a whole lot easier than in the Channel, with its troublesome currents and fierce tides. Here at least it was non-tidal, and if you picked up a mine — Ransome did not continue on that train of thought.

  He said, 'Another hour?'

  Sherwood looked at him. His hair was even more bleached by the sun.

  'Near enough, sir.' He glanced at the glistening water. 'Surely they must know what's happening?'

  Ransome nodded. Probably what every Jack in the flotilla was thinking. The enemy, silent and unseen, must have known for weeks what to expect.

  He replied, 'Four days from now.' He thought about the pack of intelligence reports and plans in his cabin safe. The sea was empty, and yet from Gibraltar and the battered North African ports where Rob Roy had refuelled, and from Alexandria in the I astern Mediterranean, the huge fleet of landing-ships and their protectors was massing for this one-off assault on Sicily.

  He added, 'They're probably more worried than we are.'

  Richard Wakely appeared on the bridge ladder, his round face dripping with sweat.

  'What a day, eh, Captain?' He mopped his features with a spotted silk handkerchief. 'Just a few more shots in case the light changes, I think.' He beamed to the bridge at large. 'I don't want to leave anything out!'

  Sherwood had replaced the dark glasses he often wore on the bridge.

  'You must have seen quite a lot of different types of action.'

  Wakely smiled gravely. 'That's true, I suppose. I've been lucky.'

  Sherwood asked, 'Did you ever run across a Brigadier de Courcey in the Western Desert, sir?' He seemed suddenly very intent. 'Alex de Courcey?'

  Wakely mopped his throat vigorously. 'Can't say I have. But then I meet so many, y'know.' He looked at Sherwood for the first time. 'You know him?'

  'Friend of my late father, actually. They used to shoot together.'

  'I see.' He turned away. 'Must be off. Still a lot to do.' He called for his cameraman. 'Where are you, Andy?'

  When he had gone Ransome asked quietly, 'What was all that about?'

  Sherwood removed his glasses and polished them with his shirt. His eyes looked bitter.

  'He knows who I'm talking about, right enough, or he should. Alex became a staff officer after he was promoted out of the tanks. He told my father all about Richard Wakely in the early days in France when he was a tank commander.'

  'I take it you don't care much for him?' Ransome added sharply, 'Come on, spit it out, man!'

  Sherwood glanced briefly at the nearest bridge look-out. The man was crouching by his mounted binoculars, his eyes protected from the glare by a frame of deeply tinted glass. He was apparently out of earshot.

  'Wakely's a phoney, a complete fraud. Never went near the front line the whole time. After Dunkirk he shot off to the States to protect his precious skin.' He faced Ransome and gave an apologetic smile. 'That's what he said.'

  Ransome climbed on to his chair and winced from the contact.

  'You are too cynical by half.'

  Sherwood glanced at the ladder as if he expected to see Wakely there, listening.

  'That famous broadcast from El Alamein.' He shook his head. 'I'll bet he did it from his suite at Shepheard's in Cairo!'

  They both turned as Leading Signal Mackay shouted, 'Signal from Dunlin, sir! My catch, I think!'

  Ransome strode to the opposite gratings and steadied his binoculars against the slow roll.

  He watched the stab of Dunlin's signal lamp, the bright hoist of flags breaking from her yard.

  'Signal Dryaden to close on Dunlin.'

  Ransome ignored the clatter of the signal lamp, the stir of excitemenf around the bridge. One more mine. Should be all right. He shifted his glasses on to the graceful Icelandic trawler and saw the mounting white moustache of her bow wave as she increased speed, her marksmen already up forward in readiness to dispense with yet another would-be killer.

  'There it is, sir! Dunlin's quarter!' There was an ironic cheering from aft and Ransome wondered if Wakely's cameraman was recording the moment.

  Leading Signalman Mackay was using the old telescope, his lips moving silently as he spelled out another signal.

  'From Scythe, sir. Senior Officer closing from the south-west.'

  Ransome waited for Dryaden to forge ahead until he could train his glasses astern again.

  So Bliss was moving up to join them. He had been content to stay with the main force of minesweeping trawlers until now. A compliment or a snub, it was hard to say.

  'From Bedworth, sir!' Mackay braced his legs wide apart. 'Aircraft approaching from the north!'

  Ransome let his glasses fall to his chest. 'Acknowledge.' His mind seemed to click into place, to remind him of Sherwood's earlier words. They must know what's happening.

  He said, inform the first lieutenant, recover sweep immediately.'

  He stared at the red button below the screen, the metal around it worn smooth by all those other emergencies.

  They might think he was losing his grip. Going round the bend at last. Plenty had.

  He vaguely heard a cheer, then the rattle of small-arms fire as Dryaden's marksmen punctured the released mine and sent it on its way to the bottom.

  Too careful, or like the ill-fated Viper's captain had been, too bloody confident for his own good?

  He did not realise he was speaking aloud as he exclaimed, 'They can think what they bloody well like!' Then he pressed down the button and heard the shriek of alarm bells coming up the rank of voicepipes.

  'Action Stations! Action Stations!'

  The calm was shattered, the momentary interest of a mine made harmless forgotten, as the barebacked figures scampered to their stations, groping for anti-flash gear and helmets, making sure their lifebelts were tied loosely around their bodies.

  All down the line the alarm was picked up, and Ransome felt the hull shiver as the new winch hauled on the sweep wire like an angler with a giant marlin.

  'Short-range weapons crews closed up!'

  'Coxswain on the wheel!'

  'Main armament closed up.' The latter was Bunny Fallows' voice on the intercom, his Scots accent strangely noticeable.

  So many reports for so small a ship.

  Ransome dragged his white-covered cap from beneath a locker and tugged it across his ruffled hair.

  'From Bedworth, sir. Do not engage.'

  Sherwood muttered, 'Must be some of ours after all.'

  Ransome felt chilled despite the unwavering heat. If there was such a thing as instinct, he had never felt so certain.

  'Aircraft, sir! Red one-one-oh! Angle of sight-'

  Ransome gripped his glasses until they hurt his fingers; he did not hear the rest. Did not need to.

  There they were, not just two or three, but maybe a dozen or more, strung out against the empty sky in a fine curve, catching the sunlight like chips of bright glass.

  'Start tracking!'

  Sherwood was watching the tiny
slivers with his binoculars. Young Morgan looked up from the chart-table. 'Heading for Malta, d'you think?'

  Sherwood did not turn. 'Not this time. It's us they're after.'

  Ransome said, 'Signal Dryaden to drop dan buoys now.' Someone would have to complete the sweep after this was over. He watched the leading aircraft, still without shape, as it began to turn, until it appeared to be flying straight towards him.

  'Warn the engine-room. Full revs when I give the word.'

  Richard Wakely's voice broke through the chilled concentration.

  'What the bell's happening?'

  Sherwood still did not take his eyes off the plane.

  'Some good shots coming up, sir. We are about to be attacked.'

  'Alter-Course signal from Bedworth, sir. Steer zero-nine-zero in succession.'

  Ransome nodded. 'Bring her round.' It had been a near thing. If Bliss had not had a change of heart the whole flotilla might had ended up in a minefield with their sweeps snug and useless on deck.

  'Here they come!'

  'Full ahead together! Starboard twenty!'

  Ransome felt the gratings bounding under his shoes. They were going to attack from astern, and use the sun's glare to best advantage. Pictures flashed through his mind. The old instructor who had said, 'Always watch out for the Hun wot comes out of the sun!' Of David down aft where Hargrave was, the suddenness of his death, the women in black, and the girl who had looked like Eve.

  He closed his mind against all of them. This was his purpose for being. Nothing else must matter now.

  'Midships! Steady!'

  He saw Morgan crouched behind the gyro repeater, a boatswain's mate cocking one of the old stripped Lewis guns they had 'borrowed' from the army. Even the cook would be down there with the damage-control party or helping the doctor. There were 110 passengers in Rob Roy.

  He thought suddenly of Moncrieff and his last words about the ship he had loved above all others.

  Ransome pounded the rail beneath the screen as the revolutions continued to mount in time with the increasing vibration.

  'Come on, old girl - for him if not for me!'

  Of course the enemy knew. No minesweepers meant no invasion, not until they were ready to repel it.

  Wakely called, his voice shrill, 'What shall I do, for God's sake?'

  Sherwood smiled as he picked up the parallel rulers, which had jerked to the deck from the shaking chart-table.

  'What about a nice hymn, sir?'

  The wheelhouse seemed to shrink as the door was clipped shut, and all but the slitted observation panels slammed into place.

  Boyes wedged himself in a corner by the plot-table, his eyes everywhere as he tried to form a picture of what was happening, what had begun with the sudden scream of alarm bells.

  Midshipman Davenport was leaning over the plot and making some adjustments for a new chart. His shirt was plastered to his spine by sweat, and Boyes could see it dripping on the chart from his face. Beckett was on the wheel as usual, the quartermasters manning the engine and revolution telegraphs. A messenger crouched by the emergency handset, and through the bell-mouthed voicepipe by Beckett's head Boyes could hear much of what was said on the upper bridge.

  He heard the captain call for full speed, the deft movements of the waiting hands near the wheel, then Beckett's harsh reply, 'Both engines full ahead, sir!'

  Faintly through the open intercom he heard Fallows' voice. 'All guns load with semi-armour-piercing —'

  Then the captain's intervention, curt but seemingly untroubled.

  Fallows mumbled, 'Sorry, sir, I mean high-explosive!'

  Beckett turned aside from the voicepipe. 'Poor old Bunny's lost 'is bottle!'

  Boyes whispered, 'How many, d'you think, er, sir?'

  Davenport peered at him, his eyes wild. 'How the hell should I know? Just shut up and wait for orders!'

  Boyes found to his astonishment that Davenport's tirade left him unmoved. At the same instant he realised he was unafraid. That really did surprise him.

  The captain's voice sounded different; he was speaking directly to the engine-room.

  i know that, Chief, but I want everything you've got. Now.' There was the merest hesitation, and he was heard to add, 'Bale out if I give the words. No heroics, right?'

  Davenport opened and closed his fists, his voice thick with disbelief. 'Bale out?'

  Leading Seaman Reeve clung to a shuddering telegraph and said cheerfully, 'Better swim than fry, sir!'

  Right aft by the second four-inch gun, Lieutenant Hargrave shaded h^s eyes in the glare to watch the damage-control party taking cover, the Buffer calling out last minute instructions.

  It was getting harder to hear anything clearly. The wake frothing up from the racing screws had risen level with the deck, and spray surged over the sides as if they were sinking by the stern. He saw the other ships astern, some making too much smoke, others almost lost in haze and drifting spume. He saw Bedwortb, her yards alive with flags, turning in a wide sweep, showing all the grace of a thoroughbred as she displayed her streaming deck, the guns already pivoting round to track the target.

  He said aloud, 'There they are, Buffer! Port quarter!' He felt a catch in his throat. 'God Almighty!'

  The Buffer sucked his monkey-teeth and watched the tiny, glinting aircraft through slitted eyes.

  He saw 'Gipsy' Guttridge, gunlayer on the four-inch, looking down at him, like a member of some forgotten monastic order in his anti-flash hood. As he turned his controls effortlessly in his strong hands he was singing quietly to himself, the words set against a well-known hymn.

  'Six days a man shall work as long as he is able, and on the seventh shall scrub the deck and holystone the cable —' They grinned at one another and the Buffer called, 'That's bloody true, Gipsy!'

  The gunnery speaker crackled into life, 'Aircraft starboard quarter! Angle of sight three-oh!'

  The gunlayer and trainer spun their polished wheels and Guttridge muttered, 'I just 'ope Bunny's got that bloody right!'

  The speaker again. 'Barrage — commence — commence — commence!'

  Hargrave watched the other ships astern open fire, the sky suddenly filled with drifting balls of dirty smoke, then as the leading aircraft burst into view above their mastheads, the livid tracer and the steady thud-thud-thud of pom-poms added their weight to the barrage.

  'Shoot!'

  The four-inch recoiled violently and the breech was wrenched open, streaming cordite fumes before the shock-wave had receded.

  'Gunlayer, target!' Then, 'Trainer, target!' And another sharp explosion cracked out towards the aircraft.

  Hargrave heard a tremendous explosion, felt it punch against the hull like a ram, and saw a column of water beginning to fall. It looked as if it was right beside the third minesweeper, but they were still afloat, following in a sharp turn as Rob Roy's rudder went over for a violent zigzag.

  An aircraft just seemed to materialise right over Hargrave's head. It must have dived low after dropping a bomb, and he saw the stabbing flashes of its machine-gun fire, and gasped as the Buffer grabbed his arm and pulled him against the hot steel.

  'Watch out, sir! That bugger's taken a real dislike to you!'

  Hargrave tried to smile, but his mouth felt like leather. He saw the twin-engined plane roaring away ahead, pursued by bright balls of tracer, and one very near-miss from 'A' Gun. He even saw the black crosses, so stark on either wing, streaks of oil near the open bomb-bay doors.

  He took a grip on himself. 'Nobody hurt?'

  The Buffer pointed. 'They're attacking from both sides, sir!'

  Hargrave saw Kellett, the P.O. steward, still wearing his white jacket, hurrying to the opposite side, a Bren gun cradled in his arms as he squinted at the sky.

  The Buffer sighed. 'Where's the bloody RAF now that we needs 'em?'

  Shoot Hargrave winced as another plane roared down through the gunsmoke. His ears throbbed as if they would never hear again, and his eyes felt raw from the constant
firing.

  Brrrrrrr! He heard the harsh rattle of machine-gun fire, and stared at the advancing feathers of white spray until the metal clanged and cracked across the deck like a rivet-gun.

  One of the damage-control party was down, kicking wildly, blood everywhere, so bright and unreal in the hazy glare.

  The Buffer yelled, 'Get that man!' He glanced at Hargrave. 'You be okay 'ere, sir?' The he was gone, his stocky figure pushing men where they were needed, pausing to restrain the wounded seaman as 'Pansy' Masefield, his red-cross satchel bouncing from one hip, appeared from nowhere.

  'Nasty, Pansy.' The Buffer grinned at the wounded man, whose eyes were filled with dread, like a terrified child's. 'But we've seen worse, eh?'

  Masefield glared at him then beckoned to his assistants. 'Take him to the real doctor, chop-chop!' Then he patted the wounded man's face and said gently, 'You'll be fine, Jenner. I've stopped the bleeding.'

  The hull swayed as the wheel went over again, and a great shadow swept above them like some nightmare seabird.

  The Buffer looked for Hargrave. It was as if he had never moved. He turned to the plane again, even saw the bomb as it tumbled untidily from its belly.

  He watched it with tired resignation. Why here, he seemed to ask. Why now?

  From his position on the upper bridge Ransome saw the bomb too. 'Hard a-port!' He gripped the voicepipe as the wheel went over and the ship seemed to reel to the thrust of screws and rudder.

  'Thirty-five of port wheel on, sir!'

  He heard men gasping and slipping as Rob Roy continued to pivot round, and he thanked God, not for the first time, that she had twin screws.

  The bomb, which seemed to fall so haphazardly, suddenly righted itself and appeared to gather speed as it hurtled down while the plane, a Messerschmidt 110 fighter-bomber, bellowed low over the bridge, cannon-fire and machine-gun bullets raking the forecastle while the Oerlikons continued to pursue it with tracer.

  The explosion felt as if the ship was being lifted bodily from the sea, and for a few seconds Ransome feared the worst, and prepared to stop engines before his ship charged headlong for the seabed. Then the towering column of water from the explosion fell. It was like something solid, as if the ship had been engulfed by a tidal wave.