He saw Boyes and snapped, 'Don't lay him down.' He ripped open Davenport's shirt and threw it aside like a butcher's rags, in my bag. Two shell dressings!' He watched Boyes and added, 'You're doing just fine.' They both ducked as heavier shells thundered into the sea nearby, and they heard the falling water sluice over the bridge superstructure.
Cusack tilted Davenport's naked body forward and then pressed a heavy dressing over the wound. To Boyes he said, 'Here, tie these tapes. My hands are too bloody.' His eyes glinted as he looked up at Beckett's tall figure. 'You're a bit damaged too, Cox'n.' He shook his head. 'But you'll never break. Not you, man!'
Boyes said despairingly, 'Can't we lay him down now, sir? He's still breathing.'
Cusack listened to feet clattering up a ladder, someone hacking away broken fittings brought down by the shell. He answered quietly, 'You're a friend of his, are you, son?'
Boyes nodded without knowing why. 'We were at school together.'
It should have sounded stupid, Cusack thought grimly, with all hell breaking loose, and the ship liable to be straddled at any second. But it seemed to make all the sense in the world.
He said gently, 'He's dying. Drowning in his own blood. Stay with him. I'm needed elsewhere.' He tossed another dressing to the injured telegraphsman. 'Tie that on our man of steel, eh? I'll send someone as soon as I can.'
He touched Boyes's shoulder as he left. 'It'll not be long.'
Davenport opened his eyes and stared at Boyes for several seconds.
Boyes said, 'It's all right. I'm here. You were wounded when —' He realised for the first time that Wakely had somehow disappeared. 'When you were saving Richard Wakely's life.'
'Did I?' His head lolled on to Boyes's shoulder. 'Can't feel much. Never mind.' He tried to laugh and blood ran down his chin.
Boyes mopped it away with a rolled signal flag. 'Easy. You'll soon be safe.'
'Safe.' Davenport tried to look at him. 'Next time —' He broke off and groaned. 'You see me.' He was starting to struggle, as if he had suddenly understood but would not accept it. 'Sublieutenant, eh?' He closed his eyes. 'Oh, dear God, help me.r
It was several more seconds, while the ship tilted this way and that, and voices echoed from above and below like demented souls, before Boyes realised that Davenport had died.
Beckett called hoarsely, ' 'Ere, lend me a 'and, young 'un! You're the only bloke in one piece!'
The door was wrenched open again and the Buffer, an axe gripped in his hand, stared at the scene without speaking. The great daubs of blood, the buckled plates where the shell had ricochetted around the wheelhousc before exploding as it had been designed to do inside a tank, and lastly at his friend hanging on to the spokes, one leg tied with a reddened dressing.
'Jesus, Swain, you managin' to 'old on? I'll get one of the lads from aft to relieve you!'
Beckett grinned at him fondly. 'Fuck off, you mad bastard. Get on with yer own job fer a change!' He gestured to Boyes, 'Me an' young Nelson is doin' very well!'
The Buffer showed his monkey teeth. 'Come round for sippers arter this lot, my son!'
Beckett retorted through his pain, 'He ain't old enough.'
The Buffer became serious for the first time, in my book 'e bloody is!'
Beckett said, 'Take the wheel fer a sec, Boyes.' He eyed him grimly. 'You do know wot to do?' He saw him nod. 'I'm goin' to fix this poor sod's bandage before things 'ot up again.'
Boyes cleared his throat and called up the voicepipe.
'Wheelhouse-Bridge!'
Sherwood answered immediately, his tone sharp, as if he expected the worst.
Boyes blinked tears from his eyes. 'Relieving the wheel, sir! Ordinary Seaman Boyes!'
Behind him he heard Beckett call, 'Only time they care is when they think you're bloody dead!'
Sherwood gave a brittle laugh. Beckett had a very carrying voice.
He said, 'The enemy has shifted target to the beaches. Hold her on three-five-zero until you're told otherwise.'
Boyes watched the gyro tape until it appeared to mist over. He felt sick and faint, his whole being rebelling against the touch and stench of death.
Above all he was conscious of a great feeling of pride.
Ransome trained his glasses above the screen and saw the land looming in the early dawn light, the sea criss-crossed with the wakes of other craft while closer inshore tall columns of water showed a regular concentration of artillery fire.
'Starboard ten.' He craned over the screen and stared down at I he port Oerlikon mounting; it was pointing uselessly towards the quarter, the bright scar where the shell had smashed into it surprisingly sharp in the pale light. The Oerlikon gunner was squatting on the step massaging his head with both hands, seemingly oblivous to what was happening around him.
Ransome had called down to him immediately after the second shell had exploded beneath his feet in the wheelhouse, but the seaman had merely shrugged and spread his hands with disbelief. His guns were knocked out of action and yet miraculously he had been left untouched, apart from his headache.
Hargrave clambered on to the bridge, his face and arms streaked with dirt.
'Three killed and two wounded by splinters, sir.' He sounded out of breath.
Ransome waited as another massive salvo thundered overhead to burst somewhere inland. He could see the smoke now against the brightening skyline, like something solid which would never disperse. Fires too, with the more livid stabs and flashes from small-arms fire and mortars.
Ransome already knew about those who had died. It seemed incredible that anyone could have survived down there. The youngest and the most seasoned, Boyes and Beckett. If it was true what he had heard about Wakely it seemed a pity that others had fallen when he had done nothing to help them, but whimpered only for his wretched skin.
Hargrave said, 'Sorry about young Davenport, sir.'
They faced each other, each knowing that few people in the ship, if any, had liked the midshipman.
But he had tried, and with his eighteenth birthday hardly behind him, it was a bitter way to end everything. In his heart Ransome knew that in days, provided Rob Roy was spared, few would remember his name. Only at home in England — he closed his mind like slamming a door.
'Did you check the other damage?'
'Yes, sir. The messdeck was barely marked. No need to plug the holes at this stage. Too high above the waterline.'
They both looked up as two flights of fighter-bombers, their RAF roundels like staring eyes in the strange light, screamed low overhead towards the land.
Perhaps the most marked change of all, Ransome thought. Air-cover, and plenty of it. Not sitting ducks - not this time.
Morgan looked up from a voicepipe. 'R/T signal from Bedworth, sir. Two mines adrift to the south-west.'
Sherwood grunted. 'Not surprised after that gale.'
Ransome nodded. 'Signal Dryaden to investigate. Right up her street.'
Hargrave smiled sadly. 'Pity to get your bum blown off by a drifter at this stage of an invasion.'
Sherwood's eyes widened in surprise. 'Did I hear a joke from our first lieutenant?' He strode over and offered his hand, i salute thee!'
Ransome watched the unexpected gesture, the way Morgan and even young Tritton appeared to relax, while Leading Signalman Mackay gave a great grin.
Bedworth's signal lamp glittered across the water and revealed the great rolling bank of smoke which covered the slow moving landing-vessels like a blanket.
Mackay read, 'From Bedivorth, sir. Detach vessel to assist landing-craft which is out of command.''
Sherwood murmured, 'Bliss likes to make signals, that at least is obvious.'
Ransome said, 'Signal Dunlin to assist. We will support her if required.'
A loud bang, familiar to all of them, made the air quake. Dyraden had found and destroyed one of the drifting mines.
Ransome watched Dunlin alter course away from Rob Roy's straight wake and head towards the mass of landing-craft clo
ser to the beach. As the light hardened it looked as if there was an impossible tangle of vessels with neither order nor purpose, landing-craft thrashing sternfirst from the beach, their box-like hulls higher now without their tanks and other vehicles, while others pushed ahead, following darting motor-launches with their bright pendants to mark their passage to a prescribed landing-place.
The gunfire was getting louder, and Ransome felt the air quiver to an unbroken artillery duel somewhere to the right of the beach. Probably the road to Syracuse, known to be heavily defended by crack German troops. If the Eighth Army could not break their line of defence the rest of the invasion would be left in stalemate.
'Half ahead together!' Ransome levelled his glasses again. There appeared to be fighting everywhere, grenades, tracer, with a fiery backdrop of falling bombs as the RAF and American planes battered away at the enemy's support lines and gun emplacements.
Hargrave murmured, 'I'll never forget this.'
Ransome did not lower his glasses, but watched as Dunlin swung broadside on near a large landing-craft.
'You still here, Number One?' He smiled. 'It's something I never thought I'd see either, as a matter of fact.'
The Buffer appeared on the bridge. 'Wheel'ouse cleared, sir. I've put two 'ands in there to 'elp the cox'n.' He sighed. 'But you know wot 'e's like, sir, won't budge from that wheel!'
Ransome stiffened as two waterspouts shot up from the sea near Dunlin.
'Hell! They've got her ranged-in!' He beckoned to Mackay. 'Signal Dunlin to stand off immediately!'
More explosions made the sea boil and leap in bright columns through the drifting smoke.
Sherwood shouted, 'One of them hit the landing-craft, sir!'
Morgan called, 'Dunlin's captain for you on R/T, sir!'
Ransome ducked down and snatched the speaker from the boatswain's mate.
'Obey that order and stand awayl' He pictured the man's face, one more lieutenant like Scythe's C.O., called Paul Allfrey. He came from the Isle of Wight.
'I can't, sir!' His voice ebbed and flowed through the roar of explosions. 'The L.C.T. is full of wounded! Must get a tow-line rigged!
Just when you thought that death was elsewhere. Ransome snapped, 'Affirmative. We will assist you.' He ran back to the forepart of the bridge again. 'Signal Ranger to assume command. Then make a signal to Bedworth. We are assisting.'
He stared down at the side-deck and saw the corpses being lashed down under some bloodstained canvas. He knew them all. Reeves especially. A good man who had been hoping to take a petty officer's course.
'Get down there, Number One. The Buffer and the Gunner (T) will assist you. A towing job is never easy, and we've not much time.'
'Oh God!' Morgan clutched the rail and pointed as Dunlin took a direct hit just abaft her squat bridge. She was smaller than the other minesweepers, and the shell seemed to tear her upperworks apart in one blinding flash of fire. Falling debris, her mast and radar lantern hurled over the side and the sea pockmarked with falling fragments. Two more columns shot up in a tight straddle, and even above the roar of gunfire they heard the grating crash of splinters gouging through steel.
Hargrave had gone, and Ransome watched the gap between the ships narrowing.
'Cox'n?' He raised his eyes level with the glass screen. 'Bring her round to port. Hold her on a bearing with the L.C.T.'s stern.' It cut out the confusion of too many helm orders, and Beckett, injured or not, knew Rob Roy's behaviour better than anyone.
'Slow ahead together!'
He heard shouts from aft, the grate of wires being manhandled along the deck.
Mackay lowered his telescope. 'From Ranger, sir. Good luck.'
Two more shells fell close to Dunlin, but it was impossible to measure the damage. Dunlin had stopped completely, and Ransome saw half of her motor boat dangling from the shattered davits. There was a lot of smoke, flames too, shooting from the foot of her single funnel. An old ship built for the Kaiser's war. It was asking a lot from her. Too much.
He thought of Ranger taking the trouble to make that short but so-important signal. Like old comrades, twins. He thought too of the Wren driver who had told him about her brother, a subbie, who was in Ranger.
Ransome strode across the bridge and gripped Tritton's arm. 'Take over the voicepipe.' He looked at him until the young sub-lieutenant met his gaze. 'I need to be where I can watch things.' He shook his arm gently. 'Don't worry about being scared. Most of us are, sometime or other.' He watched his words taking effect, hoped they would stay uppermost in his mind the next time, and the time after that.
Tritton nodded. 'Yes, sir. I'll do my best.'
Ransome pictured the scene as it must have been in the wheelhouse when the shell had burst into it. He was glad that young Boyes had come through. It was very important for some reason, as if he had become a mascot.
He listened to Hargrave shouting to his party. Thank God they did have good air-cover today, because he guessed Hargrave had stripped most guns of their crews to manhandle his tow-line.
Leading Signal Mackay said, 'I've got my bunting-tosser ready to pass messages aft if need be, sir.'
Their eyes met. Parts of a machine. The family. The Job.
'Good thinking. We'll try and tow her from her stern — it seems the bow door may be damaged.' He made himself take a few more seconds. 'You can shift your gear after this lot's over.' He saw the man's frown of surprise and added, 'Into the petty officers' mess.'
Sherwood grinned at him. 'Cheers, Yeoman!'
Ransome leaned over the screen once more, glad he had told him. In minutes they might all be killed, but at least one man would know what he thought of him. Like poor Davenport, clinging on to his first gold stripe even in the presence of death.
'Stop together! Slow astern starboard!' He saw Leading Seaman Hoggan running across the forecastle, a heaving-line coiled and ready in his big hands. Once bent on to the tow-line they could get the L.C.T. moving until she was clear of danger.
A deafening bang rocked the bridge and Ransome saw a bright tongue of flame punch through Dunlin's side.
Ransome shaded his eyes to watch the heaving-line as it snaked over the L.C.T.'s square bridge, where several seamen were waiting to seize it. He could feel Dunlin burning, the heat on his face like a noon sun.
Sherwood said flatly, 'She's going.'
Morgan called, 'Tow's going across, sir!'
Another explosion boomed against the hull and Ransome saw tiny figures jumping into the sea, some clinging to injured comrades as their ship erupted into flames from bridge to quarterdeck. That big explosion must have been deep in her engine-room. No one would walk away from the there.
'Ready, sir!'
Ransome stared across at Tritton, his pale face framed against the smoke and fires of a dying ship.
'Slow ahead together.' He turned to watch the towing-wire rising from the water. 'Stop both engines!' He bit his lip, made himself ignore the other minesweeper as she began to settle down, buried by fire.
'Easy now. Tell the Cox'n, minimum revolutions!' If they parted the wire now, the L.C.T. and then Rob Roy would fall under those guns. The towing-wire rose and tightened again. Ransome was banking on the L.C.T. being empty but for the wounded.
He watched, holding his breath, but the wire remained taut like a steel rod.
'Slow ahead together.' He glanced at Sherwood. 'Tell the Doc to stand-by. They may not have one over there.'
Tritton swallowed nervously. 'Wheelhouse reports helm answering, sir.'
Ransome nodded and strode to the gyro repeater. 'Bring her round. Steer one-three-zero.' He smiled at Tritton's strained features. 'You can do it. Just like King Alfred, eh?'
A duller explosion rolled over the water and when Ransome glanced across he saw Dunlin's keel rolling towards the sky, the screws stilled at last as she began to slide under amongst the struggling survivors.
Mackay licked his lips. 'From L.C.T., sir. Have two hundred wounded on board. God be with you!'
Sherwood said harshly, 'Put it in the log. Dunlin sank at. . .' He glanced away. 'Was it worth it?'
Ransome watched the L.C.T. yawing untidily astern and pictured the helpless wounded who had fallen almost before the landings had started.
He said to the bridge at large, 'For them it was.'
Ransome stood on a flat rock, and shaded his eyes to watch the inotorboat as she zigzagged through a small brood of L.C.T.s to make her way back to Rob Roy. He felt strange, unsteady, standing on dry land, seeing his ship at anchor again for the first time since the invasion had begun.
Then he looked around the littered beach and marvelled that anybody had ever got further than the shallows. This same beach, which had been mined and covered by deadly cross-fire from several concrete emplacements, was a hive of activity, with shirt-sleeved soldiers digging and levelling the shell and mortar craters while the sappers laid fresh tapes to show the safe tracks for tanks and lorries, which arrived in a regular procession from incoming landing-craft.
In three days they had forced the enemy back, and as expected the Eighth Army had borne the worst of it, but had still managed to take Syracuse on the evening of that first day, and two days later the port of Augusta which gave the navy a useful base, a foothold from which future operations could be launched.
But the other side of the story was plain to see. Half-submerged landing-craft, pitted with holes or completely burned-out, abandoned tanks, and the tell-tale reminders of bayonetted rifles with helmets resting on them, to mark where some of the attackers had fallen.
The war made itself heard as it raged without let-up towards Catania, below the brooding presence of Mount Etna. But it was at a distance, and the regular sorties of aircraft which roared above the various beaches should make certain it remained so.
After that first day when Rob Roy had towed the damaged L.C.T. to the more experienced care of a fleet tug, the flotilla had been kept busy on duties which ranged from depth-charging a suspected enemy submarine, Italian or German it was never discovered, to carrying out more wounded, and keeping the beaches clear of obstruction.
In Danger's Hour Page 22