In Danger's Hour

by Douglas Reeman

  They had suffered no further casualties, but there had been no slackening of vigilance, so that when not needed for duty the hands had fallen exhausted on deck, the memory of Dunlin's end still stark in their minds.

  Richard Wakely and his resourceful cameraman Andy had seen none of the aftermath. A gleaming launch had arrived from one of the big cruisers while Rob Roy had been unloading more wounded into a hospital transport vessel, and Wakely had depa i ted without another word. Off to another theatre of war perhaps, later to enthrall his audiences on the wireless and in the news papers? It was unlikely he would ever forgive what had happened in Rob Roy. It certainly seemed as if what Sherwood had said about him was not just a rumour.

  The cameraman, on the other hand, had taken a few moments to say his farewells. To the men he had watched and photographed in action, the petty officers' mess where he had been quartered, and lastly the bridge where he had apparently shot some of his best film.

  'So long, Captain. Stay lucky. It would have been a privilege to meet you even if we'd stayed in dry dock the whole time!'

  A small, undistinguished figure, yet somehow head and shoulders above the man he worked for.

  An army lieutenant-colonel was squatting on a shooting-stick, smoking a cheroot. He smiled amiably.

  'Come to stretch your legs, Commander?'

  Ransome saluted, it still looks a mess here, sir.'

  The soldier watched his men chattering to one another as they worked beneath the cover of some mobile A.A. guns. 'It'll take weeks to sort it all out. There are so many Italians deserting from their old ally and surrendering to us, or scampering off in civvies, I reckon Jerry must be browned off with the whole bunch of 'em!'

  He turned as Sherwood sauntered along the beach, his hands in his pockets. 'You've got a good lad there, a great help until our experts came.' He smiled, some of the strain passing from his face. 'He caught some of my chaps in a bombed church just up the beach. You know how it is, looking for souvenirs. There was a dead Jerry in there, one arm sticking out with a really tempting watch strapped on it. One of my lads was about to 'commandeer' it when your lieutenant arrived. He apparently tied a line to the corpse, ordered my soldiers outside — much to their irritation according to the sergeant-major - then he pulled on the line.' He spread his hands. 'The stiff was booby-trapped. Blew down the church wall. Near thing!'

  Sherwood joined them and gave a tired salute. 'Your own bomb disposal blokes are there now, Colonel. Should be okay.'

  Ransome watched him. That close to danger and yet Sherwood seemed so calm, almost disinterested. It was unnerving.

  The lieutenant-colonel said, 'Anyway, I just wanted to thank you for all you've done in the past days. It will come officially, no doubt, through channels,' he became grave, 'but you and I understand. We do the job when the planners have finished theirs.' His gaze strayed around the beach, remembering, holding on to the images, the faces of those he had known and would never see again.

  'No matter what, we made it come true, Commander. Together.'

  Ransome slowly filled his pipe. 'I'll pass the word, Colonel.' He watched his hands and expected them to start shaking now that it was over. When had he last slept? When would he again?

  'Well, well, we've found them at last!'

  Ransome turned and saw a small procession of soldiers, most of whom were wearing Red Cross brassards and carrying stretchers. The officer who had spoken was a major, his face still smudged from the dawn action, his eyes red-rimmed as if looking through a mask.

  The major said to his companion, a lieutenant, 'I just knew the British would have someone who smoked a pipe!'

  They were Canadians, some of those who had landed to the west of Cape Correnti.

  They all solemnly shook hands and grinned at each other.

  Ransome handed over his pouch and both Canadians took out their pipes.

  The major said, 'I'm going to be greedy, Commander. Most of the guys smoke fags, and all our pipe tobacco was lost in the attack.' He shook his head with mock sadness. 'That was a real disaster, I can tell you!'

  The colonel said, 'This is Lieutenant-Commander Ransome, by the way. His ship towed out those wounded on the first day.'

  The major studied him curiously. 'Ransome?' He turned to his lieutenant. 'Hey, Frank, why does that name ring a bell?'

  The lieutenant paused, his unlit pipe halfway to his mouth. 'You know, the partisans.'

  The major nodded. 'That's right. We flushed out some Sicilian partisans who'd been hiding from the Jerries up in the hills. Bandits more likely. They came to my boys so as not to get shot up by mistake.'

  Ransome stood motionless and despite the unwavering, dusty heat, felt like ice.

  The major continued, 'Just a coincidence, of course, but they'd been hiding some kid from the Krauts - a young officer some fishermen picked up a while back —'

  Ransome gripped his arm. 'Where? Which one?'

  The major did not understand but sensed the urgency, the quiet desperation.

  'Go and get him, Frank.'

  Ransome watched two stretcher-bearers descend the slope to the beach.

  The major added, 'The partisans say he was wounded and they got a doctor from some village. He had to operate immediately, but had no anaesthetics apparently —' He broke off as Ransome ran along the beach.

  'What is it?'

  Sherwood said quietly, 'Don't ask. Just pray.'

  They lowered the stretcher to the ground and Ransome dropped to his knees beside it.

  With the greatest care he pulled the blanket down across a heavy, stained bandage, and gently brushed some sand from his brother's hair. Then, oblivious to the watching eyes, he put his arm round Tony's bare shoulders and hugged him for several moments, quite unable to speak.

  His brother opened his eyes and stared at him, first without recognition, and then with disbelief.

  Ransome whispered, 'You're going to be all right, Tony, I promise. All right!'

  Sherwood said, it's his kid brother. Reported killed. He carried it with him day and night, but most of us never saw it.' He watched Ransome cradling the boy's head against his shoulder. 'We were all too busy thinking of ourselves.'

  The lieutenant-colonel said, 'Leave them another minute, then take him along with the others to the field dressing-station.'

  The Canadian major held a match to his pipe. 'And I thought they said miracles were out of fashion, eh?'

  Aftermath

  Lieutenant Trevor Hargrave turned and touched his cap as Ransome climbed up from his sea-cabin.

  'Starboard watch at Defence Stations, sir.' He waited while Ransome walked to the gyro repeater and wiped it with his glove before adding, 'Course is zero-seven-zero, revolutions for eleven knots.'

  Ransome stretched his arms and fought the desire to shiver.

  'Very well, Number One.' It was eight o'clock in the morning, with the forenoon watchkeepers scattered throughout Rob Roy's private world, at their weapons or in the engine-room. Ransome had donned an oilskin over his old duffle-coat and had wrapped a dry towel around his neck, and yet he was still cold. Too long on the bridge; or perhaps he had been foolish to snatch a few moments to be alone in his sea-cabin, to enjoy the luxury of piping-hot shaving water, and a mug of Ted Kellett's strong coffee. His face felt raw from the razor and he questioned the sudden need, the importance attached to shaving on this particular day.

  He moved to the chart-table and saw Sub-Lieutenant Morgan step aside for him.

  Surely there should be a feeling of relief, of joy even at returning home?

  He turned the page of the ready-use log while he held it close against the shaded lamp bulb. Eight o'clock in the morning, but it was almost as dark as night. He saw Sherwood's writing at the ( lose of the previous watch. The last day in November 1943. perhaps time and distance were already making that other war seem unreal, the memories of Sicily and the months which had followed blurred, like mixed images.

  Two months after the fear and exci
tement of watching the first troops surge ashore, the Allies had launched their second invasion, Operation Avalanche, on the Italian mainland, first on to l he bloody beaches of Salerno, and later in a daring pincer-movement at Anzio. The enemy had been more than ready that lime and every yard of the way had been fiercely contested. New weapons in the shape of glider-bombs had appeared over the landing-sites; controlled by parent aircraft they had been homed on to the heavier warships, many of which, including the battleship Warspite, had suffered casualties and damage. Another ship, the American cruiser Savannah, had received a direct hit, which had penetrated a turret and burst deep inside her hull, causing serious flooding and over a hundred casualties. The Germans, no doubt aware of their Axis ally's desire to declare a position of either neutrality or surrender, threw in everything they had with a total disregard for the rules of war. Two hospital ships, Newfoundland and Leinster, were bombed, although they were brightly lit to display their identity and purpose; the former sank with a heavy loss of life.

  But Rob Roy and the remainder of her flotilla played no part in the Italian invasion. With her consorts she returned to the nerve-racking job of sweeping the channels and approaches around Malta, to make it safe even for the heaviest warships and transports once more.

  Several minesweeping trawlers had been lost, but Rob Roy's depleted flotilla seemed to recover the luck which had failed them when Scythe and Dunlin had gone down.

  The orders to return to England had come unexpectedly. Even Bliss, who had dashed on ahead of the convoy in Bedworth, had seemed at a loss. The Mediterranean war was by no means over, and even now there were reports of the Allied armies being bogged down both by bad weather and reinforced German divisions, with little hope of an early victory. The flotilla had paused at Gibraltar to effect brief repairs before joining a small homebound convoy in the role of additional escorts, and Ransome had walked around his ship, sharing her tiredness as well as her pride in the part they had all played.

  He glanced at Hargrave, his features deeply tanned against the dull backdrop of mist and drizzle, and the white scarf which showed above his oilskin. When he spoke to Morgan or one of the watchkeepers, his breath streamed from his mouth like smoke. The change in their circumstances was all around them, to the senses as well as the mind.

  The convoy had dispersed northwards towards the Irish Sea. Just to think of it made Ransome's heart miss a beat. All those miles; the air-attacks, the frantic alarm bells in the night, the roar of mine and bomb, and now they were here at the gateway of the English Channel. Some five miles abeam was the ageless Wolf Rock lighthouse, which meant that the mainland of Cornwall was only about twelve miles distant.

  He could feel it in the heavy rise and fall of the hull, the drifting spray and drizzle across the glass screen. Cold, chilling right to the marrow. The English Channel in winter.

  He thought of Tony, remembering yet again that terrible moment of uncertainty and fear when he had turned down the blanket and had clutched his body against his own. Tony would be safely in hospital now. It had been a close thing; the wound in his side had been from a jagged shell splinter and was infected despite all that his rescuers could do. He had existed with the partisans in a small cave and had lived mostly on goat's milk and fish. It was all they had, and they had given it freely.

  As far as Ransome had been able to discover, his brother was the M.T.B.'s only survivor. Perhaps one day Tony would be able to tell him what had happened.

  Ransome climbed into his bridge chair and thrust his numbed fingers into his pockets.

  After losing the convoy they had slowed down while Firebrand had carried out makeshift repairs to a stern-gland. Creeping along in the darkness there had been few who had not cursed the elderly minesweeper and her defects. For whatever was happening in Italy, the Germans were very active in the Atlantic, and on passage by their slow roundabout route they had sighted several abandoned wrecks and large patterns of flotsam. Convoys, or a Military ship caught in a U-boat's crosswires: an insect in the web.

  Ransome tried to ignore the spray and rain which ran down his face to soak into the towel. Coming back to another war, or to the one which they had left just months ago? Little was changed at home, he thought, except for one vital factor. Midget submarines, X-craft as they were called, had managed to penetrate deep into a Norwegian fjord where they had found and attacked the Last great German battleship Tirpitz. The most powerful warship in the world, sister to the ill-fated Bismarck, she had remained t he one real threat to the British fleet. While she lay in her heavily defended lair, protected by booms and nets, she was a menace to every convoy on the open sea. Heavy units of the Home Fleet were tied down in harbour or at Scapa Flow, just in case she broke out to ravage the supply lines with her massive armament.

  A few midget submarines had achieved what others had attempted, and had laid their charges beneath her while she lay at anchor. Nobody knew for certain the full extent of the damage, because several of the tiny X-craft had been lost, and the surviving crews had been captured. But she might never move again. David and Goliath, with the odds somewhat worse, Ransome decided.

  He thought of his orders for Rob Roy, to proceed to Devonport dockyard in company with Ranger to carry out a refit and overhaul. The others were being scattered to different yards where there was room for their needs.

  Ransome considered his ship's company and how they had all been changed in some ways. Perhaps being far away from home, most of them for the first time, fighting alongside the real fleet, the big ships with their towering superstructures and battle ensigns. Strange and new. Their world had been grey seas and small ships, stubby trawlers and lean destroyers, tramp steamers and the Glory Boys of Light Coastal Forces. England under attack, shabby, rundown, defiant. A few Mediterranean skies and hot suns would work miracles here, he thought.

  Plymouth. Where he had last seen her. Would she still feel the same? Was it wrong of him even to hope she would need him as much as he did her?

  He had written to her whenever he had found the time, but had received no more letters from her. He was certain she would have put her thoughts on paper as he had tried to do in his own letters to her. They were probably following Rob Roy around the Mediterranean, to Malta and Alexandria and to North Africa. Minesweepers stood pretty low on the Fleet Mail Office's priorities.

  'Char, sir?' The boatswain's mate handed him a heavy mug. Thick and sweet, the way only sailors could make it.

  And how had it affected him, he wondered? Had he risen above the strain, the constant decisions, the need to exercise authority when his heart had directed otherwise? Would she see that in him too?

  And he thought of the ones who would not be bothered either way. He had written to Midshipman Davenport's parents, and to the other men's families. Would it ever help? They might even blame him in some way for their lost ones.

  Dunlin had been luckier than many, and had had just seven men killed. When Ransome pictured the final explosion that had blasted out her^guts, it seemed like another miracle. Her young captain, Allfrey, from the Isle of Wight, had not been one of the survivors.

  He heard feet on the deck below and knew that some of the men off watch were at the guardrails, looking for the land, seeing it as it would be, each to his own.

  He thought of Sherwood's story, how he had demonstrated his chilling skills yet again with the booby-trapped German, of the cheerful Canadians enjoying their pipes once more, perhaps still unaware of what they had done for him. The lieutenant-colonel sitting on his shooting-stick, and the mad piper in one of the landing-craft; the lines of wounded waiting to be lifted from the beaches, suddenly so young and frail without their weapons and helmets.

  The one extraordinary feature was the enemy. As in the war at sea, they had not seen the Germans at all. Always at a distance, ringed by fire, or laying down barrages of utter destruction.

  He heard Morgan speaking into a voicepipe and knew he was talking to the plot below their feet. The youngster Boyes doing
Davenport's job.

  Ii was some beacon picked up .on the radar, to be marked and compared on the chart. A link with home.

  Ransome slid from the chair, aware of the stillness, the mist and drizzle. Shipboard noises, muted but for the creak of wet steel, the regular bleep from the Asdic compartment.

  He glanced over the screen at the crouching lookouts, shining in their oilskins, their breath like Hargrave's. The port Oerlikons had never worked again to Fallows' satisfaction after being hit by the anti-tank shell. One more job for Devonport, 'Guz' as it was affectionately nicknamed.

  Familiar shapes and outlines in the grey gloom. The hard man Jardine; Leading Seaman Hoggan, one of the stalwarts in this elite company; A.B. 'Chalky' White, who had a nervous tic in his eye; Gipsy Guttridge and all the rest. How did they feel? Ransome remembered Morgan's comparison with Trafalgar before the invasion. But there were no proud pyramids of canvas this dull morning to excite and warm the hearts of the watchers on the shore, had there been any. Not this time. Just eight small ships, tired and streaked with rust, dented from numerous encounters with jetties and mooring buoys, often in pitch-darkness.

  Ransome looked up at the single funnel with its usual lick of smoke trickling abeam. He recalled what Commander Moncrieff had said after their last handshake.

  He felt a lump in his throat. Well, they had taken care of her. One more time, Rob Roy was coming home.

  Lieutenant Philip Sherwood withdrew his head and shoulders from the shielded chart-table where he had been peering at a signal pad and said, 'From C-in-C Plymouth, sir. Details of berthing tomorrow morning and arrangements for tonight.' He added as an afterthought, 'The dockyard ordnance people are coming aboard sometime in the forenoon.'

  Ransome turned in his chair and winced. It was even colder, and beyond the bridge it was pitch-black, with only their sluggish bow wave to break the darkness.

  A long day, and a strangely tense one, he thought. Only when they closed with the land to pass the Lizard, while the air was heady with the daily rum issue and some curious smells from the galley funnel, did he accept the reality of their return.