He grabbed a handrail and began to pull himself across another catwalk, on one side of him a yawning empty basin, the other containing the battered hull of a destroyer which had almost been sunk after an air attack in the Western Approaches.
He had confronted Morgan with it, but the young Welshman had merely suggested that the delay was due to some formality or foul-up along the line.
As he had drunk himself from bar to bar Fallows had considered it from every angle, until his mind throbbed like a drum. It had to be because of Tinker. That little bastard Parsons, who was leaving the ship anyway for a gunnery course and promotion to higher rate, must have told somebody. Spite, hatred, it did not really matter.
Fallows clung to a chain rail and stared up at the rain until it cleared his mind a bit.
Now they were going back to sea, to God alone knew what. Morgan promoted, while he remained a sub-lieutenant. Some of them would get a laugh out of that. Most of all his bloody father.
He saw a figure swaying towards him from another catwalk and he thought for an instant he was going mad.
Able Seaman Parsons straightened his back and wiped his mouth with his wrist. There was an acrid smell of vomit despite the steady rain: Parsons had also been drinking, saying various goodbyes to old shipmates before he left the flotilla for good to go on the course at Whale Island.
He saw Fallows and peered at him uncertainly. Then he bowed, his collar black with rain, so that his hat fell on the catwalk unnoticed.
'We shall say our farewells, eh, Mister Fallows?' He laughed, and almost threw up again. It was funny to see the officer's face. Even in the darkness he could make out the anger and the dismay.
Fallows exclaimed, 'You little bastard! After all I did, all I gave you!'
Parsons almost laughed, but said instead, 'Take it off your back, Bunny! All's fair in love and war, and you treated all of us like shit. And you know it!' When Fallows remained speechless, clinging to the rail for support, Parsons shouted, 'You're pissed, you useless git — but if one of us got tanked up you'd slap him in the rattle!' He leaned right over to get his eyes into focus.
Fallows said thickly, 'You told them what I said that night!'
Parsons could hardly believe it. 'Told who, for Chrissake? You were to$ drunk to say anything that night! Tinker never even spoke to you!'
Fallows wiped his face and yelled, 'You're lying! I gave you money —'
Parsons sneered. 'So what?' He waved his arm over the dockyard. 'You'll remember me after this, eh?'
It was all a blur. Fallows stepped forward, intent only on hitting him no matter what the consequences might be. Parsons gave a high-pitched giggle and ducked away. The chain which joined two stanchions behind his back was only inches above the catwalk at its centre. Too late Parsons realised what was happening; the giggle changed to a shrill scream and he toppled backwards into the basin where the bombed destroyer shone in the rain like black ice.
Fallows peered wildly around, his mind reeling. He had heard no splash, nor even a cry for help, for unknown to him Parsons had hit the concrete knuckle of the dock as he fell and had probably been dead when he struck the water.
Fallows waited, the rain bouncing off his cap, trying to steady his thoughts, to stop himself running for help. Then after what seemed like an eternity he straightened his back and stared along the basin to the next berth.
He saw Parson's cap, lying where it had fallen on the catwalk. Fallows started to laugh, and for several minutes was unable to stop. Then he kicked the cap carelessly into the basin and continued towards his own ship.
Signals
'Flamborough Head bears three-three-zero, seven miles, sir!'
Ransome peered down at the chart on the bridge-table, his head and shoulder beneath the waterproof hood while he studied the pencilled fixes and bearings. He could feel the rain slashing across his buttocks and legs, hammering on his oilskin like pellets.
January in the North Sea again. Three shades of grey, all bleak and hostile. He rubbed his eyes and felt his elbows press on the table as the hull lifted and rolled drunkenly in a steep quarter sea. The North Sea never had the great storms of the Western Ocean, but this sickening, corkscrewing motion was in many ways much worse.
He heard Lieutenant Morgan rebuking the quartermaster in a fierce whisper for straying slightly off course. It was unusual for him to be on edge, but the whole ship had been like it since they had left Devonport without waiting for Christmas. That was almost exactly a month ago. Now as Rob Roy lifted and staggered at the head of her diagonal line of consorts, the Mediterranean and the sunshine, the exotic places like Malta and Alex were barely more than a blurred memory.
Even the other events of the war seemed remote, as if they were no longer a part of it. On Boxing Day for instance, when they had been sweeping this same channel, the German battle cruiser Scharnborst, the last of Hitler's major warships, was destroyed by the guns of HMS Duke of York. It was a terrible fight in Arctic conditions and in the midst of a snow blizzard. Enemy or not, Scharnborst had always been admired by her enemies; her luck and skill had become part of naval legend. Without her lurking presence, more British warships could be spared for the buildup of an invasion fleet.
Important though that victory was, it barely touched the weary men of the minesweepers.
Ransome often thought of that precious moment beside the Barracuda. Her simple gesture when she touched the hull beneath the tarpaulin. Sometimes when he was snatching a few hours in his sea-cabin, the 'coop' as Kellett the P.O. steward called it, he would jerk wide awake, almost pinching himself to make her words become clear in his mind. That the cottage she wanted to call ours was not merely part of a taunting dream.
He withdrew his head from the chart-table and crossed to his chair, holding on to it, stamping his scuffed seaboots on the deck to make his circulation come alive. It reminded him of the time he had waited outside the abbey when -
He turned as Sub-Lieutenant Fallows clattered up the ladder and paused to look at the tossing whitecaps, the grey murk, no beginning or end, no horizon either. It was noon, and the watch was changing. That was another reason for the edginess, Ransome knew. There were several new faces in the ship to replace others who had gone to courses ashore, or to other ships where their experience would be vital amongst the stream of new recruits.
Sherwood was still ashore. Cusack had kept close contact with one of his colleagues, whom he telephoned whenever Rob Roy was able to take some time in port.
Sherwood would be coming back, but as Bliss had predicted, his work as an R.M.S.O. was over. As an experienced watchkeeper he was badly missed, and as a friend too.
Another face absent from the wardroom was the Gunner (T) Mr Bone. Ransome had seen him in the privacy of his cabin to inform him of the signal. Bone was being sent to a training depot, to instruct raw seamen in the business of minesweeping.
Bone was a hard man. He had shown neither pleasure nor disappointment. After all his years in the service his widowed mother had chosen for her fourteen-year-old son, it was likely he could not be surprised at anything.
'S'pose I'll get used to it. I'll miss the duty-free booze though.'
He had not been making a joke. Bone rarely did.
He surprised Ransome by thrusting out his spade-shaped hand and muttering, 'You've been a good captain, sir. I'd not get a better.' He had tried to grin. 'One thing, I'll not 'ave to muster the lads or 'ear that pipe "Out Sweeps" again, not in my lifetime!'
Another missing face was that of Pansy Masefield, the P.O. sick berth attendant. He had never really settled down after Cusack had taken over the ship's health and welfare, and had accepted his draftchit to a big hospital in Portsmouth without argument.
Ransome recalled how they had all tried to make their own Christmas a happy one. It had been a uphill task. Rob Roy and half of the flotilla had been sweeping this same channel from the Wash to Flamborough Head to keep open all the vital approaches to the Humber Estuary and the port of H
ull.
He remembered the P.O. steward, Kellett, who always wore his hair plastered diagonally across his forehead anyway, donning a small false moustache and doing a lively impersonation of Adolf Hitler at the forecastle's 'Sods' Opera.' Leading Seaman Hoggan had sung This Old Hat of Mine, always a popular sailors' ditty, becoming bawdier and drunker by the minute and tossing his clothes aside until he was completely naked but for a lanyard upon which hung a bag of contraceptives.
The youngest, and by far the smallest member of the ship's company, Ordinary Seaman Gold, had stuttered his way through the part of playing the captain for Christmas Day, although one of Ransome's reefer jackets had reached almost to his knees.
It had all been compressed into a few precious hours while the ship was in harbour to refuel. Rob Roy had lain at a buoy, not even alongside in any contact with the land.
He heard Mackay speaking with the young signalman who had just come on watch. Mackay still wore the sailor's square-rig, but had the crown and crossed anchors on his sleeve now to show his promotion to petty officer. A yeoman of signals. It was unlikely that Rob Roy would be able to hold on to him once his full advancement had been confirmed. He would be greatly missed, as would his expertise.
Morgan was saying, 'Time to make the turn in seven minutes, Sub.'
It was not meant to be condescending. It was what a one-striper was usually called.
But Ransome had sensed the barrier between them, and it did not come from Morgan. He was openly delighted that his promotion had been posted without his having to take up another course.
'I shall be able to stay in Rob Roy, see?' He had stared around the wet, dismal bridge. 'I'd not want to go until I was ordered, sir.'
Fallows stood beside him now as they compared notes by the chart-table. He had got terribly drunk at Christmas, and Hargrave had threatened to take him in front of the captain, higher if need be. After that Fallows had improved considerably, and was making a great effort to keep out of the first lieutenant's way. He was more withdrawn than usual, his mouth turned down in a permanent frown.
'Forenoon watch relieved, sir!' Morgan touched the peak of his cap. 'I'll bring the new snotty with me in the dog-watches if I may, sir. He's got to start somewhere.'
Ransome smiled. Davenport's replacement was called Colin Piers. A round-faced eighteen-year-old who looked about twelve. Nobody had really had much time to either make him welcome or get his measure, as he had been horribly seasick almost from the day he had stepped aboard.
Ransome's request for Ordinary Seaman Boyes's C.W. papers to be started again had been granted, and the Mention-in-Despatches had been announced on the same day. Ransome had told him personally, and had been moved by the youngster's thanks and sincerity. He had made the right decision, and in his heart knew that many captains would not have bothered once the first decision had been made.
One thing was certain, Boyes was getting plenty of experience on chartwork and the radar plot machine, for with the new midshipman rolling about the ship with his face as green as grass, he was doing everything himself.
Fallows had walked to the forepart of the bridge, while his assistant Sub-Lieutenant Tritton stood by the voicepipes.
Tritton, young and inexpert as he was, had been forced to take over Bone's duties and part of ship. Thank God for the Buffer, Ransome thought. But what Tritton lacked in experience he more than made up for with his good humour, which kept the men he worked with grinning at some of his schoolboy jokes. He had been able to put the memory of the air attack behind him. It was the first, the most difficult step of all, and they had all been made to face up to it, one way or the other.
Ransome said, 'Tell the first lieutenant to take in the sweep.' He glanced at Fallows. 'Your department all buttoned up, Sub?'
Fallows half-turned, showing his profile, the red hair flapping beneath his cap like a bird's wing. He no longer wore his ridiculous rabbit.
'Yes sir. Able Seaman Norton has settled down quite well as trainer on 'A' Gun. Quite well.'
Ransome glanced at him. It had been a surprise when Able Seaman Parsons had failed to return from shore leave. He had long requested the gunnery course at Whale Island, and it would be stupid to miss the chance because of overstaying his leave.
Ransome had expected a signal explaining that he had been taken ill, or had overslept in some sailors' boarding house. He smiled at the old naval excuse. Slept at Aggie Weston's and never heard the bell, sir.
The coxswain had been told that Parsons had gone off to celebrate his transfer with some old friends. Beckett had remarked darkly,'Friends, sir? A skate like that one don't 'ave no mates!'
But there had been no signal, so the police and provost department had had to be informed. It was a pity, but his chance of advancement had probably gone forever.
Ransome lifted his binoculars and trained them on the next astern; it was Firebrand, showing her bilge one moment, then her open bridge the next as she rolled steeply. The strange light made her bow wave and wash look dirty yellow. He lowered the binoculars slightly and saw Hargrave's wind-reddened face leap into the lens. He was first-rate at his job now, but always kept at a distance from his men. A hard thing to do in such a small ship; but he seemed to manage it.
'Sweep's secure, sir!' The boatswain's mate watched Fallows as he climbed to the gyro repeater. Everyone was busy, but the boatswain's mate, O'Connor, had a moment to relax. He was thinking of Christmas too. How he had been on watch while the ship lay at her buoy, and had listened to the carol singing on the messdecks, his insides protected from the bitter cold by two helpings of roast turkey and several tots of 'neaters'.
Like some of the others O'Connor had good cause to dislike Fallows — he had smelt his breath once, and accused O'Connor of drinking on watch. It had been a rare and unfortunate occasion for O'Connor that Fallows had been stone cold sober.
Fallows had taken him in front of the first lieutenant as a defaulter, with the result that he had lost his only good conduct badge, and had been given extra work as punishment. He had never forgotten.
At the Christmas party, Fallows had taken more than usual and had lurched on deck, without his jacket despite the wind and rain, and fallen dead drunk on a rack of depth-charges.
He had gone to rouse the officer, but as he had gripped his outflung arm he had been horrified to find that he wanted to tip him over the side. He had even levered the unconscious officer against the guardrails before he knew what he was going to do. Nobody would have noticed, and with a stiff tide running past the buoy, everyone would think Fallows had stumbled overboard.
A stoker had appeared through an engine-room hatch and had offered cheerfully, ' 'Ere, Pat, I'll give you a 'and to get the pig down aft again!'
Fallows had known nothing about it. O'Connor watched him balefully. Would I have done it? He was afraid of the answer.
Ransome said, 'Take her round, Sub.'
An oilskinned figure clambered into the bridge and handed Ransome a folded signal flimsy.
'Thanks, Sparks.'
He held it below the screen to shield it from the rain and spray and read it before the telegraphist's lettering began to run down the paper.
'They found A.B. Parsons. He was dead. Drowned apparently.'
He heard Tritton exclaim, 'The turn, Bunny!'
Ransome snapped, 'Starboard twenty!' He pushed past Fallows and peered across the compass repeater. 'What the hell's the matter? You've taken over the con many times by now, man!'
Fallows opened and closed his mouth. 'I — I'm sorry, sir.'
'Midships.' He heard the quartermaster's response. 'Steady.'
The quartermaster called up the voicepipe. 'Steady, sir! Course zero-seven-zero!' It was exact. They had done this channel so often it was hardly surprising.
Ransome stepped away and raised his glasses to watch the faint splash of colour as a fresh dan buoy was dropped by the trawler Senja.
Only then did he looked at Fallows. 'You know the narrow margin, Sub.
So in future just watch itV
He was being harsh with someone who could not answer back. But Rob Roy and all her company were far more important than some bruised feelings.
He settled in his chair and said, 'Make the signal. Out sweeps to starboard. Take station on me.'
And so it went on, in weather so bad that it was hard to hold station on their set courses; and there was the additional fear they might not see a drifter if it came amongst them, its obscene horns hidden by the North Sea's steep waves.
He thought of Eve, of the letters she had written, of the ones which might be waiting when they returned to harbour to refuel and restock their provisions.
Fallows moved away from the chair and trained his glasses abeam. They had found Parsons. He must have been trapped under the bombed destroyer. Fallows had made himself walk back past the basin on the following day. Some men had been working on the damaged ship, but there was no alarm, not even Parson's cap.
He had sweated about it for days. Suppose Parsons had dragged himself clear? Maybe a watchman had found him alive?
At Christmas it had become too much for him, and only Hargrave's fury had made him take a grip on his nerves.
Now it was all behind him. Parsons was really dead. They'd say he had fallen in by accident, drunk.
He felt the same insane grin cracking his jaws and had to grate his teeth together to prevent it.
It had all been a mistake, but Parsons was the one who had made it.
It was mid-February, while Rob Roy and Ranger lay alongside each other in Hull to refuel, that their private worlds were upset once again.
Ransome sat in his cabin reading a letter from Eve, while the ship stood at arm's length beyond the door, and routine flowed around him, leaving him momentarily alone. Heavy rain pattered on the decks and made thick silver bars across the scuttles, with only the occasional creak of tackles or a muffled shout to show that anything was actually happening.
In Danger's Hour Page 29