When the minesweepers and other small support vessels of Bliss's group had sailed directly to their prescribed areas from Falmouth, they had only caught a glimpse of the massive buildup. Every type and size of landing-ship, tanks, men, and weapons, while other strange-looking craft followed close behind carrying steel bridges, portable jetties, and the vital supplies of fuel to keep it all moving.
They had been challenged several times by vigilant patrols and escorts, but Ransome had been fired on in the past by over-zealous commanders, and had ordered Mackay to be ready to flick the minesweeping lights on to reveal their intentions, rather than risk unnecessary injury or death.
He heard Fallows' sharp voice from 'A' Gun below the bridge and pondered again over Bliss's last-minute, private comments.
'That subbie of yours, Fallows. I've had a signal about him from the security chaps. A spot of bother about some forgery on a supply docket - pusser's paint going to the black market, would you believe!'
Fallows had certainly been behaving strangely, Ransome thought, but he had imagined it was over something else.
Bliss had added smoothly, it will probably mean a court martial - you know how it is, Ian. He'll certainly be required to face a full inquiry. It's your responsibility, of course, about when you tell him. You don't want any changes or upsets at this stage, with all hell about to break loose, eh?' He had smiled warmly. 'Entirely up to you.'
In other words, if anything misfired, Ransome and not Bliss would carry the can.
Ransome moved across the bridge past a look-out, and the young replacement signalman named Darley. It was all so fresh and new to him that he kept jumping up and down, fetching things for the yeoman, like a puppy with an old dog.
He peered astern, his glasses misting in the drifting drizzle and salt spray.
Ranger was on the quarter, dipping and lifting again in the steep swell; her outline was already blurred. It would be dark soon, but the sweep would have to be completed whatever happened.
He wondered briefly how Hargrave was managing with his first command, and what Gregory thought of his gaggle of motor minesweepers, which were somewhere astern with the Rescue M.Ls and Bedworth. Someone handed him a mug of cocoa, 'kye', and he felt it sticking to his throat like treacle. There was more than a hint of rum in it. Beckett's work, no doubt.
Ransome rested his elbow on his bridge chair and tried not to let his mind stray from his ship, the wires and voicepipes which connected him with the men who listened and waited; who had only him to rely on.
But he thought of that short stay in Polruan, the room which had been so small and yet barely able to contain their love. He recalled his surprise at seeing his own photograph in a frame by the bed lamp, as if it belonged there, had always been a part of the place. He had mentioned it, but she had said little about it. There was another story there somewhere, he thought.
He touched his coat pocket and felt the outline of his oilskin pouch. This time it held another picture, a small self-portrait she had shyly offered him just before they had set off for that last walk along the cliffs.
It showed her sitting at an easel, her knees drawn up and displaying those familiar paint stains. She had put Barracuda in the background — remarkably accurately, considering the boat had been under canvas for so long.
On the reverse of the painting she had written, 'To the dearest of men.'
It had not been the only message she had given him. The last one had been in a sealed envelope; she had handed it to him just before the naval car had driven him away, before he had had time to open it. She had called, 'Read it later on!' Then as the car had gathered speed she had shouted, 7 love you!' And she had turned away. He had known it was because of her tears.
She must have selected the sonnet with great care. It had reminded him of his schooldays, but she had somehow brought it up to date, to their dangerous world, in her own handwriting. Like a calm pool in a forest.
Let me not to the marriage of true minds Admit impediments. Love is not love Which alters when it alteration finds, Or bends with the remover to remove . . .
There was more, but in those first lines he could hear her speaking to him, reassuring him. As if she were here beside him.
Ransome recrossed the bridge, knowing that Morgan wanted to talk, but had been respecting these remaining moments of privacy.
He peered at the shaded compass repeater and felt his ship rolling heavily in the troughs. With an opposing current, and the heavy sweep trailing astern, Rob Roy was barely making seven knots.
He stamped his old leather seaboots on the deck and felt the restless strain thrusting into him again. Was it fear? Or was it fear of failure, of overlooking some small but vital point?
Directly below his feet Ordinary Seaman Boyes heard the thuds and glanced up at the wheelhouse deckhead. Beside him, the new midshipman, Piers, stared at him wide-eyed.
'What was that?'
Beckett lounged easily behind the wheel, his eyes on the gyro tape.
'No sweat. Just the skipper lettin' off steam.' He did not even bother to add sir. It didn't seem to matter, he thought, as he watched the ticking lubber's line.
There had been some cheeky comment when he had taken over the wheel. He would be on it until they'd done what they'd come for. Beckett was dressed in his best Number One jacket, with the shining gold-wire badges on each lapel.
He had rasped at the quartermaster, 'An' why not? This is the big 'un. It's got to be done right — look proper, see?'
Nobody argued with the coxswain.
He still felt the scar on his thigh where the red-hot splinter had torn into him; but what the hell. You lose something, and you fetch up gaining something. He had been awarded a bar to his Conspicuous Gallantry Medal, which he had got when the Old Man had got his gong from the King. Made 'em all sit up at home, although his dad had been enjoying His Majesty's pleasure in a different style.
The door opened and closed and the Buffer, carrying a heavy torch, glanced in as he made a final check on damage-control.
Beckett gave a lazy grin. 'I 'ope you've got a tin-'at for yer weddin' tackle, Buffer! Wouldn't like nuffin to get shot off!'
The Buffer snapped back, 'I thought you'd be wearin' yer brown trousers this time, Swain!'
Boyes watched the Buffer bustle away. He drew comfort from their casual banter, their warm hostility toward each other.
He tried to push Connie from his thoughts, but she kept returning. He saw her on the bed, then wrapped in his arms; felt his face flush as he recalled what they had done, and how she had guided him to that overwhelming climax.
He had tried to telephone her several times, a difficult and expensive exercise. The battery guardroom had been unable or unwilling to help him, but on the third occasion, with a queue of impatient and fuming sailors outside the only telephone box, her friend Sheila had been brought to speak to him.
'You're a nice bloke, Gerry, but in some ways just a kid. You're not like Connie - you're like chalk and cheese. She's my best friend. I know more about her than most.'
'But I must speak to her!' A sailor had rapped with his coins on the glass.
She had said, 'Connie's fond of you, 'course she is. But it's not the real thing.' She had hesitated, balancing Boyes' despair against her own betrayal. 'She was in love once, with a bloke from this battery. He treated her badly, then he pushed off to North Africa, God rot him! Well, now he's back, and Connie's making a fool of herself all over again. So just forget it. Wouldn't work anyway. You'll be an officer soon. Then what?'
Boyes had left the box as if he was in a trance. He loved her. They would have managed.
On the messdeck it had been the tough A.B. Jardine who had asked, 'Wot the hell's up with you, Gerry? You got a face like a wet Sunday in Liverpool!'
The mess had been deserted at the time and Boyes had found himself spilling it out to Jardine, expecting him to mock him for his juvenile behaviour.
Jardine had regarded him thoughtfully. 'She sounds a right little raver
.' Then he had relented. 'See 'ere, Wings, she's not for you. 'Er mate was right. She's not your sort, no more than I am. When you've got a bit o' gold on yer sleeve, you'll remember us, an' wot you've gained — least I 'ope you do.'
Boyes had stared at him. 'You knew?'
Jardine had laughed. 'Course! The 'ole bloody ship knows. But it's different now, see? Maybe they was right to turn you down for your wavy stripe, but not no more they ain't. Even if you are going to be one o' them, you're all right, Wings. So just remember this lass as experience.' Then he had shaken his head. 'Love? Gawd, Gerry-lad, she'd 'ave you fer breakfast!'
Boyes was still unconvinced.
The midshipman whispered, 'Do you think we'll be going into action?'
Boyes smiled, it's hard to tell.' He pointed at the vibrating plot-table. 'Now look at this —'
They all stared up as Sherwood's voice came across the bridge intercom.
'The float's no longer watching, sir!'
Midshipman Piers forgot his authority and seized Boyes' arm.
'What's he talking about?'
Boyes swallowed hard. 'It means that the Oropesa float has disappeared, gone below the surface. We must have snared something.' He looked for understanding, but there was none. He remembered Jardine's words. Maybe they had been right to turn him down for the chance of a commission: but not any longer. In the face of Piers's anxiety, he thought he knew what the tough seaman meant.
Beckett interrupted, 'Stand by, my beauties. Time to earn yer pay!'
Lieutenant Sherwood gripped a davit and watched the sea boiling up beneath the stern from the racing screws. They were making slow progress, but down aft, with the water rising almost level with the deck as Rob Roy pushed into the oncoming crests, they got an impression of speed.
He saw Ranger's murky silhouette riding out on the quarter, the spray bursting above her stem as she held station on the leader. The remainder of the sweepers were already lost in early darkness. Sherwocjd buttoned the neck of his oilskin. Inside the heavy coat he was sweating badly, but without it he knew he would soon be drenched to the skin and shivering. You couldn't win.
Stoker Petty Officer Nobby Clarke crouched on his little steel seat while he controlled the winch, spray dripping off the peak of his cap as he squinted into the criss-cross of foam from the ship's wake. Sherwood found he was able to accept all that was happening, what he could see around him, and that which he could only imagine from reading the intelligence packs.
They had all known it was coming. Now it was here, or soon would be. To have lived this long was the real bonus.
Had anyone else spoken such thoughts aloud, Sherwood would have torn him apart. Once. How could he have altered so much? He had believed it madness to consider a true friendship, let alone a marriage, in wartime. He could almost hear himself warning others against it. But that moment beside the parachute-mine had changed him.
He glanced around at the other shining figures in his party, the slender barrel of the after four-inch gun overhead.
Whatever happened to caution? To our disbelief in survival?
He smiled to himself as he recalled his unusual reserve when he had told Ransome, the day he had returned to the ship to take over Hargrave's work.
'I've asked her to marry me.' He had grinned, surprised at his own shyness, his new faith.
Ransome had shaken his hand warmly and then said, 'Snap!'
So the skipper had a girl too, although nobody had ever guessed it. The news was another precious secret, like the one they had shared in Sicily.
Stoker Petty Officer Clarke snapped, 'The float, sir!'
The older hands could often sense such things. By the sound or the vibration of a sweep-wire.
Clarke exclaimed, 'There's somethin' there!' His eyes showed white in the gloom. 'Better tell the Old Man, sir.'
Sherwood snatched up the handset. 'The float's no longer "watching", sir.' He saw Guttridge peering down from the four-inch. The leading hand had come back from leave with a pair of black eyes. But he was a hard character, not a man to be laughed at.
'Captain here.' He pictured Ransome on the bridge, assessing it, making a plan, preparing another if it all went sour.
'Recover the sweep.' He hesitated. 'Take it easy, Philip.'
Sherwood nodded to Clarke. 'Bring it in.' He heard the Buffer panting along the side-deck. 'Clear the quarterdeck and take cover!'
He waited, half-expecting his limbs to defy him, to begin shaking.
'Nice and easy, Stokes. It's probably a bit of wreckage.'
Clarke said nothing, but reached out with a gloved hand to let the incoming wire slide over it. He remarked flatly, 'Clean as a whistle.'
Sherwood waited. Even in the poor light he could see the wire, bright and burnished, proof, if any was needed with old sweats like Clarke on the job, that the wire had been running along the bottom.
'Guttridge! Fall our the gun's crew.' Sherwood glanced around. He could barely see beyond the guardrail.
If it was a mine, it was coming in right now towards the counter.
'Pass the word to the bridge, Buffer.'
The Buffer stood his ground and called, 'Gipsy, tell the bridge. It's probably a mine.' To Sherwood he said affably, 'I'll stay with you, if you don't mind, sir.' He folded his arms and could have been grinning at him. i 'ear congratulations is in order, sir?'
Sherwood gave a short laugh. Maybe that was it. They were all going quietly round the bend without realising it.
'Slower, Stokes!'
Clarke gritted his teeth. He could feel it now, as if he and not the winch was taking the full strain, like a fisherman with a marlin on his line.
Sherwood got down on his knees and winced as a rivet dug into his leg.
it's there. It must be.' He made up his mind. 'Tell the captain.' He reached up and added, 'Give me that flashlight, Buffer. I'm going to have a look, and to hell with the bloody black-out!'
He switched on the light and saw several things at once. The float trying to rise to the surface as it floundered towards the winch, the otter already shining brightly in the beam while it moved nearer. Directly below his outstretched arm was the mine.
Sherwood heard Clarke give a gasp, and as if from a mile away someone calling to the bridge on the intercom. The deck seemed to tilt right over, and he guessed that one screw had been thrown into full astern to pivot the ship round.
He saw the mine sway towards him, but found he could watch it without fear. Seconds only to live. He shouted into the spray, 7 love you!'
Then the mine veered away, caught unawares by the violent change of course. It collided with the otter at the end of the sweep and the dark sea lit up to a vivid explosion.
Sherwood felt himself knocked flat by a solid waterfall which swept over the deck without making a sound. But as his hearing returned he caught snatches of cheering, and felt the Buffer thumping his back and yelling, 'We're goin' to need a new float, sir!'
A seaman called, 'All them dead fish! Pity we can't 'ang about to net 'em for the galley!'
Sherwood staggered to his feet. His cap had vanished,as had the Buffer's flashlight. A bloody close thing. There was nothing in the manuals about using a torch in enemy waters.
Down in the engine-room Campbell watched the revolution counters moving into unison again, and saw one of his stokers giving him a thumbs-up while the glistening machinery roared round within inches of his hand.
The whole place had boomed like an oil drum beaten by a giant hammer. Campbell looked for his E.R.A. and they exchanged quick grins.
Then he turned back to his dials, his lips moving to the tunc of an old hymn.
'Sweeping, sweeping, sweeping, Always bloody well sweeping, Sweeping in the morning, And in the afternoon . . .'
Campbell wiped his streaming face. Alf Bone had been right to get out of it, he thought. Just for a split second back there . . .
He had felt his eyes fixed on the curved side, streaked with oil, each droplet quivering to the b
eat of the twin propellers as if it was alive.
Just for one agonising moment he had believed that which all of them dreaded had happened.
The telephone shrilled noisily beside his little metal shelf, where he kept his engine-room log.
'Chief here.' He had to press one grimy hand over his other ear.
'This is the captain. All right? Sorry about the noise — don't know what the neighbours will think.'
The Chief grinned and felt the tension draining away like sand from a glass. 'We're okay, sir. Let me know when you intend to do it again!'
On the bridge Ransome gave the handset to the boatswain's mate. To Morgan he said, 'Let's hope that'll be the last of them!'
Morgan removed his cap and allowed the spray to soak into his curly hair.
He had imagined that he actually saw the mine as Ransome had flung the ship hard over. Another moment, and — He felt his legs shaking. No casualties, no damage.
Then the boatswain's mate turned from a voicepipe and said unsteadily, 'Beg pardon, sir, but the gunnery officer is reportin' the starboard guardrail 'as carried away in the — er - bang!' It was all he could do to prevent himself from bursting into insane laughter.
Ransome climbed into his chair for the first time and nodded gravely.
'Tell Mr Fallows that I shall indent for a new one when we return to harbour!'
Mackay hid a broad grin, and touched his young assistant's arm.
'Like a bunch of kids!' But he did not hide his admiration, or his relief.
Long before dawn it was obvious to everyone that there was no last-minute change of plans. The full force of the attack was under way.
Throughout the night Ransome and the watchkeepers who shared the bridge with him had felt the air trembling to an unbroken procession of bombers flying toward the Normandy coast. There must have been hundreds of them, perhaps thousands.
And now, as dawn made a reluctant grey brushstroke on the clouds, the coastline was outlined by a backcloth of fire. Red and orange, with a wall of smoke rising like the gateway to Hell.
How must it look to the thousands of troops who would be in their landing-craft? Heading towards their next rendezvous, a cross on a map, an aerial photograph at some last briefing?
In Danger's Hour Page 32