In Danger's Hour

by Douglas Reeman

  Ransome replaced his cap with care and tried to stifle his disappointment. What is the matter with me? Eve would be Tony's age. But it hurt him all the same.

  'I'll go up the house and see my mother.' He groped in his gas mask haversack, which contained several items but no respirator, and handed a tin of pipe-tobacco to him. 'Duty-free, Jack. Have a good cough on me!'

  Weese took it but watched him uncertainly. He had known him all his life, first on the Thames, then here in Cornwall.

  Some of the lads had commented on it at the time. Cradle-snatching, that kind of remark. Weese had not realised that it had gone any deeper.

  And now this. He studied Ransome as if for the first time. He was the same person underneath. Friendly but reserved; he had been quite shy as a boy compared with his young brother. '

  Now look at him, he thought. Fighting the bloody war, a captain of his own ship, but still just the same uncertain kid who had wanted his own boat.

  He said, 'I reckon Vicar'll know. They were as thick as thieves during that last visit.'

  'Thanks, Jack.' He turned towards the houses. 'I'll see you tomorrow.'

  Weese shook his head. 'By the old Barracuda, no doubt!'

  Ransome clipped the haversack shut and wished he had brought Eve's drawing with him. It was all he had, all he was ever likely to.

  As he walked slowly past the familiar houses bathed in the afternoon sunshine he thought about the torpedoed freighter, the casual way Weese had mentioned it. So even here, the war was never far away. Right now some U-boat commander might be picking his way through a minefield, his periscope's eye watching this green sweep of land. Thinking perhaps of his own home, wherever that was.

  His mother looked older, he thought, but hugged him with her same vigour.

  'You've no meat on your bones, son! They don't feed you enough!'

  Ransome smiled. Another misunderstanding, he thought. It was said that the cooks in Chatham Barracks threw away more spoiled food every day than the whole town got in rations.

  She was bustling about, happy to have him home. 'I'll soon take care of tbatV

  Ransome saw the two photographs on the mantelpiece above the old fireplace where they burned logs in the winter, and his father had told unlikely ghost stories.

  'Heard from Tony, Mum?'

  She did not turn but he saw her shoulders stiffen. 'A few letters, but we did hear from one of his friends that his flotilla . . . whatever you call it, has gone to the Mediterranean.'

  Ransome tried to remain calm. So much for security.

  She was saying, '1 thank God the war's nearly over out there.'

  Ransome groped for his pipe. The Mediterranean was about to erupt all over again. How could he even hint that Rob Roy would soon be going there too?

  She turned and studied him. 'How is it, dear? As bad as they say? I think of you both all the time -' She bowed her head, and he took her in his arms to comfort her as her bravery collapsed.

  Later that evening as Ransome sat at the table and faced an enormous dinner with his parents, the war intruded once again.

  His father had switched on the wireless to hear the news. It was all much the same as Ransome had heard before he had left the ship. Until the very end when the urbane tones of the BBC announcer made the brief announcement.

  'The Secretary of the Admiralty regrets to announce the loss of His Majesty's Minesweeper Fawn. Next of kin have been informed.'

  It was a long time before anyone spoke. Then his father said flatly, 'She was one of yours, Ian? I'm so sorry.'

  As night closed in over the little harbour Ransome mounted the stairs to his room and stared at the fresh curtains, which his mother must have made for his visit so that it would always look as if he had not really been away.

  He had changed from his uniform into his oldest shirt and flannel trousers and lay on the bed for a long time, the window open to listen to the breeze, the querulous muttering of some gulls who slept on the roof.

  He thought about the Faivn, of another gathering somewhere with more women in black to mark that curt announcement.

  Perhaps he would sleep again and dream of the sun across his back while he worked on the boat's hull. Maybe in the dream she would come once again.

  Lieutenant Trevor Hargrave sat at Ransome's little desk and leafed half-heartedly through the latest batch of signals and A.F.O.'s. Wrecks and minefields to be re-checked or inserted on the charts, new regulations about the issue of Wrens' clothing, revised designs for ship-camouflage, instructions for firing parties at service funerals. It was endless.

  He listened to the muffled chatter on the tannoy speakers, the obedient gales of studio laughter, another comic programme to give a lighter side to the war.

  It was strange to feel the ship moving gently again after being propped in dry-dock, her decks snared by electric cables and pipes while the dockyard completed a hasty overhaul of the lower hull before refloating her. Tomorrow she would be warped out to the gunwharf for re-ammunitioning, and for further inspections by the armaments supply officers and fitters.

  Now at least they were a ship again, the deck empty of boiler-suited dockyard workers who seemed to spend more time idling and drinking tea than working.

  As Campbell had dourly commented, 'If it's not screwed down, the buggers will lift it!'

  The whole fleet knew about survival rations looted from Carley floats and boats while a ship lay in the dockyard. There were worse stories too, of dead seamen trapped below after being torpedoed, being robbed of their watches and pathetic possessions before they could be cut free from the mess.

  Hargrave glanced around the cabin until his eyes settled on the drawing. It was unsigned, and yet he had the feeling that Ransome's unwillingness to discuss it meant there was much more behind it.

  The ship's company were either on home leave, or ashore locally, leaving only a small duty-watch on board for safety's sake. Tomorrow the next batch would be packed off to their wives and mothers. More the latter in this youthful company, he thought.

  He toyed with the idea of going to the wardroom. Bunny Fallows would be there, the Chief too probably. The rest were away. Even Mr Bone, whose home was in nearby Gillingham, was absent.

  Hargrave decided against it. Campbell was friendly enough but kept very much to himself. Fallows, well - he stopped his thoughts right there.

  The tap at the cabin door was almost a welcome relief. It was Petty Officer Stoker Clarke, a tough, dependable man who was said to have survived the sinking of his last ship by being blown bodily over the side after the explosion had sent most of his companions to their deaths. He was the only petty officer aboard, with Leading Seaman Reeves, the chief quartermaster, to assist him.

  'What is it, P.O.?'

  Clarke stepped warily over the coaming and removed his cap.

  'It's Ordinary Seaman Tinker, sir.'

  Hargrave picked out the youthful sailor's resentful face from his thoughts.

  'Not back from leave again? I told the commanding officer that -'

  Clarke shook his head. 'No, he's back aboard, sir. He's request-in' to see you. Personal.'

  Hargrave said, 'I'll see him when I take requestmen and defaulters tomorrow, after we've cleared the dock.'

  Clarke eyed him stubbornly. 'He says it's urgent, sir.'

  'What do you think?'

  Clarke wanted to say that he would have kicked the lad's arse clean through the bulkhead if he had not respected his anxiety. But he said, 'I wouldn't have bothered otherwise, sir.' He made to leave.

  Hargrave snapped, 'I've not finished yet!'

  'Oh?' Clarke eyed him calmly. He had suffered too much, gave too much each day to conceal it, to put up with officers like the Jimmy who always seemed to want to go by the book. 'Thought you had, sir.'

  'Don't be impertinent.' He knew he was getting nowhere. 'So fetch him in now, all right?'

  Clarke withdrew and found the young sailor waiting in the passageway. In his best uniform he looked even m
ore helpless, he thought. Tinker was a good lad, always cheerful and willing to learn. Or he had been once. The whole ship knew about his mother playing open house while Tinker's dad was away. Nobody joked about it. There were too many men in the navy who might be wondering about the faithfulness of their loved ones at home. Especially with all the Yanks and hot-blooded Poles running about the country.

  'He'll see you.' Clarke straightened Tinker's neatly pressed 'silk' which was tied beneath his blue collar. 'Keep yer 'air on, my son. Just tell 'im what you told me, an' no lip, see? Or you'll end up in the glasshouse, and you won't like tbat' He gave his arm a casual punch to ease his warning. 'I wouldn't like it neither.'

  Tinker nodded, i'll remember, P.O.'

  He stepped into the cabin and waited by the desk. The first lieutenant looked much younger without his cap, he thought.

  Hargrave glanced up at him. 'Well, what's wrong?' It sounded like this time.

  Tinker said, 'My dad, sir. He's been out of his mind since — since —' he dropped his eyes. 'If I could be with him. Just a few more days. I'd make up for it later on, I promise, sir.'

  Hargrave sighed, 'But you've just had leave. Would you make another man give up the right to go home so that you can get extra time in his place?'

  Tinker was pleading. 'Able Seaman Nunn has offered, sir. He's got nowhere to go, not any more.'

  Hargrave frowned. Another undercurrent. A home bombed, or a wife who had been unfaithful.

  He said, 'You see, it's not in my province to offer you something beyond the bounds of standing orders. Perhaps later on —'

  The boy stared at the carpet, his eyes shining with tears and suppressed anger.

  'Yes, I see, sir.'

  Hargrave watched him leave and grimaced. Tomorrow he would telephone the welfare section and speak with the Chief Wren therw, unless —

  He almost jumped as the telephone jangled on the desk.

  He snatched it up. 'Yes? First lieutenant.'

  There were several clicks, then a voice said, 'Found you at last, Trevor!'

  Hargrave leaned forward as if he was imagining it.

  'Father? Where are you?'

  The voice gave a cautious cough. He probably imagined there was a Wren on the switchboard listening in to their conversation.

  'Next door at R.N.B. Thought you might care to join me for dinner. There are a couple of chaps I'd like you to meet. Very useful, d'you get my point?'

  'It's just that I'm in charge here.' He stared around the cabin as if he was trapped. 'The captain is -'

  'Don't say any more. Have one of your underlings take over. God, it's only spitting-distance away, man!'

  It was unlike his father to be so crude. He must have been drinking with his friends. Hargrave felt a surge of envy, the need to be with career officers senior enough to free his mind from the drudgery and strain of minesweeping.

  His father was saying, 'If any little Hitler tries to get stroppy, just tell him to ring me.' He gave a husky chuckle. 'But to ask for Vice-Admiral Hargrave now!'

  Hargrave swallowed hard. 'Congratulations, I mean -'

  'I'll tell you at dinner. Must dash.' The line went dead.

  Hargrave leaned back, his hands behind his head. It was not all over after all. Strange, he had not expected it would be his father who would ride to the rescue.

  Outside in the passageway Petty Officer Clarke said, 'Well, we tried, Tinker. Be off to your mess, eh?'

  Clarke watched the slight figure move to the ladder. Poor, desperate kid. He glanced at the door and swore savagely.

  With some alarm he imagined that he had uttered the words aloud because the door opened immediately and the first lieutenant strode from the cabin.

  He saw Clarke and said, 'I shall be ashore, at R.N.B., this evening. Sub-Lieutenant Fallows will do Rounds with you.'

  'Aye, aye, sir.' He tried again. 'About young Tinker, sir.'

  'Look, it's over and done with. Young he may be, but he knows the score as well as any three-badgeman. So there's an end to it, P.O.!'

  He strode aft towards his quarters.

  Clarke nodded slowly. 'That's bloody right, sir. 'E comes to you for 'elp and you tells 'im to sling 'is 'ook. While you go an' stuff yerself in the barracks wardroom!' If only the coxswain was here, he thought. He'd have probably sent the kid ashore without asking anybody's permission. But he was the only one who might get away with it.

  Clarke went to his mess and said to the sailor on duty, 'Get me a wet. I don't care wot, I don't much care 'ow. Just get it!'

  The man did not bother to remind the petty officer it was only four in the afternoon.

  Clarke called after him, 'An' you can join me! 1 don't feel like sippin' alone just now!'

  The sailor came back with a jug of what Clarke guessed was hoarded tots.

  He felt better already. 'Ta, very much.'

  The man grinned, i just 'eard that Mr Bunny Fallows is gettin' tanked up already.'

  Clarke paused in mid-swallow. 'Christ. Fd better get down aft a bit sharpish. Jimmy's ashore tonight.'

  He found Fallows in the wardroom, squatting on the padded club fender by the unlit fire, a large drink in his hand, his face almost as red as his hair. He was just a youngster, probably not even twenty-one. God, he'll look like something from Skid Row when he gets to my age, Clarke thought.

  'Yes, what is it?'

  Clarke wished that the Chief, his own boss, was here. He never got in a flap, never pushed his stokers to do what he had not done himself a million times.

  'The first lieutenant's compliments, sir, and -'

  Fallows gave a knowing grin. 'Come on, man, spit it out! This is not a court-martial, y'know!'

  He was already losing his posh accent, Clarke noticed. He thought, It's a pity it's not yours. He said, 'He's going ashore this evening, sir.' He watched the glass empty in one swallow. 'I'm to do Rounds^with you, sir.'

  Fallows considered it for several seconds. 'Righty-ho, can do! Got fuck-all else on tonight anyway.' He tapped his nose with the empty glass. 'But tomorrow, that's something else, eh?' He gave a little giggle.

  Clarke breathed out with relief. Drunk or sober, he could handle the red-haired subbie. He had expected him to fly into a rage like he often did. That was something he could not manage, not after the Jimmy's behaviour.

  He withdrew and heard Fallows yelling for the messman.

  Later after a hearty supper of shepherd's pie and chips, Petty Officer Clarke was sitting alone in his mess, a glass at his elbow while he wrote a letter to his wife in Bromley.

  The chief quartermaster tapped at the door and said, 'The first liberty men are comin' off, P.O. Seem quiet enough. Shall I tell the O.O.D.?'

  'Hell no, I'll come up meself.' He reached for his cap and heavy torch. The latter was useful in a darkened ship; it also came in handy to pacify a drunken liberty man.

  He added, 'Our Bunny's smashed out of 'is mind. God knows what the Jimmy will have to say.'

  Reeves grinned. 'Who cares, eh?' They walked out on deck. It was almost dark, with gantries, ships' masts and funnels standing against the sky like jagged black shadows.

  The men returning early from local leave would either be broke or disillusioned by Chatham's shabby hospitality. A sailors' town, where landladies charged them good money for the privilege of sleeping three in a bed with a cup of weak tea and a wad of bread and dripping before they plodded back to the barracks. Men serving in ships preferred to come back early. Like Rob Roy's people; she was their home.

  Leading Seaman Reeves said, 'I was a bit surprised about Tinker.'

  'I wasn't.'

  'No, I mean that Fallows allowed him to go ashore after what you said.

  ' 'What?'

  The chief quartermaster fell back a pace. 'Thought you knew, P.O.!' He forced a smile. 'No skin off your nose. Bunny is actin' O.O.D.'

  Clarke looked away towards the brow as the first lurching figures groped across.

  i wasn't thinkin' of that. It's the kid I'm
bothered about.'

  Reeves shrugged. 'Well, you told him, so did Ted Hoggan the killick of his mess. So wot else can you do, I asks you?'

  The liberty men glanced around on the darkened deck to make sure there was no officer present, then made their way forward to their messdeck. One said thickly, 'That bird you picked up, Fred — she was so uglyl I know you've never been fussy, but God, 'er face!'

  The other man mumbled, 'You don't look at the bloody mantelpiece when you poke the fire, do you? Well then!'

  Reeves groaned, 'Sailors, I've shot 'em!'

  It was nearly midnight when Hargrave eventually returned on board. It had been something of a triumph to share the evening with his father's friends. Both were flag officers, and one was well known for his appearances in the press and on newsreels.

  Even the thought of returning to Rob Roy had seemed unimportant.

  His father had spoken to him privately before he had left barracks.

  'Ours is a true naval family, Trevor. Things might have been different in the ordinary way, but we must think of the future, eh?'

  By 'things' Hargrave knew he had been referring to the fact that he had had three daughters. He was the only male to follow in the family footsteps.

  'War is terrible, we know that, Trevor. But when it's over, all these other chaps will go back to their proper jobs again — the navy will be just a memory, an experience in which they will be proud to have made a contribution.' He had leaned forward and tapped his knee, his breath smelling hotly of brandy and cigars.

  'So we must use the time to benefit ourselves, and of course the service. It's why I want you to get a command, not bugger about in a damn great cruiser, don't you see? You were found unsuitable for submarines, and I can't say I'm sorry about that, and you've not time to make up the experience anywhere else but in small ships like Rob Roy. As a regular executive officer you stand out. Be patient, and I promise you a chance to walk your own bridge within months!'

  Like speaking with the two flag officers, it was as if Hargrave had been lifted a few feet higher than he had been before. Provided he could stay in one piece, and that applied in any ship, he would have his father's promise to sustain him.