In Danger's Hour

by Douglas Reeman

  To his surprise he found the Chief alone in the wardroom drinking black coffee.

  'I thought you were staying ashore for the night, Chief?'

  Campbell looked at him coldly. 'Lucky I changed my mind then, isn't it?'

  'What's happened?'

  Campbell stood up and walked to the fireplace. 'I had to do Rounds. It's not my job, Number One.'

  'Look —' Hargrave could feel his irritation rising. 'This isn't a bloody trade union, not yet anyway! Any officer should be capable of —' 'It's not a question of being capable.' Campbell faccd him angrily. 'This ship has a fine reputation, everyone knows that. I came back on board to find the Acting-O.O.D. smashed out of his mind, spewing his guts up over the side, and the officer responsible ashore at the barracks! So be good enough not to lecture me about capability!'

  Hargrave snapped, 'I think we've both said enough.'

  The Chief strode to the door. 'And Ordinary Seaman Tinker's adrift, by the way.' He vanished, leaving the curtain swirling in his wake.

  Hargrave sat down heavily. 'Bloody hell!' He saw the mess-man watching from the pantry hatch. 'Horse's Neck!'

  'Bar's shut, sir.'

  'Well, open it? He stared hard at the deckhead. Nothing must spoil it. Tinker had deserted. Perhaps it was inevitable. He would speak with Petty Officer Clarke about the facts.

  He took the glass from the messman. 'Thanks.'

  The man eyed him anxiously. 'Mr Fallows's mess chits, sir.'

  'What about them?'

  'He's not signed for his drinks.'

  'I see.' The distinguished faces of the admirals at dinner were already fading, out of reach. 'Leave it to me.'

  Just a few more months and all this would be behind him. Tomorrow he would sort out Mr Bunny Fallows. But that could wait.

  A command of his own. It was still uppermost in his thoughts when he fell asleep.

  Ian Ransome stared at his reflection in the mirror and automatically adjusted his tie. The house seemed so quiet, as if it was waiting for him to go.

  His father stood by the door, one arm around his wife's shoulder.

  He said, 'Six days, Ian. That's all you've had.'

  Ransome watched his own expression in the glass as he might a face across the requestmen's table.

  He had worked hard on Barracuda, and the weather had remained fine, so that each night, after going over to The Lugger for a pint with his father, he had fallen into bed, and had slept undisturbed. Something he had not believed possible.

  Then there had been the telephone call. He was required on board. He had made his last visit to the boat, had touched the smooth hull with affection, even love.

  Old Jack WeeSe had watched him. It's breaking his heart, he had thought. For once, he doesn't want to go back.

  Ransome wanted to tell his parents all about it, but he knew he would crack lip if he did, and that might finish his mother.

  Now, in pressed doeskin uniform with the single blue and white medal ribbon, a crisp clean shirt which his mother had washed and ironed for him, he was back in the role again. The naval officer. The captain of Rob Roy.

  His mother said again, 'Surely someone else could manage while you were away, dear?'

  His father tried to change the subject. 'I'll run you to the station in the van. It'll not be breaking the patrol rationing regulations. I've got some gear to deliver there.'

  Ransome looked round the room, half expecting to see the old cat Jellicoe*But he had long gone, and was buried with the other pets in the special place they had chosen as youngsters.

  He recalled the same feeling when he had left his day cabin to go to the bridge on that day. Then too he had glanced around. Was it the last time? As it had been for Guillemot and Fawn?

  He faced them and smiled. 'Off then. Might be back before too long.'

  His mother watched him. 'I've packed some sandwiches for you.'

  'Thanks.' He gazed at them fondly, despairingly. Going back. I don't want to go.

  He thought of the telephone call, the unknown voice of an officer at Chatham.

  It had been discovered early in the morning. A young seaman, doing extra work as a man under punishment, had been inspecting the air-raid shelters, checking each one to make certain that all the light bulbs were working. He had apparently run gasping to the main gates to call the officer of the guard, nearly beside himself with terror.

  He had been standing on a bench in one of the long, underground shelters when he had felt someone watching him.

  He had turned to stare into the face of Ordinary Seaman Tinker. He had been hanging from an overhead girder. Ransome said, 'Don't forget to write.'

  He kissed his mother and walked from the house, without looking back.

  Full Day

  Commander Hugh Moncrieff sat behind his desk in a temporary office above the dockyard and puffed heavily on his pipe, it was good of you to come, Ian. When did you get in?' Ransome stood by a window and felt the sun's warmth on his face. He did not feel tired now, but it would hit him later in the day. He watched an elderly destroyer in a nearby basin, stripped of almost everything as she underwent the indignity of a hasty refit and a conversion to a long-range convoy escort. Once a sleek destroyer which age and service had overtaken. Now sans everything. A great cloud of red rust hovered over her eyeless bridge, and the air quivered to the thud of rivet guns.

  He replied, 'Early morning, sir. There was a raid on Plymouth yesterday. All the trains were in a real potmess.'

  He thought of Hargrave standing across his desk in his small cabin; he had looked strained and unusually pale, as if he had not slept since Tinker's death.

  Moncrieff said slowly, 'I half-expected you'd ask me to get Hargrave transferred.'

  it was not entirely his fault, sir.' Was that really what he thought? 'Circumstances, bad luck, a bit of everything. I'd not see him damned because of that.'

  'Thought you'd say as much — hoped so anyway. We lost two more sweepers while you were on leave. On the East Coast run. So we'll be shorter still of experienced officers and men.' Ransome smiled. 'That's one way of looking at it, sir.'

  'The only way, Ian. If we go on like this —' He did not finish it. Instead he brightened up and said, 'The flotilla's being made up to full strength, one extra in fact.'

  'Oh?' Ransome turned and looked at him. 'Newcomers?'

  Moncrieff tapped out his pipe. 'Both foreigners so to speak. One from the Free Dutch navy, the other Norwegian. Both pretty experienced I'm told. I'll let you have all the guff later on today.' His eyes gleamed. 'Still top secret, but you'll be moving westward as soon as the leave period is completed.'

  'May I ask where, sir?'

  'You may not.' He chuckled. 'I've laid my hands on some Scotch for you, by the way. It should be aboard Rob Roy by now.'

  He became serious again. 'That boy Tinker. He'd probably have done what he did anyway.'

  'I know that, sir. But he needed to talk —'

  'And you blame yourself for not being there. God, Ian, you drive the ship, you're not a wet nurse for everyone in her! Tinker's a war casualty as much as any other. When I think of some of the things that go on while we're at sea it makes me heave!'

  Ransome smiled. 'Now, about these extra people?'

  The old sea dog grinned hugely. 'Safer ground, eh? Well, you're getting a doctor. So is Ranger. There'll be four extra hands for gunnery, and I have to tell you that a new sub-lieutenant is supposed to be arriving today too.'

  Ransome stared at him. 'What shall I do with them all, sir? Stuff them in a magazine hoist?'

  Moncrieff pulled a huge dog-eared ledger towards him and frowned. Ransome guessed that he had probably been fighting off his other captains with equal determination.

  'Your midshipman, Davenport, will be leaving in a few months when he gets his first stripe, won't he? The new sub will be doubly useful then. I see that at least two of your leading hands are due for promotion, and several others are awaiting advanced courses ashore.' He wagged
his pipe at him severely. 'At this rate you'll be glad of every experienced Jack you can hold on to. They're building a whole new bunch of sweepers to replace the losses, and they'll be bleating for trained hands too. Supply and demand — it all amounts to that, my young friend!'

  Ransome looked out of the window again. He was right of course. More ships, new faces, but the same deadly war to prepare them for.

  He pictured Fallows as he had seen him an hour ago. Very grave-faced but quietly confident. He knew very little about Tinker's death, if he had, etc. etc. - No, Tinker had not approached him about leave, and in any case he had been given to understand that the first lieutenant had already refused it.

  Ransome wondered about that, but Fallows had lost no time in clearing his own yard-arm.

  'Still brooding, Ian?'

  Ransome smiled at the dusty glass. Old Moncrieff could read his mind. It would be good to have him along when they left for the Med.

  'Oh, I was just thinking, sir.'

  'The first lieutenant went over to R.N.B. to meet his father, Wee-Admiral now, no less! Something anyone of us might have done. There was after all, science's latest triumph, the telephone, if things got out of hand.' He tapped his thick fingers with the pipe-stem. 'The Chief was aboard, so was Sub-Lieutenant Fallows, and the Gunner (T) was due back in the early morning. There was the duty-part of the watch, plus a very experienced P.O.'

  Ransome looked at him fondly. He had certainly done his homework. 'I know, sir. I suppose it's my failing.'

  Moncrieff glanced meaningly at the clock. 'I've got to see Dryaden's C.O. in a minute. But I shall say the same to him, and I'm sending his chief stoker away on a well-deserved course for promotion, and he won't care much for that either!' He held out his left hand. 'Your failing, Ian?' He looked at him searchingly. 'It's what makes you the best I've got.'

  By the time he had returned to the ship Ransome had decided to speak with Fallows again, to try and fit in the missing piece.

  He waited on the dockside for several minutes as he studied his little ship, his gaze taking in the new double-mountings of twenty-millimetre Oerlikons, an extra winch down aft and a powerful-looking derrick which had replaced the old one. New paint, even a different motor boat in the davits; they had certainly pulled out all the stops. Probably Moncrieff, he decided.

  He walked quickly down the steep brow and saluted, then glanced at the duty-board by the quartermaster's lobby. Apart from Lieutenant Sherwood and the Chief everyone appeared to be aboard.

  He nodded to the chief quartermaster, the ruddy-faced Leading Seaman Reeves, the public's idea of the true sailor, with his silver chain and call tucked into the deep V of his jumper. 'All quiet, Q.M.?'

  Reeves watched him warily. 'Very, sir. The new doctor's aboard, and the extra subbie will be joinin' this afternoon, earlier than expected.'

  Ransome looked directly at him. 'What about Tinker?'

  He shifted his feet. 'We're all sorry about 'im, sir. Nice kid, 'e was, too.'

  'What do you think happened?'

  'He requested to go back on leave to be with his dad, sir, his old woman bein' dead, like.'

  Ransome waited. 'And?'

  'Well, it was refused, sir. Like I told the first lieutenant after it w as reported, I was on the gangway when Tinker went ashore. I asked 'im about it, and he said it was local leave, he wasn't in the duty-part of the watch, y'see, sir. He told me that Bun — I mean Mr Fallows gave him permission.'

  'And you didn't think to check on it?'

  Reeves swallowed hard. 'It was a bit difficult -' He saw Fallows's scarlet face when he had gone down to the wardroom later to tell him what had happened. P.O. Clarke had been with him.

  The sub-lieutenant had been beside himself with fury, and barely able to stand.

  'How dare you speak to me like that? Stand to attention when you address an officer, damn you!'

  In fact Fallows had been the only one unable to stand upright.

  'I did not see this wretched fellow Tinker, nor did I give him fucking permission to go ashore, see?'

  Reeves had been amazed to hear his voice. Like one of their Scottish stokers on a binge.

  Ransome nodded. 'How was he dressed? Did he say anything?'

  Reeves frowned. 'I saw that 'e was carryin' nothin' but 'is gas mask, sir.'

  'Which was why you imagined he was going on a local run ashore?'

  Reeves faced him. 'There was somethin', sir. He said, "They don't really care, do they?" or somethin' like that, sir.' He dropped his eyes under Ransome's grey stare. 'I - I'm just sorry I can't 'elp any more, sir.'

  Ransome looked up at the tiny masthead pendant above the radar jampot.

  i think you have, Reeves. Now put it out of your mind, O.K.?'

  Reeves stared after him and exclaimed, 'Christ, what a bloke!' He looked at his hands, expecting to see them still shaking. Young he might be, but the skipper knew every bloody thing in this ship!

  When stand-easy was piped, the tea-boat was already passing out mugs of tea in exchange for pence or barter, soap perhaps for the dhobying firm who would wash a sailor's blue collar better than any housewife, tobacco or 'ticklers', and of course sippers of rum from those who were old enough to draw their tot.

  Around the scrubbed table of Number Three Mess, the seamen sat in quiet contemplation. They sipped their sickly tea and watched Ted Hoggan, the killick of the mess, as he placed the dead sailor's few personal effects on the table. It was not much, Boyes thought as he sat wedged between Jardine and a seaman named Chalky White, who had developed a nervous tic in one eye over his months of minesweeping. A new cap with gold wire inscription, a pusser's knife or 'dirk' as they were known, a hand-made ditty-box from which Hoggan, as their senior, had removed some personal letters and a photograph of Tinker himself as a boy at HMS Ganges.

  It was the first time Boyes had come up against something like this. He could sense its importance in the faces around him, tough, hardened ones for the most part, who had seen and suffered experiences he could only guess at.

  Jardine leaned over and whispered, 'We'll raise a few boh from this lot, see? Then we 'as somethin' to remember the lad by, an' 'is people will 'ave a bit to put towards - well, things.'

  Boyes nodded and opened the flap on his belt where he kept his money.

  Jardine saw the ten-shilling note and said fiercely, 'Not that much, Gerry lad! It's a sort of token. Not a time to show off 'ow much you got.'

  Hoggan tapped the table. 'Well, mates, this here is a pretty good ditty-box - what do I hear?'

  And so it went on until the table was cleared. Boyes sat staring at the knife which he had bought for two shillings. It was exactly a twin of his own, and yet it seemed special, had belonged to a boy like himself whom he had seen only for a few minutes before he had walked away from life.

  Leading Seaman Hoggan tipped his tin on to the table and counted the contents with great care.

  'Four pounds, one an' a tanner, lads.' He looked at each of them in turn. 'What d'you think?'

  Someone said, 'His old woman's gone west, 'ookey, an' to all accounts 'is dad 'as 'it the jar since.'

  Boyes looked at their expressions, half-expecting them to laugh or dispute such a casual summing-up, but they were all deadly serious.

  Hoggan nodded. 'My thoughts too, Dick.' He scraped the coins into 'is tin again. 'We'll keep it —' he glanced at his world, Number Three Mess. 'For the next one of us, eh?'

  They all nodded and emptied their mugs as if it was a kind of salute.

  Hoggan looked at Boyes and gave a sad grin. 'Learnin' some-thin', kid?'

  Boyes nodded. 'Yes, thank you, Hookey.'

  Nobody mimicked him this time.

  Hoggan patted his arm. 'You can take Tinker's locker an' sling yer 'ammock on 'is 'ooks from now on, Gerry.'

  Boyes stared around at the others and did not know what to say. Such a simple thing, some might say, but to Boyes it was like being awarded a medal.

  To close the proceedings the
tannoy bellowed, 'D'you hear there? D'you hear there? Out pipes, hands carry on with your work!'

  Tinker had been popular in the mess, indeed throughout the whole ship. But Boyes somehow knew that his name would not be mentioned again.

  Rob Roy's officers stood or lounged around the small wardroom and waited for lunch, the event of the day.

  Lieutenant Hargrave sat in a well-worn leather chair and stared at a copy of the Daily Mail, although he found that his eyes remained unmoving more often than not.

  He was still dazed by Ransome's acceptance of his report. He had missed out nothing, had even admitted that he blamed himself for keeping Tinker from going ashore.

  Ransome had listened without interruption and had said, 'You'll know better next time. If it's any consolation I think he might have done it anyway. In view of your full, and I believe honest report, I think you acted correctly.'

  It was probably the closest they had ever been, Hargrave thought. But he had no doubt of Ransome's attitude if anything like it occufred again.

  He glanced at the others, standing with drinks in their hands, bored with their stay in the dockyard while they waited for the rest of the leave party to return.

  The Chief had just come in; he was wearing his best uniform, quite unlike his seagoing rig of boiler-suit or an ancient reefer with ragged and tarnished lace.

  Bone the Gunner (T) sat massively on the fender and contemplated a large tankard of beer, his bald pate shining in the deckhead lights. For although they were out of dry dock, the scuttles were still masked by the jetty wall and Ranger on the outboard side.

  Hargrave stared at Fallows until the sub looked at him, flushed, and glanced away. As well he might, Hargrave thought. He was even drinking tomato juice. At least Sherwood was still ashore, so there would be no friction for a while. Hargrave's eyes sparked with sudden anger. If he comes the old soldier again I'll cut him down to size, hero or not. He heard the midshipman's incisive voice as he discussed his prospects of promotion with the Chief.

  Campbell kept his alert face impassive. 'I suppose being an old-school-tie type, you'll soon be up the ladder, eh, Mid?'