In Danger's Hour

by Douglas Reeman

  He heard himself coughing and retching, trying to keep on his feet as water surged through the bridge and crashed to the deck below. As he wiped the spray and stinging salt from his eyes he saw a fireball suspended in space, then droplets of flame breaking away, to speckle the sea's face with bright feathers.

  As his hearing returned he heard men cheering, and realised that the ME 110 must have been caught in the cross-fire even as the bomb had exploded so near to the ship.

  Voicepipes crackled on every side and Ransome looked quickly to make certain his small team was still intact.

  Sherwood was hanging on to the gyro repeater while Morgan was groping for the remains of his chart and scattered instruments. Leading Signalman Mackay was peering at his telescope and saw Ransome's glance. 'No damage, sir, thank God!'

  The ship or his precious telescope, it was hard to tell.

  'Bring her back on course!' Ransome wiped bis sodden binoculars and peered astern. The aircraft were gone, the edge of their attack blunted at the sight of their companion's horrible end.

  Cease-fire gongs were ringing, and he saw figures emerging from cover, as if dazed by their survival.

  'Report damage and casualties.' Ransome looked at the sea ahead, the small fragments of the ME 110. There would be no survivors.

  'First lieutenant for you, sir!' The boatswain's mate had put down his stripped Lewis, and Ransome noticed that there were several empty magazines by his feet.

  'Captain here.'

  'No damage aft, sir.' Hargrave sounded muzzy, a hundred miles away. 'One casualty. Ordinary Seaman Jenner. Not serious.' He hesitated. 'You all right, sir?'

  But Ransome handed the telephone to the boatswain's mate and raised his glasses again.

  The cheering had died away and some of the gun crews had left their stations to line the guardrails and watch.

  Like a crude memorial, Ransome thought later. The forward section of a minesweeper seemed to rise amongst the others, pointing towards the white sun, the sea boiling around the hull like steam. Huge, obscene bubbles and a spreading blanket of escaping oil fuel. A ship dying. One of their own.

  Morgan said huskily, 'It's Scythe, sir.'

  Mackay called, 'From Bedworth, sir. Sen]a will search for survivors'

  Ransoijie nodded as he watched the upright hull, feeling the pain, wanting her to go, to get it over with. He could see her young captain, a mere lieutenant who had held the command for four months. Was he alive, he wondered? If so, how would he get over it?

  'No damage below, sir. Engine-room request permission to reduce speed.'

  'Very well. Half ahead together. Signal Bedworth and tell them what we're doing.' He spoke without emotion, as if he had none left to give.

  Feet scraped on the ladder and Richard Wakely, his eyes almost bulging from his head, dragged himself into the bridge.

  'Is it over?' He stared round, his chest rising and falling as if he was about to have a seizure.

  Ransome said, 'For some it is.' He steeled himself as the broken ship began to sink very slowly, stern-first, tiny figures struggling in the filth of oil and worse while the big Norwegian trawler Senja manoeuvred almost against the wreckage.

  Ransome gritted his teeth together. They should have had air cover, but perhaps there was none to spare after all, or it was all being used to protect the troop convoys. The same German ME 110's had probably made a strike against those mine-sweeping trawlers they had seen in the dawn light.

  Someone let out a sob as Scythe seemed to drop very suddenly from view. They heard several dull explosions, and more flotsam burst to the surface as if to torment further the gasping survivors.

  Ransome turned his back and looked at his ship.

  That violent turn had saved her. This time. Otherwise he and all the rest of them might be out there trying to keep afloat; waiting to die.

  He saw Sherwood's eyes, Morgan's honest features twisted in pity and despair, Mackay gripping his telescope, his eyes smarting but not from the sun. One of their own.

  The Buffer appeared on the bridge, his battered cap hiding his expression.

  'Beg pardon, sir, but Jimmy — I mean the first lieutenant is askin' for orders. I think our phone 'as gone dead on us, like. The Gunner (T) 'as got one of his torpedomen on the job.' He looked around until his glance settled on Wakely.

  'They've gone 'ome, sir.' He barely hid the contempt in his voice.

  Ransome could feel the shock and despair closing its grip on all of them. It was often like that.

  'Orders, Buffer?' He dragged out his pipe and prayed to God his fingers would not shake as he tamped down a fill of tobacco. 'We shall resume sweeping to port in fifteen minutes. What did you expect?'

  Their eyes met, each man in his own way needing the other.

  The Buffer grinned. 'From you, sir, nothin' but the best!'

  Ransome looked away. They had come through again.

  Nothing but the best.

  Husky

  The tiny chart-room which adjoined Ransome's sea-cabin was unbearably sticky and humid. Condensation ran down the sides and dripped from the deckhead to add to the discomfort of the officers who were squeezed around the table.

  Ransome glanced through the solitary open scuttle. The light was strange, the sky like smoky bronze. He waited for the deck to lift, to roll uncomfortably to starboard in a steep corkscrew motion. Anyone with a weak stomach would know it by now, he thought.

  It was like a warning, an omen. From first light the weather had started to deteriorate with a wind strengthening from the north-west. It was unusual for July — the one flaw in all the planning and preparations for Operation Husky.

  It was now late afternoon and the wind had risen still further, so that the angry, choppy sea had changed to a parade of crumbling rollers.

  How could they hope for any sort of success? With a heavy sea running many of the landing-craft would never reach their objectives in time; some could be swamped with terrible loss of life.

  He glanced up at their intent faces. Hargrave, more tanned than any of them, always clean and tidy no matter what was happening. Sherwood, eyes hidden by his pale lashes, examining the chart with its transparent overlay of Ransome's secret orders, the coloured markers which had to be translated into action — into results.

  Sub-Lieutenant Morgan, his body swaying easily to the sickening plunge and roll, had his pad already half-filled with notes. As assistant navigator he was directly involved. Surgeon Lieutenant Cusack was also present, his intelligent features and keen eyes recording everything. Beyond the bulkhead, voices murmured from the duty watch, clicks and groans of steel under pressure, the endless stammer of morse and static from the W/T office.

  Ransome said, 'The first landings are due to take place at 2:45 tomorrow morning.' He felt his words move around the chart table like a chill breeze through reeds. Not some hazy plan any more, some grand design, but right here, and just ten hours away.

  Sherwood said, 'They'll have to call it off, sir.' He looked up, his eyes searching. 'Won't they?'

  Ransome pointed at the chart. 'Every flotilla and convoy is assembling at this moment to the east and south of Malta. It involves hundreds of ships, thousands of men. The RAF and the American Air Force have been pounding the enemy airfields and defences for weeks. Everything was set fair — the High Command allowed just twenty-four hours to cancel the whole operation or give the go-ahead.' He heard the wind howl around the superstructure, the blown spray lashing the bridge like a tropical downpour. It made a mockery of all the plans and hopes. 'If this wind holds out, the Americans making for the southern shore will be hard put to get their landing-craft in position.' His hand moved to Sicily's south-eastern coastline. 'Here the Eighth Army will land with the Canadians on their left flank. The Royal Marine Commando will go ashore to the left of the Canadians slightly earlier than H-Hour to seize vital objectives which otherwise might cover the landings.'

  Hargrave rubbed his chin. 'I can't see it going ahead, sir.' He looke
d at the open scuttle and the strange, angry glare. 'It would be a shambles.'

  Ransome nodded. 'It could be a greater one if they try to cancel Husky at the last moment, Number One. There would be even more confusion, some might not even get the signal on time and attack without knowing they were unsupported. And if the assault was delayed for another day, the landings would be ragged, ill-timed. I think most of us know what that would mean.' He let his words sink in. 'The Met people were caught with their pants down, but then so were the enemy.' He forced a smile. 'It's not much, but it's all we have. Our role is to give close support to the first wave of landing-craft under cover of a bombardment from the heavy boys.' He glanced at Cusack. 'You'll be dealing with the wounded if there are any — troops, sailors, anyone we pick up.'

  Cusack nodded. 'I thought there was a catch in it.'

  Sherwood smiled. 'Ain't that the truth!'

  The others relaxed slightly. Ransome pictured those on watch, Fallows and young Tritton, Bone and Campbell, and all the rest. They had no say in any of it. They obeyed. It had to be enough.

  Hargrave asked, 'When shall we know, sir?'

  Ransome looked at the bulkhead clock. 'There will be airborne attacks on certain objectives, gliders and parachutists all with precise instructions on their objectives. They will be taking off from their bases in Tunisia this evening. After that —' He did not need to finish.

  Insteadjie said, 'This is just a small ship, a minute part of what might be a great campaign. Most of our people are little more than boys. I'll bet that fifty percent were still at school when Hitler marched into Poland, and even after that. Give them all you've got. They deserve it.' He dragged a folded signal pad from his hip-pocket and flattened it on the chart.

  'This is part of a signal from the C-in-C, Admiral Cunningham. I think you should hear it.'

  He read it slowly, very conscious of the wind's deathly moan, the stillness around the table, the ship around all of them.

  "On every commanding officer, officer and rating rests the individual and personal duty of ensuring that no flinching in determination or failure of effort on his own part will hamper this great enterprise."

  He looked up, expecting some witty cynicism from Sherwood or Cusack, but it fell to the young Welshman, Morgan, to say what they were all really thinking.

  He said simply, 'Like Trafalgar in a way, see? Nothing grand, just the right words —' He fell silent as the others looked at him.

  Ransome said quietly, 'Tell your departments. I want, no, 1 need them all to understand —'

  They filed out and Ransome sat for some time before opening his oilskin pouch and adding the last lines of the letter she might never read, or after tomorrow might never wish to.

  Then he made his way to the upper bridge and watched the sea curling back from the bows, the spray bursting through the hawse-pipes and flooding the scuppers. Huddled shapes in oilskins, sweating despite the constant soaking, men at their guns and look-out stations. Men he knew.

  The rest of the flotilla were like ghost ships in the bursting wave-crests and driven spray, the formation smaller now without Scythe. Already that seemed like a month ago instead of days. And tomorrow — what then? He saw Bedworth butting diagonally across the waves, her forecastle slicing through the troughs so that her solitary bow-chaser appeared detached from the rest of the ship as the foam surged around it.

  He heard angry voices, the sharpness of resentment from men who were busy enough trying to prepare themselves for tomorrow. Richard Wakely stormed across the bridge, his shirt plastered to his body like another skin, oblivious to his hair, which was all anyhow in the blown spray.

  'What are you doing, Captain?' He peered across the smeared screen. 'That's Bedworth Ransome looked at him, feeling neither anger nor pity. 'It is.' 'I want —' Wakely clung to a stanchion as the bows dipped again, and water thundered past 'A' Gun and along either side-deck. 'I demand to be transferred to that ship at onceV When Ransome remained silent he shouted, 'You sent that injured sailor across to her! Don't deny that!'

  Ransome thought of Ordinary Seaman Jenner. He had left the bridge to see him swayed over to the destroyer lashed in a stretcher. He might well lose his left foot. It depended how soon Bedivorth had been able to transfer him to one of the big transports. But he would live. Ransome had taken his hand and had been shocked to hear the youngster plead despairingly, i don't want to go, sir! I'm with me mates here!' All that had happened, and he still wanted to stay in Rob Roy.

  The memory touched his mind like a hot wire and he said sharply, 'He actually asked to stay aboard, Mr Wakely, did you know that?' He saw some of the watchkeepers turn to listen but did not care. 'God, I'd have sent you with pleasure, believe me, but the S.N.O. thought otherwise!' He waved his arm across the dripping metal, only then aware that he had forgotten to put on an oilskin. 'You wanted to see our war — well, that is precisely what you will be doing!'

  Wakely stared at him as if he could not believe his ears. 'You don't know what you're saying! I'll see that you regret this!'

  Ransome turned away. 'I hope so. That will mean that we've both survived. Now get off my bridge.'

  He heard feet slithering down the ladder and then Hargrave coughed politely.

  i think he got the message, sir.'

  Ransome breathed out slowly, and wiped his streaming face with his forearm.

  Then he stood up on the gratings and held the top of the screen with both hands.

  He said^'Feel it? The wind's started to drop, Number One.' He had his head on one side like old Jack Weese did in the boatyard when he was gauging the day's weather.

  He swung round and looked at the glistening bridge. It was like hearing a voice. The ship, perhaps?

  He said, 'So it's on. No turning back.'

  'You knew, didn't you, sir?'

  'I'm not sure. Just a feeling.' He shrugged and repeated, 'Not sure.'

  Leading Signalman Mackay watched the Bedworth just in case she might want to talk. He had heard every word, and earlier had seen the skipper leave his bridge to see the lad Jenner over the side.

  Of course he knew. That was why Rob Roy was still afloat when so many others were so much scrap.

  It made him feel better, and he began to hum a forgotten tune to himself.

  By the time darkness finally closed over the flotilla the tension had become like something physical. Reports and requests whispered up and down the voicepipes and telephones, like nerve-ends; and in each ship those ends led directly to her captain.

  Ransome made himself remain in one corner of the bridge where he was within reach of the voicepipes, but able to watch the faint outline of Ranger, which was steering about two cables to starboard.

  Bedwortb had ordered the fleet minesweepers to form two small columns, with the big trawlers following up astern.

  Ranger's outline was little more than a jagged edge of lively spray around her stem, the occasional glassy shine of her hull as she rolled in a deep trough.

  An hour earlier they had passed a slow-moving formation of landing-ships, butting through the choppy seas like huge, ungainly shoe-boxes. They were the first they had seen, and it was still hard to accept that the sixty miles of water between Malta and Sicily was probably packed with landing-craft, transports and heavily armed escorts.

  Landing-craft of any size were difficult to handle even in calm seas. What it must be like for them in this wind, which had still not completely died, did not bear thinking about. They had had little chance to operate and manoeuvre together before as they had been needed for the build-up of men and stores, tanks and armoured fighting vehicles. Most of them were commanded by youngsters, RNVR officers like Sherwood and Morgan, who were standing side by side near the chart-table.

  And what of the troops, Ransome wondered? Many of them must surely be sick from this savage motion, and in no fit state to charge ashore into God alone knew what the Germans had waiting for them. The tank crews would be in no doubt. When exercising with the army alo
ng the Welsh coast Ransome had heard a tank commander explain exactly what happened if one of their number would not start, or broke down at the moment of disembarking.

  He had said with all the casual experience of a 23-year-old, 'You just shove the poor bugger ahead of you into the drink!

  'Radar — bridge.'

  'Bridge?' That was young Tritton, the other Bunny, facing up to something he could barely imagine.

  'Bedworth is taking up station astern, sir.'

  Ransome nodded. 'I heard that.' Bliss was preparing to place himself in the best strategic position, where he could watch the supporting craft as well as the landing-ships when they eventually gridironed through to the beaches.

  Ransome fixed the picture of the chart in his mind. He had studied it until he thought he could draw it blindfold.

  As if to jar at his nerves the radar reported, 'Headland at three-five-zero. Ten miles.'

  Ransome peered at his watch. 'Shut down all transmissions. This weather seems to have kept the Eyetie patrols in their beds, but the R.D.F. will still be working.' Somebody, probably Mackay, gave a chuckle. It was something.

  Sherwood called, 'That will be Cape Passero, sir.' He sounded pleased. 'Right on the button.'

  Ransome wished he could smoke his pipe. Rob Roy was leading her little pack and might be the first to come under fire. It was still better than groping blindly astern. The night could play cruel tricks on the watchkeepers. You would stare at the ship ahead so hard that it would vanish like a mirage. You might panic an<3 increase speed to catch her, only to see her looming up beneath your stem. Terrible moments with the added knowledge that the vessel astern of you might well be charging in pursuit, her bows like a giant cleaver.

  Ransome pictured his men around the ship. Hargrave down aft to oversee the guns there and take charge of damage-control. He would doubtless prefer to be here on the bridge, but the old lesson of too many eggs in one basket was never more true than in a ship at action stations. Mr Bone, grim and resentful, and no doubt clicking his dentures, would be ready to assist with anything but an act of God. And beneath all of them, Campbell with his team, sealed in their oily, thundering world, protected from the sea or a torpedo by steel plate little thicker than plywood. Fallows brooding over his mistake during the air attack; Cusack in the wardroom with his senior S.B.A., Pansy, waiting, probably as young Morgan had pictured it, as they had off Cape Trafalgar, their instruments rattling impatiently.