He thought too of Midshipman Davenport, with Boyes, man-ning, the plot-table in the wheelhouse. Two boys from the same .. school, but a thousand miles distant from each other. After this, Davenport would be ready to pickup his first ring. But not in Rob roy, which was just as well.
Sherwood said, 'Time, sir.'
Very well.' Ransome crossed to the central voicepipe.
'Revolutions for half-speed, Cox'n.'
He could picture Beckett without effort, even though he had never seen him at the wheel. Part of his own strength, like Campbell and the horny Buffer.
'Revolutions one-one-zero, sir.'
Ransome made to move away but asked, 'All right down there, Cox'n?'
He heard a laugh. 'Yeh, sir, like bugs in a pusser's blanket!'
Ransome moved to his chair and leaned against it, feeling the deck shiver and sway with each thrash of the screws.
Less than ten miles. The enemy's coastal batteries could doubtless shoot this far.
He looked up as the stars as they flitted between the pale Clouds. Like that moment at Plymouth, he thought, the darkened outline of Codrington House through the rustling trees. Her mouth against his, his arm around her shoulders. Would she know what he was doing? Could the fate or whatever it was which had brought them together, tell her that too?
'Aircraft, sir!'
Ransome swung round. 'Bearing?'
'Not certain, sir!' The man was swinging his powerful night-glasses in a full arc. 'P'raps I was wrong, but it was a sound.' He nodded firmly, 'I'm sure of it, sir.'
Ransome touched his arm as he passed him. The seaman was one of the best look-outs. It was why he was here on the bridge.
Sherwood joined in. On every ship heads would be twisting round, men dragging off helmets or woolly hats so that their hearing would not be distorted or tricked.
Sherwood suggested quietly, 'Bombers?'
Ransome stood away from the side and cupped his hands behind his ears. 'Shouldn't be. Wrong direction.' He stared at him through the darkness. 'Those gliders we heard about?'
Sherwood shook his head. 'No, sir. Too far out. They're supposed to be letting them off their towlines somewhere in a fifty-mile drop area inland, according to my notes.'
'Aircraft, sir!' The seaman lurched back from his night-glasses, and no wonder.
It was like some great bat, black against the stars and reaching out across the slow-moving ship as if about to seize her from the water.
Someone shouted, 'For Christ's sake, they've released them in the wrong place!'
Ransome felt his face stiffen as the huge glider passed directly overhead, the air rushing over its wings like a great wind through a forest. There was another glider directly behind it, swaying wildly as its pilot realised what had happened.
The strong headwind, a last-moment miscalculation, or inexperience; it was all too late now.
They heard the first glider smash into the sea, even saw the white spectres of spray as one of the wings was ripped away by the terrible impact. Ransome tried not to see it in his mind. The airborne troops packed inside, loaded down with weapons and equipment.
Tritton's voice broke into his thoughts. 'First lieutenant, sir!' He sounded shocked out of his wits, and huddled down as another glider tore overhead and then dipped heavily towards the water.
Ransome asked, 'What does he want?' When Tritton remained silent he shouted, 'Pull yourself together!'
Tritton replied in a small voice, 'Requests permission to lower rafts and scrambling-nets, sir.'
Ransome turned away, his mind cringing as another glider hit the waves and flopped over in a great welter of spray. Men were dying, drowning, not knowing why or how.
He heard himself say, 'Denied! We are here to support the landings, not search for those who lost their way!' He did not recognise his own voice. 'One of the trawlers will carry out a sweep.'
Sherwood watched him, feeling his anguish and sharing it, perhaps for the first time.
Morgan whispered, 'God, what a decision to have to make!'
Sherwood saw some tiny pinpricks of light, far away abeam lifejacket lamps. A common enough sight to sailors. But to those poor devils it must be a moment of horror.
'Flare, sir! Dead ahead!'
Ransome stared across the screen and saw the red flare drifting like a drip of molten steel.
He wanted to think about it, what it meant; the Royal Marines already ashore, or the Germans at last facing the reality of attack. The bridge suddenly lit up, as if a giant torch had been directed over it. Faces and fittings stood out but left the rest in darkness. The horizon astern flashed again, like lightning or a great electric storm. Ransome waited, counted seconds as they did at Dover. Then he heard the far-off roll of heavy gunfire and almost simultaneously the express roar of shells passing overhead.
Whoooosb! Then the tell-tale blink of lights from the land as the first great salvoes found their mark.
Ransome tugged his cap more firmly across his forehead and stood high on the gratings. Falling further and further astern now, the abandoned airborne soldiers - those who had survived the crashes — would hear the huge shells ripping above them from the invisible bombarding squadron, and would know they had been forgotten.
It was a madness, more terrible this time because he could not control it, but the smashed and abandoned gliders were made suddenly meaningless.
'Slow ahead together!'
They were committed. In minutes now the first landing-ships in this sector would be passing to starboard.
Their madness was about to begin.
Hargrave clung to the shield of the after four-inch gun and tried not to blink as the horizon flared up again and again. It was still dark, and yet in the regular flashes the fragments of the whole stood out like parts of a crazy dream.
He recalled hearing Ransome's voice in the background when he had told poor Tritton his decision. Hargrave accepted it was the right one but still wondered if he would have done the same.
He had seen the great gliders hurtling out of the sky, some hanging on longer than their companions before smashing down into the sea.
Why should it seem different from any crashing aircraft? Men died every day. Hargrave rejected the argument immediately. What must those soldiers have been thinking when they realised the inevitable? All the training and preparation wasted? Or small, precious moments like the last farewell on some railway station or garden path? A wife, a child, a lover?
He winced as another massive salvo thundered overhead. There were battleships as well as cruisers back there. The navy he had been bred for. Great guns, order and discipline. The old flagship Warspite, the darling of the Mediterranean fleet, would most likely be adding her voice to the onslaught, and dropping her salvoes of some nine tons a minute on targets she could not even see.
The gun crew started to cheer as the pale silhouettes of landing-craft began to slide past beyond Ranger's station abeam.
Hargrave snapped, 'Keep silent!', feeling their resentment but knowing that any second the communications rating might be passed an order from the bridge.
Between the thundering roar of heavy gunfire they heard the armada thrusting ahead, the choppy water surging against their blunt bows and ramps while the smaller, infantry landing-craft followed close astern as if afraid they might lose their way.
Once, just once, Hargrave heard the sound of bagpipes. What brave, crazy soldier could find the wind to play at a moment like this, he wondered? The next salvo blotted out the sound and Hargrave pictured the tanks lined up behind their steel doors, the air choking with fumes as they revved their engines. In the smaller, boxlike craft there would only be flesh and blood, eyes staring from beneath their helmets, bayonets fixed, legs braced for the moment of impact.
The Buffer appeared below him. 'I've spread the fire parties about.' He watched the lieutenant and wondered. 'Good idea of yours, sir.'
Hargrave had the great desire to yawn despite the gunfire. He dared not. Others ha
d often told him it was the first sign of fear.
Gipsy Guttridge wiped his gunsight with his glove. 'Gettin' lighter already!'
The Buffer grunted. 'I remember once when I was in Sicily afore the war -' He broke off as the sea exploded in a towering spire of water between the two lines of minesweepers. 'Strewth!'
The spray drifted across the deck and Hargrave spat out the taste of cordite.
The enemy had woken up at last.
The next pattern of shells fell to port. Hargrave gripped a stanchion as the wheel went over, and the deck began to shake to an increase of speed.
He peered astern and saw Dunlin following her leader while the others remained shrouded in darkness.
The communications rating had his headphones pressed against his ears and did not realise he was shouting.
'Why don't we shoot! Can't we 'it the buggers?'
Gipsy Guttridge twisted round on his little seat and gave him a pitying glare.
'Wot, with tbisV He slapped the breech. 'Like a fart in th'wind against that lot!'
More explosions threw up great columns of torn water. Against the dull sea they looked like solid icebergs. They seemed much closer, and Hargrave guessed they were around the headland now, and felt the change in the motion as the sea levelled off.
He saw dark orange flashes from the land, the occasional glitter of tracer. Too soon for the landings, so it must be the commando, or maybe some of the airborne who had found their objectives after all. Shells continued to whimper overhead but only daylight would measure their success.
Someone muttered, i just 'ope they know wot they're doin'!'
Gipsy Guttridge grinned.' 'Ear that, Buffer? Pathetic, ain't it? I seen more blokes killed by our admirals than the bloody enemy!' He looked defiantly at Hargrave's back, but the lieutenant did not rise to it.
Turnham said, 'Stow it, Gipsy, enough's enough!'
Hargrave was staring at the pale stars, the way they seemed to leave part of the sky in darkness. He felt his heart begin to thump.
It was the land, not an illusion. The high ground beyond the beaches which pointed north to Syracuse. They were that close. He gripped a stanchion as hard as he could while he assembled his thoughts. All the while, one stood out in his mind, like a voice yelling in his ear. If the captain fell today, he would be in command. Can I do it?
The Buffer seized his wrist. 'Down, sir, for Gawd's sake!'
Hargrave watched the glowing ball of light as it tore across the sea barely feet above the water.
His mind had time only to record that it was a flat-trajectory shell, probably fired by an anti-tank gun of some kind, when it hit the ship like a giant hammer.
A man shouted incredulously, 'Didn't explode! Went straight out the other side!'
Hargrave watched the second shell and waited for their luck to run out.
Who Is the Brave?
Chief Petty Officer Joe Beckett shouted up the voicepipe, his eyes concentrating on the gyro repeater tape, 'Steady on zero-three-zero, sir! Both engines full ahead!'
Nobody else in the wheelhouse spoke now and the men at the telegraphs watched Beckett's hands on the polished spokes, and drew comfort from his strength while the hull quivered to the shock of falling shells.
Beside the plot-table Boyes gripped a fire-extinguisher bracket, as much to be doing something as to retain his balance. The ship felt as if she was moving at a tremendous speed, even though he had heard the others say often enough that she could barely manage eighteen knots with a following wind.
He stared at the others, their eyes and expressions illuminated only by the compass and indicator lights, although like the tense figures near him he had already noticed that the sky was lightening outside the bridge, the observation slits pale instead of black.
Beckett said between his teeth, 'Reckon they've landed by now, poor sods!'
Leading Seaman Reeves murmured, 'Don't feel all that bloody safe meself!'
Beckett roared, 'Close that door, you stupid oaf!'
The starboard door clanged shut again, and Boyes found himself forced painfully into his shrinking corner as Richard Wakely and his cameraman Andy crowded inside the wheelhouse.
Wakely peered anxiously round in the darkness. 'What's happening?'
Beckett bit back an angry retort and twisted the wheel a few spokes to hold the line steady on the gyro repeater.
It would do no good to take it out of Wakely, he thought. He was a celebrity, everyone knew that, and civvy or not could make a lot of trouble if he wanted to. He felt his stomach muscles tighten as the hull bounced to another explosion. Big shells from some Kraut shore battery. He gave a bitter smile. Or their own bombardment falling short of the target. He thought of Wakely again. Shit-scared. But how could that be, after all he was supposed to have done? Or was that just a line of bull, the sort that old Goebbels and Lord Haw-Haw gave out on the German radio?
Midshipman Davenport stared at Wakely. 'We're under fire, sir!'
It was meant to come out like it did on the films, but Davenport sounded near to breaking-point.
Wakely looked at the plot-table, then at the other figures near the wheel, if they're landing troops now, why are we still being fired at?' *
Beckett snapped, 'Listen! -' He nodded his head at the voicepipe. 'Up there on the bridge, they can tell you better than I can!'
Andy the cameraman unslung his heavy leather case. 'I'm going to get some shots as soon as it's light enough.' He was a small, rat-like man, everybody's idea of the downtrodden male, but there was no doubting his determination as he reached for one of the door-clips. He grinned. 'See you all later, gents — least I hope so!' Then he was gone.
Wakely exclaimed, 'Thinks he knows everything. Just because he was in Manchuria and the Spanish Civil War he imagines that -' He broke off and ducked as a voice came down the pipe. 'Tracer to port!'
Boyes felt the hull jerk as the shell struck the side like a fiery bolt. He did not know it, but the shell punctured the plating as if it was paper and ripped across the upper messdeck and cracked through the opposite side without exploding.
Wakely cried shrilly, 'Get me out of this!'
Beckett glared briefly at the midshipman. 'Keep that lunatic quiet, Mr Davenport! It's bad enough without 'im!'
The second shell hit the port wing of the bridge and ricochetted from the Oerlikon mounting before smashing into the wheelhouse. The rest, to Boyes at least, was unreal, a moment rendered motionless in time, as if his own world had stopped.
He realised that the shell had rebounded from two sides of the wheelhouse before exploding in a vivid white glare. He knew he was on his knees and thought he was screaming, the sound muffled by deafness. He felt the bite of broken glass in his fingers and knew the plot-table had been shattered to fragments; his shorts were sodden, and he wanted to cry out, to die before the agony came. He guessed from its sticky warmth that it was blood.
Beckett hung on to the wheel, his mind ringing to the explosion. In the beam of light from one of the repeaters which had had its shield blown aside, he saw Leading Seaman Reeves sliding down the steel plates, eyes wide and staring, his slow progress marked by blood until he hit the gratings and rolled over. Even in the poor light and trapped smoke he saw the hole in his back. It was big enough to put your boot inside.
Beckett felt a pain in his thigh and then the spread of fire running up his side.
But he did not fall, and the pain did not weaken his voice as he shouted, 'Wheelhouse - Bridge!'
Then Ransome's voice, very near, his lips against the bell-mouth. 'This is the captain!'
Beckett dashed sweat from his eyes and steadied the spokes as the lubber's line seemed to bend away from the gyro bearing.
'Men wounded down 'ere, sir!' The splinter in his thigh seemed to twist like a branding iron and he gasped,' 'Oly shit! Sorry, sir, but I can't tell wot's up!'
Ransome called, 'Help on way. Can you hold the wheel?'
'Sir!'
'Bring her r
ound. Steer three-five-zero.'
Beckett nodded. Was he the only one alive?
Boyes staggered to his feet, his mind clearing, sobbing uncontrollably as he realised that he was all right but for a cut hand. Wakely was pressed against the side, his fingers interlaced over his head, moaning and gasping, but apparently unhurt.
One of the telcgraphsmen was on his knees and had turned over the messenger by the emergency telephone. He croaked, 'Bert's bought it, Swain.' His control cracked, 'Jesus, he's got no face left!'
Beckett snapped, 'You okay, Boyes?'
But Boyes was trying to drag Midshipman Davenport into a sitting position. It had been his blood which had soaked his shorts; in the strange light it looked black, solid.
it's Mr Davenport!' He felt close to tears as he tried to make him comfortable. First Aid books had told him nothing about this. Davenport must have taken a shell fragment in the back, which had thrown him across the cowering Wakely and had consequently saved his life. He was probably dead. Boyes stared at him, the familiar features twisted into a mask, like the face of someone who had suddenly aged.
Beckett said, ' 'Old on, Boyes! Stiff upper lip, ain't that wot they say where you comes from?'
The cToor crashed open and Surgeon Lieutenant Cusack stepped over the broken table, his eyes taking it all in, his shoes skidding in blood.
He saw the man on his knees. 'Can you manage?'
The telegraphsman hung his head like an exhausted swimmer. 'Just about.'
Cusack nodded and turned away from the chief quartermaster's slumped corpse; only Reeve's bulging eyes held in a small beam of light seemed to cling on to life.
In Danger's Hour Page 21
