In Danger's Hour Read online

  Turnham occasionally pointed out a particular wreck which Rob Roy had tried to help, or from which they had taken off survivors.

  Hargrave was stunned to find that he felt cheated, as if all the promise and training at Dartmouth, and later when he had served in two different cruisers, had been a complete waste of time. That until he had joined this slow-moving, poorly armed ship he had seen nothing and done nothing of any use.

  Wrecks, stick-like masts, and mournfully clanging green buoys to mark those which lay in deeper water — it was a battleground, no less than the broad Atlantic.

  The communications rating called, 'From the bridge, sir. Take in the sweep.'

  Hargrave looked at him without seeing him. All we do is clean up the mess, and leave the fighting to others.

  By dusk they had swept the channel six times without finding a single mine. For Hargrave it had been a long, long day — and his first lesson.

  Ian Ransome wriggled his muffled body against the back of his bridge chair and began to wipe the eyepieces of his binoculars for the hundredth time. It was bitterly cold on the open bridge and against the moonlit rim of a cloud he could see the starboard look-out's hair ruffling in the wind like grass on a hillside. Like most of the watchkeepers, the look-out disdained to wear any form of headgear. Some sailors swore that it hampered the faint sound of danger, and others hated to wear their steel helmets anyway, no matter what Admiralty Fleet Orders had to say about it. Some six months back Rob Roy had been under a surprise attack from an aircraft, and their only casualty had been a seaman whose nose had been broken by his companion's helmet rim as he had ducked for cover.

  Ransome fought back a yawn. It was three in the morning or thereabouts, and the ship was still closed-up at action stations. At night their duty was to patrol the swept channel, not to look for mines but to watch out for any stealthy intruder or aircraft trying to drop them.

  The worst part was over. An hour back they had received and acknowledged the brief challenge of the eastbound convoy's wing escort. It was amazing when you thought about it. One convoy forging around the North Foreland, with no lights, hugging one another's shadows like blind men, and they would soon pass another convoy coming down the east coast. Because of the narrowness of the swept channel between land and their own huge minefield, the convoys would have to gridiron through each other. No lights, and only a few with radar, and yet Ransome could recall only one serious collision.

  He listened to the slow, muted beat of engines and pictured Campbell and his men sealed in their brightly lit world. Almost everyone else was above decks, huddled around the gun mountings and shell-hoists, trying to keep awake, praying for the next fanny of steaming kye and some damp sandwiches.

  Fawn and Firebrand, the two Smokey Joes, had returned to base to re-bunker; they would be back on the job tomorrow.

  Now, at reduced speed, Rob Roy, followed by the vague blur of Ranger's silhouette with the Arctic trawler Dryaden somewhere astern, continued their patrol in the area known as Able-Yoke, a huge triangle off the North Foreland which commanded the approaches to both of the major rivers, Thames and Medway.

  The eastbound convoy's escort commander had reported one straggler, an elderly collier in ballast. He could not spare anything to watch over her, so she must make her own way into the Medway once she was round the corner, if she could not complete her repairs in time to rejoin the convoy.

  There was a faint blink of light from the shaded chart-table and Ransome heard Sub-Lieutenant Morgan explaining something to the new replacement, Ordinary Seaman Boyes. He was irwhis division, and Morgan obviously thought he would be better employed at action stations helping with charts than fumbling around an unfamiliar ammunition hoist. Boyes was obviously keen and intelligent, and even though his chance of a temporary commission had been dashed by the bald comment, Lacks confidence. Unlikely to make a suitable candidate, he might have something to offer on the bridge.

  Lieutenant Sherwood was officer-of-the-watch, although Ransome liked them to change round regularly so that they knew each other's work. Just in case. It did not do to dwell on it.

  Sherwood was speaking into the voicepipe now.

  'Watch your head. Steer one-nine-oh.' Then there was Beckett's harsh reply.

  Sherwood was a strange man. He shied away from close relationships. Poor David was the only one who had got along with him, and then not too close. He was a loner in more ways than one. His parents and sisters had been killed in the first months of the war during an air raid. Although he never mentioned it, Ransome guessed it was his reason for his dedication to his work, and why he had volunteered for the most dangerous assignment of all in the first place.

  Midshipman Davenport's voice echoed up another pipe from the automatic pilot in its tiny compartment within the wheelhouse.

  'Plot-Bridge?'

  Sherwood grunted. 'Bridge.'

  'C-7 buoy abeam to starboard, one mile, sir.'

  'Very well.' Sherwood peered round for Morgan. 'Get that?'

  All as usual. Ransome wanted to walk about and restore the circulation and warmth to his limbs. But any movement might break their concentration. And yet if he stayed in the chair he might nod off. It had happened before.

  A feeble light winked abeam, one of the buoys still marking the channel. Many were extinguished for the duration, and even the helpless lightships had been strafed by enemy fighters so that most of them were withdrawn from station. Those which remained were a godsend, and were presumably left alone because they also aided the enemy.

  It felt as if the ship was without purpose and direction as she moved slowly into the darkness, an occasional burst of spray her only sign of movement. There were destroyer patrols, old V &c W's like the poor Viper. Sloops and others from years back, even peacetime paddle-steamers which had carried carefree pas sengers from Brighton and Margate were employed in the grim work of minesweeping and inshore patrols.

  Why were they never prepared?

  'Radar — Bridge!' Surprisingly it was Hargrave's voice.

  Ransome picked up the handset. 'Captain.'

  'I think we've picked up the straggler, sir. Green four-five, two miles.'

  Ransome said, 'Keep me posted, Number One.'

  They should have spotted the straggler earlier; doubtless in one of the new destroyers they would have done. But here in the channel, with shadows and static bouncing off the land, they were lucky to see anything.

  So Hargrave was using his time to familiarise himself with tin-ship's defences. It was a start.

  Ransome said, 'Prepare recognition signal, Bunts. Warn 'A' Gun.'

  He heard Fallows's sharp voice acknowledging the order from the bridge and pictured him near the gun in his ridiculous balaclava.

  The other convoy would be beading along the Suffolk coast about now. Full hulls destined for other ports to be offloaded into heavier ships for the next part of the obstacle race. The Atlantic, the killing-ground as the sailors called it, or deeper to the south — the Indian Ocean, anywhere.

  The convoy might wait for a night-time dash through the narrow seas, or if they were fast enough might risk the daylight, aircraft, Cap Gris Nez guns and all.

  Ransome slid from the chair and moved to the opposite side of the bridge. Shafts of pain shot through his legs with every step and he swore silently while he waited for the cramp to go away. He stood on the steel locker which held the spare signal flares so that he was able to train his glasses above the smeared screen. He felt the wind across his cheek, the rasp of the towel, now sodden with spray, against his neck.

  No sign of the straggler yet. And yet the moon was up there, glinting around some of the clouds, making an occasional silver line on the horizon.

  Above the bridge, Hargrave crouched over the senior radar operator's shoulder and stared at the revolving, misty shaft of light until his eyes throbbed. Like a badly developed film shot underwater, he thought. Little blips and smudges abounded, but he had already taught himself to recognise the u
nchanging outline of the coast, unchanging except that it quivered in the strange light as if about to disintegrate.

  Booker, the operator, said, 'With the new sets, you can pick out individual buoys no matter what back-echo you get.' His voice was gentle, a New Zealander from Wellington. How had he found his way here, Hargrave wondered?

  Booker added, 'Watch the ship, sir.' He gestured with a pencil. 'She's almost up to that buoy now. Better tell the Old -1 mean the captain.'

  Hargrave hesitated. 'The buoy looks too big.'

  Booker chuckled. 'It's marking a wreck, sir. Upperworks of the tanker Maidstone.' He glanced at his clipboard of wrecks and unusual marks in the channel, so that his eyes shone green in the twisting phosphorescent glow. 'Why, sometimes at low water —'

  He broke off as Hargrave snatched up the handset. 'Radar — Bridge!'

  It seemed to take an age for Ransome to answer.

  'Sir, the wreck buoy at Green four-five. We've picked up the upperworks . . .'

  Ransome sounded calm. 'Impossible, Number One, it's high water now -'

  Then Hargrave heard him shout, 'Starshell! Green four-five! Range four thousand yards!'

  Booker stared at the set, then he exclaimed, 'Jesus, sir! It's moving!'

  The E-boat must have been idling near the wreck buoy, taking its time after the convoy had passed, neither wishing to be seen nor to engage. The unexpected arrival of the lonely straggler must have taken the E-boat completely by surprise, as with a crashing roar of power it surged away from the buoy, ripping the night apart with its Daimler Benz engines.

  Ransome pounded the rail with his fist. 'Open fire!'

  The gun below the bridge recoiled violently and seconds later, with the echo of the explosion still rolling across the water, the starshell cast its blinding light across the scene, making night into day. It was all there, the rising jagged wash of the E-boat as it increased speed away from the land, twin splashes when two torpedoes hit the water and tore towards the helpless collier.

  'All guns open fire!'

  The air cringed to the rattle of Oerlikons and machine-guns, the vivid balls of tracer lifting away from the ship and then from Ranger astern to plunge down on the fast-moving E-boat.

  The explosions were dulled by distance, but the giant waterspouts that shot up alongside the collier told their own story.

  'Radar — Bridge! E-boat steering oh-seven-zero! Losing contact!'

  Ransome thrust his hands into his pockets as the moon broke through the clouds, so that when the starshell died they would miss nothing. The collier was going down fast, the single, spindly funnel tearing adrift and lurching over the side with one of the loading derricks. They could hear her anchor cable running out, the explosions had probably done that, and in the arctic moonlight Ransome saw the rising wall of smoke and steam. One torpedo at least must have found the old ship's engine-room. Nobody would get out of there. He thought of Campbell; he would be listening, understanding better than anyone. Scalded to death as the sea roared in.

  Ransome shook himself. 'Scrambling nets at the double! Signal Ranger to stand off and cover us!' He craned over the voicepipe, his eyes on the reflected ripple of flames as the other ship caught fire.

  'Swain! Close as you can! Dead slow both engines!'

  'Aye, aye, sir!'

  He heard the tinny rattle of the ceasefire gong and imagined the E-boat racing away like an assassin. Forty-two knots against Rob Roy's maximum of seventeen. He felt the bitterness welling up inside him.

  'Stand by to come alongside starboard side-to.' He watched the other ship loom from the darkness, the familiar crackle of flames, tiny pathetic figures running, but to where? At least she wasn't a tanker. The whole sea would be ablaze by now.

  He leaned over. 'Starboard a point, Swain. Steady now.'

  He heard Hargrave beside him. 'Well done, Number One.' He kept his gaze on the other ship as men ran forward with the Buffer to wedge fenders into place for the impact. It would have to be quick.

  'I — I'm sorry —'

  'Don't keep apologising. You saw a flaw in the picture.' Hargrave had obviously been expecting to be blamed in some way.

  Ransome said tersely, 'Stop together! Port ten!'

  The ship was towering above the starboard anchor now. They could all smell the fire, the charred paint, even hear the jubilant roar of inrushing water. A ship dying.

  'Get up forrard, Number One. Fast as you like. She's going to roll over. Haul those poor bastards on board!'

  Minutes dragged like hours, and a fire-fighting team dashed into the bows as flames licked over the fairleads and made some of the seamen leap to safety.

  To Sherwood, Ransome said, 'The E-boat was lying low. You know what that means?'

  Sherwood's pale features shone with the orange light from the fires, his eyes like twin flames.

  'She was dropping mines, sir.'

  Ransome craned over the screen and saw Hargrave signal with his hands.

  He snapped, 'Half astern together! Wheel amidships!'

  Slowly at first and then with sudden desperation Rob Roy's screws thrashed the sea into a surge of foam as she backed away from the sinking collier.

  Ransome heard the thunder of heavy equipment tearing adrift and smashing through the hull, saw the old bows rise as she began to turn turtle. Whoever had been left behind would stay with her.

  Hargrave clambered into the bridge. 'Eight survivors, sir. Two badly burned. The P.O.S.B.A. is coping with them.'

  They both watched as the ship dived in a welter of leaping spray and acrid smoke. She did not have far to go, and hit the seabed with such a crash that it felt as if the minesweeper had run aground.

  Ransome said, 'Stop together.' To Sherwood he added, 'Resume course and speed.' He looked at Hargrave. 'All right?'

  'One of them was nearly burned alive, sir. How can they —' He broke off as a dark figure handed Ransome a signal flimsy.

  Ransome held it beneath the chart table's hood and said quietly, 'We shall begin sweeping at 0500, Number One.' He watched Hargrave's astonishment. 'What did you expect, a medal?'

  He looked at the rising welter of flotsam from the vanished collier.

  'All part of the job. Now take over while I try and outguess the Krauts.' He hesitated by the chart table. 'Nothing moves until we say so. If that's any comfort, Number One?'

  Hargrave heard someone retching and knew it was young Boyes.

  They had been in action just moments ago, tracer tearing the night apart while a ship had blown up before his eyes. Now even the moon had gone into hiding, ashamed perhaps for all of them.

  Again it was like being cheated. There would be no call to arms, men facing their front to defy the enemy.

  Just the cold signal. Begin sweeping at 0500.

  Hargrave stepped up beside Ransome's tall chair and leaned against the screen. Below by 'A' Gun he could hear a man whistling as he sponged out the muzzle.

  Afterwards he thought it was like a lament.

  Next of Kin

  The weeks which followed Hargrave's arrival on board Rob Roy were an unending test to his ability and patience as first lieutenant. The strain of minesweeping was double-edged; day after day the routine never changed, sweeping from first light to dusk and often patrols during the night. And yet while there was both boredom and frustration the anxiety of waiting for the unexpected was always there.

  Four days at sea, then perhaps one or two in harbour, when tempers flared, or the gripping, suppressed fear erupted into drunken fights ashore, with the inevitable queue at the first lieutenant's defaulters' table the next day.

  Convoys threaded their way back and forth through the narrows and around the newspapers' beloved Hellfire Corner. The enemy continued his relentless attack by air, by E-boats, and by bombardment. Men, usually cheerful, disappeared on compassionate leave to return red-eyed and despairing. In some ways it was wrong to have them back, for their private grief, the loss of a wife or family, made them slipshod in a job where
carelessness could mean sudden death.

  Only from that other war in the Middle East came daily news of success and advances where before there had been retreat and chaos.

  The almost legendary Eighth Army, which had been the last line to stand between Rommel's crack Afrika Korps and the conquest of Egypt, had never stopped hitting back. The infantry must have marched and fought all the way from El Alamein, following the coast through Libya and on into Tunis itself. There had been no stopping them. Now, if the news reports could be believed, the enemy's retreat had turned into a rout. The once unbeatable German desert army was hemmed in near Cape Bon. After that, there was nowhere else to go but across the water to Sicily or Italy. All those months, famous names of places like Tobruk and Benghazi, which had changed hands so often it was said that the wretched inhabitants kept pictures of both Churchill and Hitler in their cafes until they were certain who was the victor, were a part of history.

  Hargrave watched the resentful faces across the defaulters' table. One of them had been the young seaman Tinker who had returned from leave overdue after fighting a losing battle with the M.P.s. Joe Beckett, the burly coxswain, had told Hargrave in private,' 'E's a fine lad, sir, never no trouble, but you know 'ow it is, like. 'Is dad was always away puttin' up aircraft 'angers, and his mum was 'avin' it off most of the time with an A.R.P. bloke.'

  Hargrave had replied, 'It's no excuse. You should know that, Cox'n.'

  Beckett fiad glared back at him. ' 'Cause I'm a reg'lar, is that wot you mean, sir?'

  'Partly. And because you are expected to maintain discipline too!'

  They had barely spoken since.

  The lower deck buzz about leave, or leaf as Topsy Turnham called it, proved to be faulty, so that when the news did come it ran through the whole ship like a tonic.

  Hargrave heard it first from the captain when he mounted the bridge to take over the forenoon watch.

  Ransome was leaning back in his chair, as if he never left it, letting the warm breeze ruffle his hair, his grubb.y duffle-coat wide open while he stared up at the sky. It was strange to be steaming ahead of their consorts with no tell-tale black balls hoisted, or the Oropesa float skimming above the water far out on the ship's quarter.