Moncrieff said, ‘Got a fast car as soon as I read the signal. Bad show about Fawn. Still—’ He did not finish it.
Ransome tasted the brandy’s fire on his tongue. He felt that it was his first time off the bridge for years. He had not even found time to bath and change before Moncrieff had bustled aboard.
Ransome glanced at the envelope he had put aside for Moncrieff. The full report. He supposed it would be filed with all the others, and then forgotten. In war it was best to forget.
Moncrieff said, ‘You’ve done wonders with Rob Roy.’ He nodded firmly. ‘Smart as paint. I see you’ve not been able to get rid of that rascal Beckett?’ He kept his right hand deep in his pocket while he tilted his glass with the other. ‘What about this Hargrave chap?’
Ransome smiled wearily. ‘Settling in, sir.’
Moncrieff frowned so that his twin white brows were joined like a rime of snow.
‘Bloody hope so.’ He looked round the cabin. ‘God, I do miss her.’
He had shown less emotion when his wife had died, Ransome thought.
Moncrieff was one of those men you rarely heard about. He had been everywhere and done just about everything. A deck officer in the Union Castle Line, he had fought pirates in the Malacca Strait when he had been a mate aboard some clapped-out tramp steamer, had sailed in the Fastnet Race, and had been in so many obscure campaigns that even his medal ribbons seemed a part of a world long gone.
‘Anyway.’ He made up his mind. ‘I’m putting Ranger’s captain in charge during the leave period. He was the last commanding officer to have any decent time ashore.’
Ransome thought of Lieutenant-Commander Gregory, Ranger’s captain. He had hurried aboard within minutes of docking in Chatham, just ahead of Moncrieff.
He had said, ‘But for that bloody dan buoy, Ranger would have been astern of you, as always.’ He had looked round despairingly, which was rare for him. ‘God, it would have been us!’
Ransome had replied, ‘We all think that, James, every bloody time. So forget it.’ He smiled sadly. He was a fine one to talk.
Moncrieff saw the small smile. It did not reach the eyes, he thought. A man would only stand so much. Command of any ship, battle-cruiser or M.L., took its own toll of a man’s last resources. This small offering of leave might do the trick. It must help anyway.
Moncrieff asked, ‘Where will you go, Ian?’
Ransome shrugged. ‘Home, I suppose. I’ve not had much time with my parents since I got Rob Roy.’
He did not want to talk about it. He asked, ‘Are you going to tell me why we’re here, sir?’
Moncrieff’s bright eyes twinkled and almost vanished into folds of crow’s-feet.
‘Cheeky bugger, Ian.’ He offered the empty glass. ‘Fill this up, eh?’
Ransome did as he was told. In some ways Moncieff was more like a father than his Senior Officer. But God help him if he had bumped the dock wall as they had moored. He had seen Moncrieff’s keen stare as he examined the ship for possible damage, neglect, he would call it.
Then Moncrieff said, ‘It’s Top Secret, of course.’ Their eyes met.
Ransome waited, wondering how he would react, preparing himself.
Moncrieff said, ‘It’s the Med. We’re going to need a lot of fleet minesweepers out there. So that’s what this overhaul is all about. You’ll not get much opportunity later on.’
‘That’s nothing new, sir.’
They both smiled. Then Moncrieff added, ‘In Rob Roy’s case, it’ll mean a couple of new gun mountings. Two pairs of Oer-likons instead of the two singles, and a few other bits and pieces. No need to bother your head about that just now.’
Ransome pictured it. More guns meant extra hands. The ship was already overcrowded; they all were.
‘You and Ranger will be carrying doctors too.’
Ransome nodded slowly. Doctors were rare in small ships. He said, ‘We’re going to invade, sir? The other way round for a change?’
Moncrieff frowned. ‘I’ve said nothing. Keep it to yourself, but yes, I think an invasion is in the wind. Sicily is my guess.’
There was a tap at the door and Hargrave poked his head around the curtain.
‘Come in, Number One.’
Moncrieff nodded. ‘How d’you do?’ As usual he did not remove his hand from his pocket to take Hargrave’s as he made a half-attempt to offer it.
Ransome marked his expression. He would see it as a snub, or rudeness from another reservist. In fact, Moncrieff rarely showed his hand except to throw up a casual salute. He had lost his three middle fingers in an air attack at Dunkirk. His hand was like a crude pair of callipers. It was fortunate that he was left-handed anyway.
Moncrieff said bluntly, ‘You think sweeping a bit of a letdown, eh?’ Then he shook his head, ‘No, your C.O. didn’t tell me anything. I guessed it.’
He warmed to his pet theme. ‘There was a time, when this war started, when reservists were outnumbered by the regular navy. Looked down on in some ships, I would say. Well, as you now know, that situation has fortunately changed. All these young men you work with joined up for one thing only, to fight the Hun – not to make a nice comfortable career for themselves, right?’
‘I didn’t see it like that, sir.’
‘Good.’ Moncrieff glanced at his empty glass. ‘’Cause if you did, I’d remind you that but for these Wavy Navy chaps and old codgers like meself, Mr bloody Hitler would have run up his flag over Buck House two years ago!’
Ransome felt sorry for Hargrave and asked, ‘What did you want, Number One?’
Hargrave took the question like a lifeline. ‘It’s the base padre on the telephone, sir.’ He looked at Moncrieff. ‘About a service for Fawn.’
Moncrieff struggled to his feet. ‘Yes, I forgot. I suppose it won’t hurt to have a few words with God. Can’t help poor Peter Bracelin though.’
He turned and stared at Ransome. ‘You’ve earned a rest, fifty times over, Ian. So use it. Lose yourself. Leave this little lot to me.’ He held out his uninjured hand and shook Ransome’s very gently. ‘And don’t worry about Rob Roy either. She’s my next of kin now.’
They went on deck together and watched a khaki ambulance pulling away from the brow. The last of Fawn’s survivors who had died while the ship had headed up the Medway.
All told, Fawn had lost thirty of her company.
They had all worked together for many months, a lifetime in any war. They would be sadly missed. So would Fawn. Ransome saluted as Moncrieff strode heavily across the brow. Poor old Smokey Joe.
He said, ‘Get the people away on leave, Number One. The cox’n and leading writer will help you. They know what to do.’
‘I was wondering, sir—’
Ransome watched him calmly. Invasion. It was like seeing it in bright painted letters a mile high. The where didn’t much matter. They only had to care about the how.
He said, ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to forget it, if you were about to ask me about leave, Number One. I need a good officer here in my absence. And, well, let’s face it, Number One, you’ve only been aboard a dog-watch. Right?’
Hargrave gave a rueful grin. ‘Understood, sir.’
I doubt that, Ransome thought. He said, ‘It’s ten days. I’ll see what I can do for you.’