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.