He continued after a glance at the clock. ‘A flag officer has been appointed solely for that task.’
Somehow Ransome knew who it was going to be.
The commander said, ‘Vice-Admiral Hargrave. Good chap, knows his stuff.’
Ransome thought about it. It should not make any difference who it was. Yet somehow he knew that it did. He wondered where Moncrieff was, why he was not sharing this meeting.
‘So be prepared for sailing orders, Ransome. You’ll be routed with a convoy, that’s about all I can tell you.’ He grinned and looked human. ‘About all I know!’
‘Will Commander Moncrieff still be our senior officer, sir?’
The man pouted his lower lip. ‘I was coming to that. Moncrieff is a fine sailor, but—’
Ransome stiffened in the chair. It would break his heart.
‘He’s used to the home patch, the War Channel, moulding a lot of fishermen into minesweepers. The Med is different. The flotilla will be commanded by a small destroyer, a headquarters ship which can direct and divert as the occasion arises.’ He softened his voice. ‘Commander Moncrieff will be in control until Gibraltar. That’s it, I’m afraid.’
Ransome did not remember much else of the interview. He found a lieutenant waiting for him by the operations room, who explained that Moncrieff had already returned to Falmouth. A car was provided for Ransome, and a signal had already been sent to the flotilla to announce his time of arrival there. So there would be no walks away from the sea.
Moncrieff wanted to be alone, to face up to the decision in his own way.
The same Wren was leaning against the staff car, and opened the door for him as he approached.
He tried to smile. ‘Home, James.’
She studied him and liked what she saw. She knew all about Ransome; most of the girls at the Wrennery did.
Past the saluting sentries and the neat sandbags, Ransome watched her gloved hands on the wheel as she steered the big Humber with reckless enthusiasm around a convoy of army lorries.
‘How long have you been in the Wrens?’
She puffed out her cheeks and blew some hair from her eyes.
‘Six months, sir. Does it show?’
‘No. I was just thinking of someone.’
She grimaced. Pity. She said, ‘My brother’s in Ranger, by the way, sir.’
He looked at her. ‘Who?’
‘The subbie, John Dent.’
A face fell into its slot. A navy within a navy. Like a family, with its own pride and pain like any other.
They reached Falmouth in record time. The girl was still staring after him as he walked towards the jetty where a boat was waiting.
Hargrave was standing with the side-party as he climbed up from Rob Roy’s motor boat, the ‘skimming-dish’, while the boatswain’s mates split the air apart with their shrill calls.
It was the one part of the job he had never got used to, or took for granted.
Hargrave saluted. ‘Welcome back, sir.’ He looked relaxed and pleased about something.
As they walked towards Ransome’s quarters Hargrave said, ‘Orders have just arrived, sir.’
Ransome smiled. The S.O.I, must have known that even as they were talking together. In case I got killed on the road, perhaps?
Hargrave added, ‘Commander Moncrieff is aboard. Sorry, sir, I forgot.’
‘How is he?’
Hargrave was surprised at the question. ‘Er – much as usual, sir.’
So he had said nothing.
Moncrieff was sitting in the cabin, his legs crossed while he thumbed through an old log-book.
He looked up and shrugged. It made him look as if he was in pain.
‘He told you?’
‘Yes, sir. I can’t say how bad I feel about it.’ He watched the disfigured hand resting on the open log, like a pair of crude callipers. It was his old log. When he had still been in command.
‘The admiral is probably right. I’m too old for new tricks. I’m a sailor, not a bloody robot. No doubt the new senior officer will have it at his fingertips. Conferences and meetings all the time, that kind of caper.’ He smiled at some old memory and added, ‘You know what I think? From the ashes of today’s conferences will arise the phoenix of tomorrow’s fuck-ups!’
Then he said, ‘Your orders are here. You’re under twenty-four hours’ notice. I’d like to see all the commanding officers this evening, sometime in the dog-watches. I don’t want to make a thing of my immediate future. We’ve still got to reach Gibraltar, you know.’
‘I understand.’ He looked at the clock.
Moncrieff grinned. ‘I thought you’d never bloody well ask. Yes, young man, I’d relish a large drink right noivV
Ransome glanced round the cabin. He was glad Moncrieff would be using it on his last passage in Rob Roy. Ransome would spend most of his time on the bridge or in his sea-cabin there.
It would be bitter for Moncrieff all the same, no matter how he tried to disguise it.
Later, with the other nine commanding officers packed into the wardroom, he had seen no weakening in Moncrieff’s aggressive enthusiasm or his ability to tell all of them what he needed from them; what he expected.
Moncrieff said afterwards, ‘I’ll be ashore tonight, Ian. See you an hour before we leave harbour.’ He studied him thoughtfully. ‘You’re looking better. You’ll tell me why, when you want to, I expect.’
By eight bells that evening every man in the flotilla had been told about sailing orders. Bags of letters would be going ashore in the morning, all carefully censored, just in case. Like the humorous posters you saw in canteens and bars. Be like dad, keep mum! Or a sailor shooting his mouth off to his girl-friend with a barely disguised Hitler or Goering crouching under their table.
After North Africa, the Germans and their Italian allies would be expecting an attack. They could not guard the whole coastline from Greece to France. But just one hint…
There was a tap at the door. Hargrave stepped in and asked, ‘I was wondering, sir, would you join us in the wardroom? They would all appreciate it.’
Ransome smiled. ‘Of course. We may be a bit busy later on.’ He would go ashore and telephone from there. His parents too.
He glanced up as Leading Telegraphist Carlyon hovered outside the open door. ‘Come in, Sparks.’
To Hargrave he said, ‘After you’ve had your meal, Number One, all right?’
Neither of them noticed Carlyon’s stricken expression.
Ransome took the signal flimsy from the telegraphist’s hand.
Hargrave smiled. ‘Don’t tell me it’s cancelled after all.’
Ransome reread the neat printing. It was like hearing a voice.
He said quietly, ‘It’s my brother. He’s been reported missing, presumed killed.’
He recalled her voice. Was it only last night? It was not our choice.
Hargrave looked at Carlyon and jerked his head. As the rating left he asked, ‘What can I do, sir?’
Ransome thought of the boatyard. His parents must have been told about the same time as he had been with Eve.
He replied, ‘You’re doing it right now.’ He glanced at the old personal log which Moncrieff had left behind.
‘I’ve seen a lot of people just lately whose lives have been knocked about.’ But in his heart he was screaming. Not Tony. Not him, for Christ’s sake. His voice was flat and unemotional as he said, ‘We still have a war to worry about. Deeper than that, we have this ship and the eighty-odd people who depend on us because they have no choice either.’
Hargrave watched him, stunned by it. Unable to think clearly.
‘I – I’ll tell the others, sir.’
‘No. I’ll come down as I said I would.’ He stared at the slip of paper which had changed everything, it’s nobody’s fault.’