Bliss explained smoothly, ‘There is apparently a shortage of places in available aircraft. Their lordships are keen for Commander Moncrieff to take over his new appointment without any delay.’
Moncrieff lumbered to his feet. ‘New appointment, Ian. It’s a supply dump in Orkney!’ He dropped his eyes and stared blindly at his maimed hand. ‘A bloody stores clerk!’
Bliss had turned away to peer through a gleaming scuttle.
Ransome said quietly, ‘I’d hoped to lay something on for you, sir. After all this time. To leave like this—’
Moncrieff gripped his hand. It was like a vice. ‘No more, Ian – I can’t take it, y’see.’ He groped for his cap with its cherished peak of oak leaves. ‘Just tell the others—’ He seemed to regain some of his old power and added fiercely, ‘Tell ’em I’m proud of them!’ The power faded; Ransome saw it dying in his eyes as he added huskily, ‘Look after the ship, eh? My old Rob Roy.’ They walked to the door and Bliss and Ransome saluted as he clambered down into a harbour-launch alongside.
While the boat surged away towards the white buildings ashore Moncrieff looked back only once. But he was staring at Rob Roy.
Bliss said absently, ‘Last of his kind, I shouldn’t wonder.’
Was it meant with contempt, Ransome thought?
He replied calmly, ‘No better way to be remembered, I’d say, sir.’
Bliss made no comment until the ‘skimming-dish’ sputtered back to the accommodation ladder. He stood with his feet wide apart, his strong fingers interlaced behind his back as he stared gravely at the mass of assembled ships.
‘You will meet the new vice-admiral tomorrow, Ian. He will want to speak with you, and your other C.O.s of course.’ He turned suddenly and fixed him with a blue stare. ‘But I command the group now and my head will be on the block if just one captain screws this up. Am I making myself clear?’ Again, he did not wait. ‘I am, how do you say, unused to failure.’
He saluted as Ransome climbed back into the motor boat. He had disappeared before the bowman had even cast off.
All the way back to Rob Roy Ransome tried to accept Bliss for what he appeared to be. A man of courage and ability; his record said all that and more. He knew that it was like to fight the enemy at close quarters and it was obvious that that experience plus his training as a regular officer made him a perfect choice for this task.
He was ruthless too; his attitude to Moncrieff and the hint of his displeasure if anyone else screwed things up left little to the imagination. But then you could not fight this kind of war with a book of naval etiquette.
It was something else. Ransome watched the ships passing on either side, guns being swivelled round in their turrets, seamen and marines working on deck and in the various superstructures. Like some vast iron hornet’s nest waiting to be unleashed.
He nodded to himself. That was it. Bliss made it all sound so personal, as if nothing and nobody would be spared to make his part of the operation a success.
Ransome smiled inwardly. In the navy, that was not unique.
Later, as he was sitting in his cabin, Hargrave came to see him. Ransome glanced up and nodded to the other chair. He felt different now in his clean shirt and shorts. Like someone playing a part. As for Hargrave, he looked almost a stranger in white, although he was obviously quite used to it.
Ransome said, ‘I should like you to organise a party for tomorrow, Number One. If you’re short of anything, I’ll sign a couple of magic chits for you to take to the Base Supply Officer!’
Hargrave watched him curiously. It was not just a change of uniform, he thought. He could picture Ransome’s face right here in the cabin as he had read out the signal about his brother’s death, and again when the three bodies had been tipped over the side.
If it was an act, it was very convincing. Or was he really able to put things like that to the back of his mind in the name of duty? Hargrave had had all that rammed into him from early boyhood as a cadet in the Royal Naval College at Dartmouth. He had actually believed it, just as his father had insisted he would, given time. But never once, from midshipman to lieutenant, had he ever expected to see it as a physical presence. He was seeing it now, and from a man who had been a civilian until the outbreak of war.
Ransome saw the look and thought he could guess what he was thinking.
He touched a sheet of notepaper on the desk. ‘This was waiting for me.’
Hargrave nodded. ‘The guardboat brought it shortly after you’d left, sir.’
‘It’s from the vice-admiral’s secretary, no less. In it he “suggests” that a party given by us might be the best and most informal way for the admiral to meet our commanding officers.’
Hargrave replied quickly, ‘My father said nothing of it to me, sir, and that’s the truth.’
‘Thank you. I never doubted it. But it sounds like a command all the same, so lay on the party, right? It might be the last for quite some time.’
He gave Hargrave a thoughtful glance. It’s been brought forward. Two weeks from now. Top Secret, but you should know in case—’
Hargrave stared at him. He had never considered it from that angle. That Ransome might be unable to retain command, that he could be injured, even killed, before the invasion began. He felt the sweat trickling down his spine. Surely that wasn’t what his father had meant about a ship of his own.
Ransome said, ‘Arrange shore leave for all but the duty-part of the watch, Number One.’ He was formal again. ‘I believe there are two men requesting to see me?’
Hargrave nodded. How did he know that already? ‘Bad news from home for both of them, sir. I don’t see what we can do about it now.’
Ransome half-smiled, ‘I can talk to them. It’s the least I can do.’
Hargrave stood and made to leave. ‘The Chief wishes to discuss the new pumps with you, sir.’
‘Ask him to come now, will you?’
As the door closed Ransome leaned back and massaged his eyes. It never ended. He thought of Bliss’s words. I command this group now. He should have added, ‘And don’t you forget it!’ Ransome recalled too when he had obtained his own first command, the poor old Guillemot. He had looked up the meaning of command in his dictionary. It had been quite an ancient version and one definition had been, ‘To demand with authority.’ It fitted Bliss rather well.
It was evening by the time he had dealt with the Chief and his problem of spare parts for the new pumps, seen the doctor about a seaman whom he had put ashore with the first signs of gonorrhoea, and finally made several operational signals both to the Admiralty and to the Flag Officer Gibraltar. He felt drained. The one redeeming fact about the luckless rating sent to the V.D. clinic was that he was a new hand, who had joined the ship at Chatham. He would certainly miss the invasion anyway, and might well end up in the glasshouse as payment for a few moments of doubtful pleasure.
Fie smoked his pipe, took a glass of Scotch and listened to one of his Handel records. The liberty boats squeaked their fenders alongside to mingle with the jubilant chatter of shore-going sailors, then came the pipe to clear up messdecks and flats for Rounds.
At times like these he was grateful for his privacy. He pictured Moncrieff arriving in England. No ships to visit, to be part of. How would he cope? Ships were all he knew, all he had left.
Eventually he knew he was ready. Very carefully he opened bis writing-case, the one his mother had given him for his last birthday, and picked up his pen.