Rob Roy alone had put up twenty mines in these waters so far; Ranger had swept three more than that. If you were lucky it was a whole lot easier than in the Channel, with its troublesome currents and fierce tides. Here at least it was non-tidal, and if you picked up a mine – Ransome did not continue on that train of thought.
He said, ‘Another hour?’
Sherwood looked at him. His hair was even more bleached by the sun.
‘Near enough, sir.’ He glanced at the glistening water. ‘Surely they must know what’s happening?’
Ransome nodded. Probably what every Jack in the flotilla was thinking. The enemy, silent and unseen, must have known for weeks what to expect.
He replied, ‘Four days from now.’ He thought about the pack of intelligence reports and plans in his cabin safe. The sea was empty, and yet from Gibraltar and the battered North African ports where Rob Roy had refuelled, and from Alexandria in the I astern Mediterranean, the huge fleet of landing-ships and their protectors was massing for this one-off assault on Sicily.
He added, ‘They’re probably more worried than we are.’
Richard Wakely appeared on the bridge ladder, his round face dripping with sweat.
‘What a day, eh, Captain?’ He mopped his features with a spotted silk handkerchief. ‘Just a few more shots in case the light changes, I think.’ He beamed to the bridge at large. ‘I don’t want to leave anything out!’
Sherwood had replaced the dark glasses he often wore on the bridge.
‘You must have seen quite a lot of different types of action.’
Wakely smiled gravely. ‘That’s true, I suppose. I’ve been lucky.’
Sherwood asked, ‘Did you ever run across a Brigadier de Courcey in the Western Desert, sir?’ He seemed suddenly very intent. ‘Alex de Courcey?’
Wakely mopped his throat vigorously. ‘Can’t say I have. But then I meet so many, y’know.’ He looked at Sherwood for the first time. ‘You know him?’
‘Friend of my late father, actually. They used to shoot together.’
‘I see.’ He turned away. ‘Must be off. Still a lot to do.’ He called for his cameraman. ‘Where are you, Andy?’
When he had gone Ransome asked quietly, ‘What was all that about?’
Sherwood removed his glasses and polished them with his shirt. His eyes looked bitter.
‘He knows who I’m talking about, right enough, or he should. Alex became a staff officer after he was promoted out of the tanks. He told my father all about Richard Wakely in the early days in France when he was a tank commander.’
‘I take it you don’t care much for him?’ Ransome added sharply, ‘Come on, spit it out, man!’
Sherwood glanced briefly at the nearest bridge look-out. The man was crouching by his mounted binoculars, his eyes protected from the glare by a frame of deeply tinted glass. He was apparently out of earshot.
‘Wakely’s a phoney, a complete fraud. Never went near the front line the whole time. After Dunkirk he shot off to the States to protect his precious skin.’ He faced Ransome and gave an apologetic smile. ‘That’s what he said.’
Ransome climbed on to his chair and winced from the contact.
‘You are too cynical by half.’
Sherwood glanced at the ladder as if he expected to see Wakely there, listening.
‘That famous broadcast from El Alamein.’ He shook his head. ‘I’ll bet he did it from his suite at Shepheard’s in Cairo!’
They both turned as Leading Signal Mackay shouted, ‘Signal from Dunlin, sir! My catch, I think!’
Ransome strode to the opposite gratings and steadied his binoculars against the slow roll.
He watched the stab of Dunlin’s signal lamp, the bright hoist of flags breaking from her yard.
‘Signal Dryaden to close on Dunlin.’
Ransome ignored the clatter of the signal lamp, the stir of excitemenf around the bridge. One more mine. Should be all right. He shifted his glasses on to the graceful Icelandic trawler and saw the mounting white moustache of her bow wave as she increased speed, her marksmen already up forward in readiness to dispense with yet another would-be killer.
‘There it is, sir! Dunlin’s quarter!’ There was an ironic cheering from aft and Ransome wondered if Wakely’s cameraman was recording the moment.
Leading Signalman Mackay was using the old telescope, his lips moving silently as he spelled out another signal.
‘From Scythe, sir. Senior Officer closing from the south-west.’
Ransome waited for Dryaden to forge ahead until he could train his glasses astern again.
So Bliss was moving up to join them. He had been content to stay with the main force of minesweeping trawlers until now. A compliment or a snub, it was hard to say.
‘From Bedworth, sir!’ Mackay braced his legs wide apart. ‘Aircraft approaching from the north!’
Ransome let his glasses fall to his chest. ‘Acknowledge.’ His mind seemed to click into place, to remind him of Sherwood’s earlier words. They must know what’s happening.
He said, inform the first lieutenant, recover sweep immediately.’
He stared at the red button below the screen, the metal around it worn smooth by all those other emergencies.
They might think he was losing his grip. Going round the bend at last. Plenty had.
He vaguely heard a cheer, then the rattle of small-arms fire as Dryaden’s marksmen punctured the released mine and sent it on its way to the bottom.
Too careful, or like the ill-fated Viper’s captain had been, too bloody confident for his own good?
He did not realise he was speaking aloud as he exclaimed, ‘They can think what they bloody well like!’ Then he pressed down the button and heard the shriek of alarm bells coming up the rank of voicepipes.
’Action Stations! Action Stations!’
The calm was shattered, the momentary interest of a mine made harmless forgotten, as the barebacked figures scampered to their stations, groping for anti-flash gear and helmets, making sure their lifebelts were tied loosely around their bodies.
All down the line the alarm was picked up, and Ransome felt the hull shiver as the new winch hauled on the sweep wire like an angler with a giant marlin.
‘Short-range weapons crews closed up!’
‘Coxswain on the wheel!’
‘Main armament closed up.’ The latter was Bunny Fallows’ voice on the intercom, his Scots accent strangely noticeable.
So many reports for so small a ship.
Ransome dragged his white-covered cap from beneath a locker and tugged it across his ruffled hair.
‘From Bedworth, sir. Do not engage.’
Sherwood muttered, ‘Must be some of ours after all.’
Ransome felt chilled despite the unwavering heat. If there was such a thing as instinct, he had never felt so certain.
‘Aircraft, sir! Red one-one-oh! Angle of sight-’