He was relieved to see that the wounded were gathered near one of the big Carley floats, so that they would have a better chance if the worst happened. The dead had been covered with strips of canvas, and the little S.B.A. sat beside Sub-Lieutenant Tritton, oblivious to all that was happening, even when a shell whimpered overhead. He watched Tritton’s face, which was the colour of chalk, holding his wrist and listening to his laboured breathing. It was to be hoped that Cusack had made sure he would feel nothing until —
He watched another float being manhandled toward the side. Could anything worse happen? Could he even begin to believe that the worst was behind them?
He thought of the one mine which had found them. After all the miles they had steamed, the risks they had shared, the mines they had destroyed.
It had probably lain there for years after being dropped, very likely by the British, to delay coastal shipping. Its sinker must have jammed when it had first been laid, and it had rested there undisturbed all that time until those jubilant motor gunboats had awakened it with their impressive wash.
He moved around the bridge, his boots slipping on the slanting plates, his eyes seeking and feeling her pain like his own. The blast had buckled the wheelhouse’s protective steel like a piece of cheap tin, and swept down the starboard side, missing some, hurling others aside. Like the Oerlikon gunner who had died below the bridge. No wonder sailors hated wearing steel helmets, no matter how many times the order was enforced. The blast had ripped the helmet from his head so that he had been garrotted by the chinstay, as if by human hands.
He saw order emerging from confusion. Wires, ropes and strops filled one side-deck, and it all had to be moved by muscle-power. If they were attacked by an enemy aircraft there would be no point in trying to fight back. They needed every spare hand on the towing-hawser, and the power-operated guns were useless anyway.
He raised his glasses and saw Hargrave staring across at him while Ranger straightened up and backed stern first towards him, her screws beating up foam even through the great slick of oil.
A heaving-line snaked across and fell short. Then another, this time with a heavy piece of iron on the end, just to make sure. Hands reached out, and Ransome heard the Buffer give vent to some foul language as one of the seamen got under his feet.
But he studied Hargrave, saw him force a grin, and turn to call an order as his ship’s screws stopped, then turned slowly ahead to avoid a collision at the last moment.
Morgan whispered, ‘There she goes, see!’
The blazing L.S.T. was turning on her side, the tanks crashing down and through the thin plating while a few small figures ran away from the sea, which with an almost lazy contempt swept them from their final handhold, and swallowed them as the vessel took a last dive.
A shell crashed into the sea near one of the Rescue M.Ls. Then another, so that the launch gathered speed and scuttled into a bank of drifting smoke.
Morgan said nothing, but thought, Now it’s our turn.
Ransome held his breath as the shining hawser began to nod its way across the gap. From the bridge, the line being hauled inboard by his men was invisible against the murky water, so that the hawser appeared to be moving unaided, like a great serpent.
There was a cheer as the eye of the wire was made fast and the slack taken in. Ransome looked at the faces of his men near the bridge. Cheering, some laughing, others weeping and holding on to each other, their best friends probably. For they had not all survived this time.
He turned away and saw Mackay watching him. The yeoman said quietly, ‘She always was a good ’un, sir.’
Beckett had been observing Ranger’s agile movements, while she paid out the long hawser until its centre vanished into the drifting oil.
‘I ’ave to admit, ’e ’andles her fair enough. Still, Ranger’s got a good coxswain, o’ course.’
Ransome gripped the oilskin pouch against his aching side.
He said, ‘She trained him well. Like the rest of us.’
Ranger’s siren gave a banshee screech and very slowly at first, then with more confidence, she took the full strain on the tow.
Ransome gripped the rail beneath the smashed screen and watched the other ship until she appeared to be obscured by mist.
Then he said softly, it’s over. So let’s take her home, shall we?’