Important though that victory was, it barely touched the weary men of the minesweepers.
Ransome often thought of that precious moment beside the Barracuda. Her simple gesture when she touched the hull beneath the tarpaulin. Sometimes when he was snatching a few hours in his sea-cabin, the ‘coop’ as Kellett the P.O. steward called it, he would jerk wide awake, almost pinching himself to make her words become clear in his mind. That the cottage she wanted to call ours was not merely part of a taunting dream.
He withdrew his head from the chart-table and crossed to his chair, holding on to it, stamping his scuffed seaboots on the deck to make his circulation come alive. It reminded him of the time he had waited outside the abbey when -
He turned as Sub-Lieutenant Fallows clattered up the ladder and paused to look at the tossing whitecaps, the grey murk, no beginning or end, no horizon either. It was noon, and the watch was changing. That was another reason for the edginess, Ransome knew. There were several new faces in the ship to replace others who had gone to courses ashore, or to other ships where their experience would be vital amongst the stream of new recruits.
Sherwood was still ashore. Cusack had kept close contact with one of his colleagues, whom he telephoned whenever Rob Roy was able to take some time in port.
Sherwood would be coming back, but as Bliss had predicted, his work as an R.M.S.O. was over. As an experienced watchkeeper he was badly missed, and as a friend too.
Another face absent from the wardroom was the Gunner (T) Mr Bone. Ransome had seen him in the privacy of his cabin to inform him of the signal. Bone was being sent to a training depot, to instruct raw seamen in the business of minesweeping.
Bone was a hard man. He had shown neither pleasure nor disappointment. After all his years in the service his widowed mother had chosen for her fourteen-year-old son, it was likely he could not be surprised at anything.
‘S’pose I’ll get used to it. I’ll miss the duty-free booze though.’
He had not been making a joke. Bone rarely did.
He surprised Ransome by thrusting out his spade-shaped hand and muttering, ‘You’ve been a good captain, sir. I’d not get a better.’ He had tried to grin. ‘One thing, I’ll not ’ave to muster the lads or ’ear that pipe “Out Sweeps” again, not in my lifetime!’
Another missing face was that of Pansy Masefield, the P.O. sick berth attendant. He had never really settled down after Cusack had taken over the ship’s health and welfare, and had accepted his draftchit to a big hospital in Portsmouth without argument.
Ransome recalled how they had all tried to make their own Christmas a happy one. It had been a uphill task. Rob Roy and half of the flotilla had been sweeping this same channel from the Wash to Flamborough Head to keep open all the vital approaches to the Humber Estuary and the port of Hull.
He remembered the P.O. steward, Kellett, who always wore his hair plastered diagonally across his forehead anyway, donning a small false moustache and doing a lively impersonation of Adolf Hitler at the forecastle’s ‘Sods’ Opera.’ Leading Seaman Hoggan had sung This Old Hat of Mine, always a popular sailors’ ditty, becoming bawdier and drunker by the minute and tossing his clothes aside until he was completely naked but for a lanyard upon which hung a bag of contraceptives.
The youngest, and by far the smallest member of the ship’s company, Ordinary Seaman Gold, had stuttered his way through the part of playing the captain for Christmas Day, although one of Ransome’s reefer jackets had reached almost to his knees.
It had all been compressed into a few precious hours while the ship was in harbour to refuel. Rob Roy had lain at a buoy, not even alongside in any contact with the land.
He heard Mackay speaking with the young signalman who had just come on watch. Mackay still wore the sailor’s square-rig, but had the crown and crossed anchors on his sleeve now to show his promotion to petty officer. A yeoman of signals. It was unlikely that Rob Roy would be able to hold on to him once his full advancement had been confirmed. He would be greatly missed, as would his expertise.
Morgan was saying, ‘Time to make the turn in seven minutes, Sub.’
It was not meant to be condescending. It was what a one-striper was usually called.
But Ransome had sensed the barrier between them, and it did not come from Morgan. He was openly delighted that his promotion had been posted without his having to take up another course.
‘I shall be able to stay in Rob Roy, see?’ He had stared around the wet, dismal bridge. ‘I’d not want to go until I was ordered, sir.’
Fallows stood beside him now as they compared notes by the chart-table. He had got terribly drunk at Christmas, and Hargrave had threatened to take him in front of the captain, higher if need be. After that Fallows had improved considerably, and was making a great effort to keep out of the first lieutenant’s way. He was more withdrawn than usual, his mouth turned down in a permanent frown.
‘Forenoon watch relieved, sir!’ Morgan touched the peak of his cap. ‘I’ll bring the new snotty with me in the dog-watches if I may, sir. He’s got to start somewhere.’
Ransome smiled. Davenport’s replacement was called Colin Piers. A round-faced eighteen-year-old who looked about twelve. Nobody had really had much time to either make him welcome or get his measure, as he had been horribly seasick almost from the day he had stepped aboard.
Ransome’s request for Ordinary Seaman Boyes’s C.W. papers to be started again had been granted, and the Mention-in-Despatches had been announced on the same day. Ransome had told him personally, and had been moved by the youngster’s thanks and sincerity. He had made the right decision, and in his heart knew that many captains would not have bothered once the first decision had been made.
One thing was certain, Boyes was getting plenty of experience on chartwork and the radar plot machine, for with the new midshipman rolling about the ship with his face as green as grass, he was doing everything himself.
Fallows had walked to the forepart of the bridge, while his assistant Sub-Lieutenant Tritton stood by the voicepipes.
Tritton, young and inexpert as he was, had been forced to take over Bone’s duties and part of ship. Thank God for the Buffer, Ransome thought. But what Tritton lacked in experience he more than made up for with his good humour, which kept the men he worked with grinning at some of his schoolboy jokes. He had been able to put the memory of the air attack behind him. It was the first, the most difficult step of all, and they had all been made to face up to it, one way or the other.
Ransome said, ‘Tell the first lieutenant to take in the sweep.’ He glanced at Fallows. ‘Your department all buttoned up, Sub?’
Fallows half-turned, showing his profile, the red hair flapping beneath his cap like a bird’s wing. He no longer wore his ridiculous rabbit.
‘Yes sir. Able Seaman Norton has settled down quite well as trainer on ‘A’ Gun. Quite well.’
Ransome glanced at him. It had been a surprise when Able Seaman Parsons had failed to return from shore leave. He had long requested the gunnery course at Whale Island, and it would be stupid to miss the chance because of overstaying his leave.