HMS Ulysses

CHAPTER THIRTEEN SATURDAY AFTERNOON

THE Sirrus was still a mile astern when her Aldis started flickering.

Bentley took the message, turned to Vallery.

"Signal, sir.' Have 25-30 injured men aboard. Three very serious cases, perhaps dying. Urgently require doctor.'"

"Acknowledge," Vallery said. He hesitated a moment, then: "My compliments to Surgeon-Lieutenant Nicholls. Ask him to come to the bridge." He turned to the Commander, grinned faintly. "I somehow don't see Brooks at his athletic best in a breeches buoy on a day like this. It's going to be quite a crossing."

Turner looked again at the Sirrus, occasionally swinging through a 40ø arc as she rolled and crashed her way up from the west.

"It'll be no picnic," he agreed. "Besides, breeches buoys aren't made to accommodate the likes of our venerable chief surgeon." Funny, Turner thought, how matter-of-fact and offhand everyone was: nobody had as much as mentioned the Vectra since she'd rammed the U-boat.

The gate creaked. Vallery turned round slowly, acknowledged Nicholls's sketchy salute.

"The Sirrus needs a doctor," he said without preamble. "How do you fancy it?"

Nicholls steadied himself against the canted bridge and the rolling of the cruiser. Leave the Ulysses-suddenly, he hated the thought, was amazed at himself for his reaction. He, Johnny Nicholls, unique, among the officers anyway, in his thorough-going detestation and intolerance of all things naval-to feel like that! Must be going soft in the head.

And just as suddenly he knew that his mind wasn't slipping, knew why he wanted to stay. It was not a matter of pride or principle or sentiment: it was just that-well, just that he belonged. The feeling of belonging-even to himself he couldn't put it more accurately, more clearly than that, but it affected him strangely, powerfully. Suddenly he became aware that curious eyes were on him, looked out in confusion over the rolling sea.

"Well?" Vallery's voice was edged with impatience.

"I don't fancy it at all," Nicholls said frankly. "But of course I'll go, sir. Right now?"

"As soon as you can get your stuff together," Vallery nodded.

"That's now. We have an emergency kit packed all the time." He cast a jaundiced eye over the heavy sea again. "What am I supposed to do, sir-jump?"

"Perish the thought!" Turner clapped him on the back with a large and jovial hand. "You haven't a thing to worry about," he boomed cheerfully, "you positively won't feel a thing, these, if I recall rightly, were your exact words to me when you extracted that old molar of mine two-three weeks back." He winced in painful recollection. "Breeches buoy, laddie, breeches buoy!"

"Breeches buoy!" Nicholls protested. "Haven't noticed the weather, have you? I'll be going up and down like a blasted yo-yo!"

"The ignorance of youth." Turner shook his head sadly. "We'll be turning into the sea, of course. It'll be like a ride in a Rolls, my boy! We're going to rig it now." He turned away. "Chrysler-get on to Chief Petty Officer Hartley. Ask him to come up to the bridge."

Chrysler gave no sign of having heard. He was in his usual favourite position these days-gloved hands on the steam pipes, the top half of his face crushed into the rubber eyepiece of the powerful binoculars on the starboard searchlight control. Every few seconds a hand would drop, revolve the milled training rack a fraction. Then again the complete immobility.

"Chrysler!" Turner roared. "Are you deaf?"

Three, four, five more seconds passed in silence. Every eye was on Chrysler when he suddenly jerked back, glanced down at the bearing indicator, then swung round. His face was alive with excitement.

"Green one-double-oh!" he shouted. "Green one-double oh! Aircraft. Just on the horizon!" He fairly flung himself back at his binoculars.

"Four, seven-no, ten! Ten aircraft!" he yelled.

"Green one-double-oh?" Turner had his glasses to his eyes. "Can't see a thing! Are you sure, boy?" he called anxiously.

"Still the same, sir." There was no mistaking the agitated conviction in the young voice.

Turner was through the gate and beside him in four swift steps. "Let me have a look," he ordered. He gazed through the glasses, twisted the training rack once or twice, then stepped back slowly, heavy eyebrows lowering in anger.

"There's something bloody funny here, young man!" he growled. "Either your eyesight or your imagination? And if you ask me-----"

"He's right," Carrington interrupted calmly. "I've got 'em, too."

"So have I, sir!" Bentley shouted.

Turner wheeled back to the mounted glasses, looked through them briefly, stiffened, looked round at Chrysler.

"Remind me to apologise some day!" he smiled, and was back on the compass platform before he had finished speaking.

"Signal to convoy," Vallery was saying rapidly. "Code H. Full ahead, Number One. Bosun's mate? Broadcaster: stand by all guns. Commander?"

"Sir?"

"Independent targets, independent fire all AA. guns? Agreed? And the turrets?"

"Couldn't say yet... Chrysler, can you make out------"

"Condors, sir," Chrysler anticipated him.

"Condors!" Turner stared in disbelief. "A dozen Condors! Are you sure that... Oh, all right, all right!" he broke off hastily. "Condors they are." He shook his head in wonderment, turned to Vallery. "Where's my bloody tin hat? Condors, he says!"

"So Condors they are," Vallery repeated, smiling. Turner marvelled at the repose, the unruffled calm.

"Bridge targets, independent fire control for all turrets?" Vallery went on.

"I think so, sir." Turner looked at the two communication ratings just aft of the compass platform-one each on the group phones to the for'ard and after turrets. "Ears pinned back, you two. And hop to it when you get the word."

Vallery beckoned to Nicholls.

"Better get below, young man," he advised. "Sorry your little trip's been postponed."

"I'm not," Nicholls said bluntly.

"No?" Vallery was smiling. "Scared?"

"No, sir," Nicholls smiled back. "Not scared. And you know I wasn't."

"I know you weren't," Vallery agreed quietly. "I know, and thank you."

He watched Nicholls walk off the bridge, beckoned to the W.T. messenger, then turned to the Kapok Kid.

"When was our last signal to the Admiralty, Pilot? Have a squint at the log."

"Noon yesterday," said the Kapok Kid readily.

"Don't know what I'll do without you," Vallery murmured. "Present position?"

"72.20 north, 13.40 east."

"Thank you." He looked at Turner. "No point in radio silence now, Commander?"

Turner shook his head.

"Take this message," Vallery said quickly. "To D.N.O., London... How are our friends doing, Commander?"

"Circling well to the west, sir. Usual high altitude, gambit from the stern, I suppose," he added morosely. "Still," he brightened, "cloud level's barely a thousand feet."

Vallery nodded. "'FR77. 1600. 72.20,13.40. Steady on 090. Force 9, north, heavy swell: Situation desperate. Deeply regret Admiral Tyndall died 1200 today. Tanker Vytura torpedoed last night, sunk by self. Washington State sunk 0145 today. Vectra sunk 1515, collision U-boat. Electro sunk 1530. Am being heavily attacked by twelve, minimum twelve, Focke-Wulf 200s.' A reasonable assumption, I think, Commander," he said wryly, "and it'll shake their Lordships. They're of the opinion there aren't so many Condors in the whole of Norway. 'Imperative send help. Air cover essential. Advise immediately.' Get that off at once, will you?"

"Your nose, sir!" Turner said sharply.

"Thank you." Vallery rubbed the frostbite, dead white in the haggard grey and blue of his face, gave up after a few seconds: the effort was more trouble than it was worth, drained away too much of his tiny reserves of strength. "My God, it's bitter, Commander!" he murmured quietly.

Shivering, he pulled himself to his feet, swept his glasses over FR77.

Code H was being obeyed. The ships were scattered over the sea apparently at random, broken out from the two lines ahead which would have made things far too simple for bomb-aimers in aircraft attacking from astern. They would have to aim now for individual targets.

Scattered, but not too scattered-close enough together to derive mutual benefit from the convoy's concerted barrage. Vallery nodded to himself in satisfaction and twisted round, his glasses swivelling to the west.

There was no mistaking them now, he thought-they were Condors, all right. Almost dead astern now, massive wing-tips dipping, the big four-engined planes banked slowly, ponderously to starboard, then straightened on a 180ø overtaking course. And they were climbing, steadily climbing.

Two things were suddenly clear to Vallery, two things the enemy obviously knew. They had known where to find FR77, the Luftwaffe was not given to sending heavy bombers out over the Arctic on random hazard: they hadn't even bothered to send Charlie on reconnaissance. For a certainty, some submarine had located them earlier on, given their position and course: at any distance at all, their chance of seeing a periscope in that heavy sea had been remote. Further, the Germans knew that the Ulysses's radar was gone. The Focke-Wulfs were climbing to gain the low cloud, would break cover only seconds before it was time to bomb.

Against radar-controlled fire, at such close range, it would have been near suicide. But they knew it was safe.

Even as he watched, the last of the labouring Condors climbed through the low, heavy ceiling, was completely lost to sight. Vallery shrugged wearily, lowered his binoculars.

"Bentley?"

"Sir?"

"Code R. Immediate."

The flags fluttered up. For fifteen, twenty seconds, it seemed ten times as long as that to the impatient Captain, nothing happened. And then, like rolling toy marionettes under the hand of a master puppeteer, the bows of every ship in the convoy began to swing round-those to the port of the Ulysses to the north, those to the starboard to the south. When the Condors broke through-two minutes, at the most, Vallery reckoned, they would find beneath them only the empty sea. Empty, that is, except for the Ulysses and the Stirling, ships admirably equipped to take care of themselves. And then the Condors would find themselves under heavy cross-fire from the merchant ships and destroyers, and too late-at that low altitude, much too late-to alter course for fore-and-aft bombing runs on the freighters. Vallery smiled wryly to himself. As a defensive tactic, it was little enough, but the best he could do in the circumstances... He could hear Turner barking orders through the loudspeaker, was more than content to leave the defence of the ship in the Commander's competent hands. If only he himself didn't feel so tired...

Ninety seconds passed, a hundred, two minutes, and still no sign of the Condors. A hundred eyes stared out into the cloud-wrack astern: it remained obstinately, tantalisingly grey and featureless.

Two and a half minutes passed. Still there was nothing.

"Anybody seen anything?" Vallery asked anxiously. His eyes never left that patch of cloud astern. "Nothing? Nothing at all?" The silence remained, oppressive, unbroken.

Three minutes. Three and a half. Four. Vallery looked away to rest his straining eyes, caught Turner looking at him, caught the growing apprehension, the slow dawn and strengthening of surmise in the lean face. Wordlessly, at the same instant, they swung round, staring out into the sky ahead.

"That's it!" Vallery said quickly. "You're right, Commander, you must be!" He was aware that everyone had turned now, was peering ahead as intently as himself. "They've by-passed us, they're going to take us from ahead. Warn the guns! Dear God, they almost had us!" he whispered softly.

"Eyes skinned, everyone!" Turner boomed. The apprehension was gone, the irrepressible joviality, the gratifying anticipation of action was back again. "And I mean everyone! We're all in the same boat together. No joke intended. Fourteen days' leave to the first man to sight a Condor!"

"Effective as from when?" the Kapok Kid asked dryly.

Turner grinned at him. Then the smile died, the head lifted sharply in sudden attention.

"Can you hear 'em?" he asked. His voice was soft, almost as if he feared the enemy might be listening. "They're up there, somewhere, damned if I can tell where, though. If only that wind-----"

The vicious, urgent thudding of the boat-deck Oerlikons stopped him dead in mid-sentence, had him whirling round and plunging for the broadcast transmitter in one galvanic, concerted movement. But even then he was too late-he would have been too late anyway. The Condors-the first three in line ahead, were already visible-were already through the cloud, 500 feet up and barely half a mile away, dead astern. Astern. The bombers must have circled back to the west as soon as they had reached the clouds, completely fooled them as to their intentions... Six seconds, six seconds is time and to spare for even a heavy bomber to come less than half a mile in a shallow dive. There was barely time for realisation, for the first bitter welling of mortification and chagrin when the Condors were on them.

It was almost dusk, now, the weird half-light of the Arctic twilight.

Tracers, glowing hot pinpoints of light streaking out through the darkening sky, were clearly seen, at first swinging erratically, fading away to extinction in the far distance, then steadying, miraculously dying in the instant of birth as they sank home into the fuselages of the swooping Condors. But time was too short-the guns were on target for a maximum of two seconds-and these giant Focke-Wulfs had a tremendous capacity for absorbing punishment. The leading Condor levelled out about three hundred feet, its medium 250-kilo bombs momentarily parallelling its line of flight, then arching down lazily towards the Ulysses. At once the Condor pulled its nose up in maximum climb, the four great engines labouring in desynchronised clamour, as it sought the protection of the clouds.

The bombs missed. They missed by about thirty feet, exploding on contact with the water just abaft the bridge. For the men in the T.S., engine-and boiler-rooms, the crash and concussion must have been frightful-literally ear-shattering. Waterspouts, twenty feet in diameter at their turbulent bases, streaked up whitely into the twilight, high above the truncated masts, hung there momentarily, then collapsed in drenching cascades on the bridge and boat-deck aft, soaking, saturating, every gunner on the pom-pom and in the open Oerlikon cockpits. The temperature stood at 2ø above zero-30ø of frost.

More dangerously, the blinding sheets of water completely unsighted the gunners. Apart from a lone Oerlikon on a sponson below the starboard side of the bridge, the next Condor pressed home its attack against a minimum of resistance. The approach was perfect, dead fore-and-aft on the centre line; but the pilot overshot, probably in his anxiety to hold course. Three bombs this time: for a second, it seemed that they must miss, but the first smashed into the fo'c'sle between the breakwater and the capstan, exploding in the flat below, heaving up the deck in a tangled wreckage of broken steel. Even as the explosion died, the men on the bridge could hear a curious clanking rattle: the explosion must have shattered the fo'c'sle capstan and Blake stopper simultaneously, and sheared the retaining shackle on the anchor cable, and the starboard anchor, completely out of control, was plummeting down to the depths of the Arctic.

The other bombs fell into the sea directly ahead, and from the Stirling, a mile ahead, it seemed that the Ulysses disappeared under the great column of water. But the water subsided, and the Ulysses steamed on, apparently unharmed. From dead ahead, the sweeping lift of the bows hid all damage, and there was neither flame nor smoke-hundreds of gallons of water, falling from the sky and pouring in through the great jagged holes in the deck, had killed any fire there was. The Ulysses was still a lucky ship... And then, at last, after twenty months of the fantastic escapes, the fabulous good fortune that had made her a legend, a byword for immunity throughout all the north, the luck of the Ulysses ran out.

Ironically, the Ulysses brought disaster on herself. The main armament, the 5.25s aft, had opened up now, was pumping its 100-lb. shells at the diving bombers, at point-blank range and over equivalent of open sights. The very first shell from 'X' turret sheared away the starboard wing of the third Condor between the engines, tore it completely away to spin slowly like a fluttering leaf into the darkly-rolling sea. For a fraction of a second the Folke-Wulf held on course, then abruptly the nose tipped over and the giant plane screamed down in an almost vertical dive, her remaining engines inexplicably accelerating to a deafening crescendo as she hurtled arrow-straight for the deck of the Ulysses.

There was no time to take any avoiding action, no time to think, no time even to hope. A cluster of jettisoned bombs crashed in to the boiling wake--the Ulysses was already doing upwards of thirty knots-and two more crashed through the poop-deck, the first exploding in the after seamen's mess-deck, the other in the marines' mess-deck. One second later, with a tremendous roar and in a blinding sheet of gasoline flame, the Condor itself, at a speed of upwards of three hundred m.p.h., crashed squarely into the front of "Y" turret.

Incredibly, that was the last attack on the Ulysses-incredibly, because the Ulysses was defenceless now, wide open to any air attack from astern. 'Y' turret was gone, 'X' turret, still magically undamaged, was half-buried under the splintered wreckage of the Condor, blinded by the smoke and leaping flame. The boat-deck Oerlikons, too, had fallen silent. The gunners, half-drowned under the deluge of less than a minute ago, were being frantically dragged from their cockpits: a difficult enough task at any time, it was almost impossible with their clothes already frozen solid, their duffels cracking and crackling like splintering matchwood as the men were dragged over the side of their cockpits. With all speed, they were rushed below, thrust into the galley passage to thaw, literally to thaw: agony, excruciating agony, but the only alternative to the quick and certain death which would have come to them in their ice-bound cockpits.

The remaining Condors had pulled away in a slow climbing turn to starboard. They were surrounded, bracketed fore and aft and on either side, by scores of woolly, expanding puffs of exploding A.A. shells, but they flew straight through these, charmed, unhurt. Already, they were beginning to disappear into the clouds, to settle down on a south-east course for home. Strange, Vallery thought vaguely, one would have expected them to hammer home their initial advantage of surprise, to concentrate on the crippled Ulysses: certainly, thus far the Condor crews had shown no lack of courage... He gave it up, turned his attention to more immediate worries. And there was plenty to worry about.

The Ulysses was heavily on fire aft-a deck and mess-deck fire, admittedly, but potentially fatal for all that, 'X' nd 'Y' magazines were directly below. Already, dozens of men from the damage control parties were running aft, stumbling and falling on the rolling ice-covered deck, unwinding the hose drums behind them, occasionally falling flat on their faces as two ice-bound coils locked together, the abruptly tightening hose jerking them off their feet. Others stumbled past them, carrying the big, red foam-extinguishers on their shoulders or under their arms. One unfortunate seaman-A.B. Ferry, who had left the Sick Bay in defiance of strict orders--running down the port alley past the shattered Canteen, slipped and fell abreast 'X' turret: the port wing of the Condor, even as it had sheared off and plunged into the sea, had torn away the guard-rails here, and Ferry, hands and feet scrabbling frantically at the smooth ice of the deck, his broken arm clawing uselessly at one of the remaining stanchions, slid slowly, inevitably over the side and was gone. For a second, the high-pitched, fear-stricken shriek rose thin and clear above the roaring of the flames, died abruptly as the water closed over him. The propellers were almost immediately below.

The men with the extinguishers were the first into action, as, indeed, they had to be when fighting a petrol fire-water would only have made matters worse, have increased the area of the fire by washing the petrol in all directions, and the petrol, being lighter than water, immiscible and so floating to the top, would have burned as furiously as ever. But the foam-extinguishers were of only limited efficiency, not so much because several release valves had jammed solid in the intense cold as because of the intense white heat which made close approach almost impossible, while the smaller carbon-tet. extinguishers, directed against electrical fires below, were shockingly ineffective: these extinguishers had never been in action before and the crew of the Ulysses had known for a long time of the almost magical properties of the extinguisher liquid for removing the most obstinate stains and marks in clothes. You may convince a W.T. rating of the lethal nature of 2.000 volts: you may convince a gunner of the madness of matches in a magazine: you may convince a torpedoman of the insanity of juggling with fulminate of mercury: but you will never convince any of them of the criminal folly of draining off just a few drops of carbon-tetrachloride... Despite stringent periodical checks, most of the extinguishers were only half-full. Some were completely empty.

The hoses were little more effective. Two were coupled up to the starboard mains and the valves turned: the hoses remained lifeless, empty. The starboard salt-water line had frozen solid-common enough with fresh-water systems, this, but not with salt. A third hose on the port side was coupled up, but the release valve refused to turn: attacked with hammers and crowbars, it sheered off at the base-at extremely low temperatures, molecular changes occur in metals, cut tensile strength to a fraction-the high-pressure water drenching everyone in the vicinity.

Spicer, the dead Admiral's pantry-boy, a stricken-eyed shadow of his former cheerful self, flung away his hammer and wept in anger and frustration. The other port valve worked, but it took an eternity for the water to force its way through the flattened frozen hose.

Gradually, the deck fire was brought under control-less through the efforts of the firefighters than the fact that there was little inflammable material left after the petrol had burnt off. Hoses and extinguishers were then directed through the great jagged rents on the poop to the fires roaring in the mess-deck below, while two asbestos-suited figures clambered over and struggled through the red-hot, jangled mass of smoking wreckage on the poop. Nicholls had one of the suits, Leading Telegraphist Brown, a specialist in rescue work, the other.

Brown was the first on the scene. Picking his way gingerly, he climbed up to the entrance of 'Y' turret. Watchers in the port and starboard alleyways saw him pause there, fighting to tie back the heavy steel door-it had been crashing monotonously backwards and forwards with the rolling of. the cruiser. Then they saw him step inside. Less than ten seconds later they saw him appear at the door again, on his knees and clutching desperately at the side for support. His entire body was arching convulsively and he was being violently sick into his oxygen mask.

Nicholls saw this, wasted time neither on 'Y' turret nor on the charred skeltons still trapped in the incinerated fuselage of the Condor. He climbed quickly up the vertical steel ladders to 'X' gun-deck, moved round to the back and tried to open the door. The clips were jammed, immovable, whether from cold or metal distortion he did not know. He looked round for some lever, stepped aside as he saw Doyle, duffel coat smouldering, haggard face set and purposeful under the beard, approaching with a sledge in his hand. A dozen heavy, well-directed blows-the clanging, Nicholls thought, must be almost intolerable inside the hollow amplifier of the turret-and the door was open. Doyle secured it, stepped aside to let Nicholls enter.

Nicholls climbed inside. There had been no need to worry about that racket outside, he thought wryly. Every man in the turret was stone dead. Colour-Sergeant Evans was sitting bolt upright in his seat, rigid and alert in death as he had been in life: beside him lay Foster, the dashing, fiery Captain of Marines, whom death became so ill. The rest were all sitting or lying quietly at their stations, apparently unharmed and quite unmarked except for an occasional tiny trickle of blood from ear and mouth, trickles already coagulated in the intense cold-the speed of the Ulysses had carried the flames aft, away from the turret. The concussion must have been tremendous, death instantaneous. Heavily, Nicholls bent over the communications number, gently detached his headset, and called the bridge.

Vallery himself took the message, turned back to Turner. He looked old, defeated.

"That was Nicholls," he said. Despite all he could do, the shock and sorrow showed clearly in every deeply-etched line in that pitiably wasted face. "'Y' turret is gone, no survivors. 'X' turret seems intact, but everyone inside is dead. Concussion, he says. Fires in the after mess-deck still not under control... Yes, boy, what is it?"

"'Y' magazine, sir," the seaman said uncertainly. "They want to speak to the gunnery officer."

"Tell them he's not available," Vallery said shortly. "We haven't time..." He broke off, looked up sharply. "Did you say 'Y' magazine?

Here, let me have that phone."

He took the receiver, pushed back the hood of his duffel coat.

"Captain speaking, 'Y' magazine. What is it?... What? Speak up man, I can't hear you... Oh, damn!" He swung round on the bridge L.T.O.

"Can you switch this receiver on to the relay amplifier? I can't hear a... Ah, that's better."

The amplifier above the chart-house crackled into life-a peculiarly throaty, husky life, doubly difficult to understand under the heavy overlay of a slurred Glasgow accent. j "Can ye hear me now?" the speaker boomed. !

"I can hear you." Vallery's own voice echoed loudly over the amplifier.

"McQuater, isn't it?"

"Aye, it's me, sir. How did ye ken?" Even through the 'speaker the surprise was unmistakable. Shocked and exhausted though he was, Vallery found himself smiling.

"Never mind that now, McQuater. Who's in charge down : there-Gardiner, isn't it?" !

"Yes, sir. Gardiner."

"Put him on, will you?" There was a pause.

"Ah canna, sir. Gardiner's deid."

"Dead!" Vallery was incredulous. "Did you say' dead,' McQuater?"

"Aye, and he's no' the only one." The voice was almost truculent, but Vallery's ear caught the faint tremor below. "Ah was knocked oot masel', but Ah'm fine now."

Vallery paused, waited for the boy's bout of hoarse, harsh coughing to pass.

"But-but-what happened?"

"How should Ah know-Ah mean, Ah dinna ken-Ah don't know, sir. A helluva bang and then-ach, Ah'm no' sure whit happened... Gardiner's mooth's all blood."

"How-how many of you are left?"

"Just Barker, Williamson and masel', sir. Naebody else, just us."

"And-and they're all right, McQuater?"

"Ach, they're fine. But Barker thinks he's deein'. He's in a gey bad wey. Ah think he's gone clean aff his trolley, 'sir."

"He's what!"

"Loony, sir," McQuater explained patiently. "Daft. Some bluidy nonsense aboot goin' to meet his Maker, and him wi' naething behind him but a lifetime o' swindlin' his fellow-man." Vallery heard Turner's sudden chuckle, remembered that Barker was the canteen manager.

"Williamson's busy shovin' cartridges back into the racks-floor's littered with the bluidy things."

"McQuater!" Vallery's voice was sharp, automatic in reproof.

"Aye, Ah'm sorry, sir. Ah clean forgot... Whit's to be done, sir?"

"Done about what?" Vallery demanded impatiently.

"This place, sir. 'Y' magazine. Is the boat on fire oot-side? It's bilin' in here-hotter than the hinges o' hell!"

"What! What did you say?" Vallery shouted. This time he forgot to reprimand McQuater. "Hot, did you say? How hot? Quickly, boy!"

"Ah canna touch the after bulkheid, sir," McQuater answered simply. "It 'ud tak 'the fingers aff me."

"But the sprinklers-what's the matter with them?" Vallery shouted.

"Aren't they working? Good God, boy, the magazine will go up any minute!"

"Aye." McQuater's voice was noncommittal. "Aye, Ah kinna thought that might be the wey o' it. No, sir, the sprinklers arena workin'-and it's akeady 20 degrees above the operatin' temperature, sir."

"Don't just stand there," Vallery said desperately. "Turn them on by hand! The water in the sprinklers can't possibly be frozen if it's as hot as you say it is. Hurry, man, hurry. If the mag. goes up, the Ulysses is finished. For God's sake, hurry!"

"Ah've tried them, sir," McQuater said softly. "It's nae bluidy use.

They're solid!"

"Then break them open! There must be a tommy bar lying about somewhere. Smash them open, man! Hurry!"

"Aye, richt ye are, sir. But-but if Ah do that, sir, how am Ah to shut the valves aff again?" There was a note almost of quiet desperation in the boy's voice, some trick of reproduction in the amplifier, Vallery guessed.

"You can't! It's impossible! But never mind that!" Vallery said impatiently, his voice ragged with anxiety. "We'll pump it all out later. Hurry, McQuater, hurry!"

There was a brief silence followed by a muffled shout and a soft thud, then they heard a thin metallic clanging echoing through the amplifier, a rapid, staccato succession of strokes. McQuater must have been raining a veritable hail of blows on the valve handles. Abruptly, the noise ceased.

Vallery waited until he heard the phone being picked up, called anxiously: "Well, how is it? Sprinklers all right?"

"Goin' like the clappers, sir." There was a new note in his voice, a note of pride and satisfaction. "Ah've just crowned Barker wi' the tommy bar," he added cheerfully. "You've wharf"

"Laid oot old Barker," said McQuater distinctly. "He tried to stop me. Windy auld bastard.... Ach, he's no' worth mentionin'... My they sprinklers are grand things, sir. Ah've never seen them workin' before.

Place is ankle deep a'ready. And the steam's fair sizzlin' aff the bulkheid!"

"That's enough!" Vallery's voice was sharp. "Get out at once, and make sure that you take Barker with you."

"Ah saw a picture once. In the Paramount in Glasgow, Ah think. Ah must've been flush." The tone was almost conversational, pleasurably reminiscent. Vallery exchanged glances with Turner, saw that he too, was fighting off the feeling of unreality. "Rain, it was cried. But it wasnae hauf as bad as this. There certainly wisnae hauf as much bluidy steam! Talk aboot the hothouse in the Botanic Gardens!" "McQuater!"

Vallery roared. "Did you hear me? Leave at once, I say! At once, do you hear?"

"Up to ma knees a'ready!" McQuater said admiringly. "It's gey cauld.... Did you say somethin' sir?"

"I said, 'Leave at once!'" Vallery ground out. "Get out!"

"Aye, Ah see.' Get oot.' Aye. Ah thought that was what ye said. Get oot. Well, it's no that easy. As a matter o' fact, we canna. Hatchway's buckled and the hatch cover, too, jammed deid solid, sir."

The echo from the speaker boomed softly over the shattered bridge, died away in frozen silence. Unconsciously, Vallery lowered the telephone, his eyes wandering dazedly over the bridge. Turner, Carrington, the Kapok Kid, Bentley, Chrysler and the others-they were all looking at him, all with the same curiously blank intensity blurring imperceptibly into the horror of understanding-and he knew that their eyes and faces only mirrored his own. Just for a second, as if to clear his mind, he screwed his eyes tightly shut, then lifted the phone again.

"McQuater! McQuater! Are you still there?" "Of course Ah'm here!" Even through the speaker, the voice was peevish, the asperity unmistakable.

"Where the hell------?"

"Are you sure it's jammed, boy?" Vallery cut in desperately. "Maybe if you took a tommy-bar to the clips------"

"Ah could take a stick o' dynamite to the bluidy thing and it 'ud make no difference," McQuater said matter-of-factly. "Onywey, it's just aboot red-hot a'ready-the hatch, Ah mean. There must be a bluidy great fire directly ootside it."

"Hold on a minute," Vallery called. He turned round. "Commander, have Dodson send a stoker to the main magazine flooding valve aft: stand by to shut off."

He crossed over to the nearest communication number.

"Are you on to the poop phone just now? Good! Give it to me...

Hallo, Captain here. Is-ah, it's you, Hartley. Look, give me a report on the state of the mess-deck fires. It's desperately urgent. There are ratings trapped in' Y' magazine, the sprinklers are on and the hatch cover's jammed... Yes, yes, I'll hold on."

He waited impatiently for the reply, gloved hand tapping mechanically on top of the phone box. His eyes swept slowly over the convoy, saw the freighters steaming in to take up position again. Suddenly he stiffened, eyes unseeing.

"Yes, Captain speaking... Yes... Yes. Half an hour, maybe an hour... Oh, G®d, no! You're quite certain?... No, that's all."

He handed the receiver back, looked up slowly, his face drained of expression.

"Fire in the seamen's mess is under control," he said dully. "The marines' mess is an inferno-directly on top of 'Y' magazine. Hartley says there isn't a chance of putting it out for an hour at least.... I think you'd better get down there, Number One."

A whole minute passed, a minute during which there was only the pinging of the Asdic, the regular crash of the sea as the Ulysses rolled in the heavy troughs.

"Maybe the magazine's cool enough now," the Kapok Kid suggested at length. "Perhaps we could shut off the water long enough..." His voice trailed away uncertainly.

"Cool enough?" Turner cleared his throat noisily. "How do we know? Only McQuater could tell us..." He stopped abruptly, as he realised the implications of what he was saying.

"We'll ask him," Vallery said heavily. He picked up the phone again.

"McQuater?"

"Hallo!"

"Perhaps we could shut off the sprinklers outside, if it's safe. Do you think the temperature...?"

He broke off, unable to complete the sentence. The silence stretched out, taut and tangible, heavy with decision. Vallery wondered numbly what McQuater was thinking, what he himself would have thought in McQuater's place.

"Hing on a minute," the speaker boomed abruptly. "Ah'll have a look up top."

Again that silence, again that tense unnatural silence lay heavily over the bridge. Vallery started as the speaker boomed again.

"Jings, Ah'm b------d. Ah couldna climb that ladder again for twenty-four points in the Treble Chance... Ah'm on the ladder now, but Ah'm thinkin' Ah'll no" be on it much longer."

"Never mind..." Vallery checked himself, aghast at what he had been about to say. If McQuater fell off, he'd drown like a rat in that flooded magazine.

"Oh, aye. The magazine." In the intervals between the racked bouts of coughing, the voice was strangely composed. "The shells up top are just aboot meltin'. Worse than ever, sir."

"I see." Vallery could think of nothing else to say. His eyes were closed and he knew he was swaying on his feet. With an effort, he spoke again. "How's Williamson?" It was all he could think of.

"Near gone. Up to his neck and hangin' on to the racks." McQuater coughed again. "Says he's a message for the Commander and Carslake."

"A-a message?"

"Uh-huh! Tell old Blackbeard to take a turn to himself and lay off the bottle," he said with relish. The message for Carslake was unprintable.

Vallery didn't even feel shocked.

"And yourself, McQuater?" he said. "No message, nothing you would like..." He stopped, conscious of the grotesque inadequacy, the futility of what he was saying.

"Me? Ach, there's naething Ah'd like... Well, maybe a "transfer to the Spartiate, but Ah'm thinking maybe it's a wee bit ower late for that. "Williamson!" The voice had risen to a sudden urgent shout.

"Williamson! Hang on, boy, Ah'm coming!" They heard the booming clatter in the speaker as McQuater's phone crashed against metal, and then there was only the silence.

"McQuater!" Vallery shouted into the phone. "McQuater! Answer me, man. Can you hear me? McQuater!"

H.M.S. Spartiate was a shore establishment. Naval H.Q. for the West of Scotland, It was at St. Enoch's Hotel, Glasgow.

But the speaker above him remained dead, finally, irrevocably dead.

Vallery shivered in the icy wind. That magazine, that flooded magazine... less than twenty-four hours since he had been there. He could see it now, see it as clearly as he had seen it last night. Only now he saw it dark, cavernous with only the pin-points of emergency lighting, the water welling darkly, slowly up the sides, saw that little, pitifully wasted Scots boy with the thin shoulders and pain-filled eyes, struggling desperately to keep his mate's head above that icy water, exhausting his tiny reserves of strength with the passing of every second. Even now, the tune must be running out and Vallery knew hope was gone. With a sudden clear certainty he knew that when those two went down, they would go down together. McQuater would never let go. Eighteen years old, just eighteen years old. Vallery turned away, stumbling blindly through the gate on to the shattered compass platform. It was beginning to snow again and the darkness was falling all around them.