HMS Ulysses

CHAPTER FOURTEEN SATURDAY EVENING I

THE Ulysses rolled on through the Arctic twilight. She rolled heavily, awkwardly, in seas of the wrong critical length, a strange and stricken sight with both masts gone, with all boats and rafts gone, with shattered fore-and-aft superstructure, with a crazily tilted bridge and broken, mangled after turret, half-buried in the skeleton of the Condor's fuselage. But despite all that, despite, too, the great garish patches of red lead and gaping black holes in fo'c'sle and poop-the latter welling with dark smoke laced with flickering lances of flame-she still remained uncannily ghost-like and graceful, a creature of her own element, inevitably at home in the Arctic. Ghost-like, graceful, and infinitely enduring... and still deadly. She still had her guns-and her engines. Above all, she had these great engines, engines strangely blessed with endless immunity. So, at least, it seemed...

Five minutes dragged themselves interminably by, five minutes during which the sky grew steadily darker, during which reports from the poop showed that the firefighters were barely holding their own, five minutes during which Vallery recovered something of his normal composure. But he was now terribly weak.

A bell shrilled, cutting sharply through the silence and the gloom.

Chrysler answered it, turned to the bridge.

"Captain, sir. After engine-room would like to speak to you."

Turner looked at the Captain, said quickly: "Shall I take it, sir?"

"Thank you." Vallery nodded his head gratefully. Turner nodded in turn, crossed to the phone.

"Commander speaking. Who is it?... Lieutenant Grier-son. What is it, Grierson? Couldn't be good news for a change?"

For almost a minute Turner remained silent. The others on the bridge could hear the faint crackling of the earpiece, sensed rather than saw the taut attention, the tightening of the mouth.

"Will it hold?" Turner asked abruptly. "Yes, yes, of course... Tell him we'll do our best up here... Do that. Half-hourly, if you please."

"It never rains, et cetera," Turner growled, replacing the phone.

"Engine running rough, temperature hotting up. Distortion in inner starboard shaft. Dodson himself is in the shaft tunnel right now. Bent like a banana, he says."

Vallery smiled faintly. "Knowing Dodson, I suppose that means a couple of thou out of alignment."

"Maybe." Turner was serious. "What does matter is that the main shaft bearing's damaged and the lubricating line fractured."

"As bad as that?" Vallery asked softly.

"Dodson is pretty unhappy. Says the damage isn't recent, thinks it began the night we lost our depth-charges." Turner shook his head. "Lord knows what stresses that shaft's undergone since.... I suppose tonight's performance brought it to a head... The bearing will have to be lubricated by hand. Wants engine revs, at a minimum or engine shut off altogether. They'll keep us posted."

"And no possibility of repair?" Vallery asked wryly.

"No, sir. None."

"Very well, then. Convoy speed. And Commander?"

"Sir?"

"Hands to stations all night. You needn't tell 'em so-but, well, I think it would be wise. I have a feeling------"

"What's that!" Turner shouted. "Look! What the hell's she doing?" His finger was stabbing towards the last freighter in the starboard line: her guns were blazing away at some unseen target, the tracers lancing whitely through the twilight sky. Even as he dived for the broadcaster, he caught sight of the Viking's main armament belching smoke and jagged flame.

"All guns! Green 1101 Aircraft! Independent fire, independent targets!

Independent fire, independent targets!" He heard Vallery ordering starboard helm, knew he was going to bring the for'ard turrets to bear.

They were too late. Even as the Ulysses began to answer her helm, the enemy planes were pulling out of their approach dives. Great, clumsy shapes, these planes, forlorn and insubstantial in the murky gloom, but identifiable in a sickening flash by the clamour of suddenly racing engines. Condors, without a shadow of doubt. Condors that had outguessed them again, that gliding approach, throttles cut right back, muted roar of the engines drifting downwind, away from the convoy. Their timing, their judgment of distance, had been superb.

The freighter was bracketed twice, directly hit by at least seven bombs: in the near-darkness, it was impossible to see the bombs going home, but the explosions were unmistakable. And as each plane passed over, the decks were raked by savage bursts of machine-gun fire. Every gun position on the freighter was wide open, lacking all but the most elementary frontal protection: the Dems, Naval Ratings on the L.A. guns, Royal Marine Artillerymen on the H.A. weapons, were under no illusions as to their life expectancy when they joined the merchant ships on the Russian run... For such few gunners as survived the bombing, the vicious stuttering of these machine-guns was almost certainly their last sound on earth.

As the bombs plummeted down on the next ship in line, the first freighter was already a broken-backed mass of licking, twisting flames.

Almost certainly, too, her bottom had been torn out: she had listed heavily, and now slowly and smoothly broke apart just aft of the bridge as if both parts were hinged below the water-line, and was gone before the clamour of the last aero engine had died away in the distance.

Tactical surprise had been complete. One ship gone, a second slewing wildly to an uncontrolled stop, deep in the water by the head, and strangely disquieting and ominous in the entire absence of smoke, flame or any movement at all, a third heavily damaged but still under command. Not one Condor had been lost.

Turner ordered the cease-fire-some of the gunners were still firing blindly into the darkness: trigger-happy, perhaps, or just that the imagination plays weird tricks on woolly minds and sunken blood-red eyes that had known no rest for more hours and days than Turner could remember. And then, as the last Oerlikon fell silent, he heard it again-the drone of the heavy aero engines, the sound welling then ebbing again like breakers on a distant shore, as the wind gusted and died.

There was nothing anyone could do about it. The Focke-Wulf, although lost in the low cloud, was making no attempt to conceal its presence: the ominous drone was never lost for long. Clearly, it was circling almost directly above.

"What do you make of it, sir?" Turner asked.

"I don't know," Vallery said slowly. "I just don't know at all. No more visits from the Condors, I'm sure of that. It's just that little bit too dark-and they know they won't catch us again. Tailing us, like as not."

"Tailing us! It'll be black as tar in half an hour!" Turner disagreed.

"Psychological warfare, if you ask me."

"God knows," Vallery sighed wearily. "All I know is that I'd give all my chances, here and to come, for a couple of Corsairs, or radar, or fog, or another such night as we had in the Denmark Straits." He laughed shortly, broke down in a fit of coughing. "Did you hear me?" he whispered. "I never thought I'd ask for that again... How long since we left Scapa, Commander?"

Turner thought briefly. "Five-six days, sir."

"Six days!" He shook his head unbelievingly. "Six days. And-and thirteen ships-we have thirteen ships now."

"Twelve," Turner corrected quietly. "Another's almost gone. Seven freighters, the tanker and ourselves. Twelve... I wish they'd have a go at the old Stirling once in a while," he added morosely.

Vallery shivered in a sudden flurry of snow. He bent forward, head bent against the bitter wind and slanting snow, sunk in unmoving thought.

Presently he stirred.

"We will be off the North Cape at dawn," he said absently. "Things may be a little difficult, Commander. They'll throw in everything they've got."

"We've been round there before," Turner conceded.

"Fifty-fifty on our chances." Vallery did not seem to have heard him, seemed to be talking to himself. "Ulysses and the Sirens-' it may be that the gulfs will wash us down.'... I wish you luck, Commander."

Turner stared at him. "What do you mean------?"

"Oh, myself too." Vallery smiled, his head lifting up. "I'll need all the luck, too." His voice was very soft.

Turner did what he had never done before, never dreamed he would do. In the near-darkness he bent over the Captain, pulled his face round gently and searched it with troubled eyes. Vallery made no protest, and after a few seconds Turner straightened up.

"Do me a favour, sir," he said quietly. "Go below. I can take care of things-and Carrington will be up before long. They're gaining control aft."

"No, not tonight." Vallery was smiling, but there was a curious finality about the voice. "And it's no good dispatching one of your minions to summon old Socrates to the bridge. Please, Commander. I want to stay here-I want to see things tonight."

"Yes, yes, of course." Suddenly, strangely, Turner no longer wished to argue. He turned away. "Chrysler! I'll give you just ten minutes to have a gallon of boiling coffee in the Captain's shelter... And you're going to go in there for half an hour," he said firmly, turning to Vallery, "and drink the damned stuff, or-or------"

"Delighted!" Vallery murmured. "Laced with your incomparable rum, of course?"

"Of course! Eh-oh, yes, damn that Williamson!" Turner growled irritably. He paused, went on slowly: "Shouldn't have said that...

Poor bastards, they'll have had it by this time..." He fell silent, then cocked his head listening. "I wonder how long old Charlie means to keep stooging around up there," he murmured.

Vallery cleared his throat, coughed, and before he could speak the W.T. broadcaster clicked on.

"W.T.-bridge. W.T.-bridge. Two messages."

"One from the dashing Orr, for a fiver," Turner grunted.

"First from the Sirrus. 'Request permission to go alongside, take off survivors. As well hung for a sheep as a lamb.'"

Vallery stared through the thinly falling snow, through the darkness of the night and over the rolling sea.

"In this sea?" he murmured. "And as near dark as makes no difference. He'll kill himself!"

"That's nothing to what old Starr's going to do to him when he lays hands on him!" Turner said cheerfully.

"He hasn't a chance. I-I could never ask a man to do that. There's no justification for such a risk. Besides, the merchantman's been badly hit. There can't be many left alive aboard."

Turner said nothing.

'"Make a signal," Vallery said clearly. "'Thank you. Permission granted.

Good luck." And tell W.T. to go ahead."

There was a short silence, then the speaker crackled again.

"Second signal from London for Captain. Decoding. Messenger leaving for bridge immediately."

"To Officer Commanding, 14 A.C.S., FR77," the speaker boomed after a few seconds. "' Deeply distressed at news. Imperative maintain 090. Battle squadron steaming SSE. at full speed on interception course. Rendezvous approx. 1400 tomorrow. Their Lordships expressly command best wishes Rear-Admiral, repeat Rear-Admiral Vallery. D.N.O., London.'"

The speaker clicked off and there was only the lost pinging of the Asdic, the throbbing monotony of the prowling Condor's engines, the lingering memory of the gladness in the broadcaster's voice.

"Uncommon civil of their Lordships," murmured the Kapok Kid, rising to the occasion as usual. "Downright decent, one might almost say."

"Bloody long overdue," Turner growled. "Congratulations, sir," he added warmly. "Signs of grace at last along the banks of the Thames." A murmur of pleasure ran round the bridge: discipline or not, no one made any attempt to hide his satisfaction.

"Thank you, thank you." Vallery was touched, deeply touched. Promise of help at long, long last, a promise which might hold-almost certainly held-for each and every member of his crew the difference between life and death-and they could only think to rejoice in his promotion! Dead men's shoes, he thought, and thought of saying it, but dismissed the idea immediately: a rebuff, a graceless affront to such genuine pleasure.

"Thank you very much," he repeated. "But gentlemen, you appear to have missed the only item of news of any real significance------"

"Oh, no, we haven't," Turner growled. "Battle squadron, ha! Too ------late as usual. Oh, to be sure, they'll be in at the death-or shortly afterwards, anyway. Perhaps in time for a few survivors. I suppose the Illustrious and the Furious will be with them?"

"Perhaps. I don't know." Vallery shook his head, smiling. "Despite my recent-ah-elevation, I am not yet in their Lordships' confidence. But there'll be some carriers, and they could fly off a few hours away, give us air cover from dawn."

"Oh, no, they won't," said Turner prophetically. "The weather will break down, make flying off impossible. See if I'm not right."

"Perhaps, Cassandra, perhaps," Vallery smiled. "We'll see... What was that, Pilot? I didn't quite..."

The Kapok Kid grinned.

"It's just occurred to me that tomorrow's going to be a big day for our junior doctor-he's convinced that no battleship ever puts out to sea except for a Spithead review in peacetime."

"That reminds me," Vallery said thoughtfully. "Didn't we promise the Sirrus------?"

"Young Nicholls is up to his neck in work," Turner cut in. "Doesn't love us-the Navy rather-overmuch, but he sure loves his job. Borrowed a fire-fighting suit, and Carrington says he's already..." He broke off, looked up sharply into the thin, driving snow. "Hallo! Charlie's getting damned nosy, don't you think?"

The roar of the Condor's engines was increasing every second: the sound rose to a clamouring crescendo as the bomber roared directly overhead, barely a couple of hundred feet above the broken masts, died away to a steady drone as the plane circled round the convoy.

"W.T. to escorts!" Vallery called quickly. "Let him go, don't touch him! No starshells-nothing. He's trying to draw us out, to have us give away our position... It's not likely that the merchant ships...

Oh, God! The fools, the fools! Too late, too late!"

A merchantman in the port line had opened up-Oerlikons or Bofors, it was difficult to say. They were firing blind, completely blind: and in a high wind, snow and darkness, the chance of locating a plane by sound alone was impossibly remote.

The firing did not last long-ten, fifteen seconds at the outside. But long enough-and the damage was done. Charlie had pulled off, and straining apprehensive ears caught the sudden deepening of the note of the engines as the boosters were cut in for maximum climb.

"What do you make of it, sir?" Turner asked abruptly.

"Trouble." Vallery was quiet but certain. "This has never happened before-and it's not psychological warfare, as you call it, Commander: he doesn't even rob us of our sleep, not when we're this close to the North Cape. And he can't hope to trail us long: a couple of quick course alterations and, ah!" He breathed softly. "What did I tell you, Commander?"

With a suddenness that blocked thought, with a dazzling glare that struck whitely, cruelly at singeing eyeballs, night was transformed into day. High above the Ulysses a flare had burst into intense life, a flare which tore apart the falling snow like filmy, transparent gauze.

Swinging wildly under its parachute with the gusting of the wind, the flare was drifting slowly seawards, towards a sea no longer invisible but suddenly black as night, towards a sea where every ship, in its glistening sheath of ice and snow, was silhouetted in dazzling whiteness against the inky backdrop of sea and sky.

"Get that flare!" Turner was barking into the transmitter. "All Oerlikons, all pom-poms, get that flare!" He replaced the transmitter.

"Might as well throw empty beer bottles at it with the old girl rolling like this," he muttered. "Lord, gives you a funny feeling, this!"

"I know," the Kapok Kid supplied. "Like one of these dreams where you're walking down a busy street and you suddenly realise that all you're wearing is a wrist-watch. 'Naked and defenceless,' is the accepted term, I believe. For the non-literary, 'caught with the pants down.'" Absently he brushed the snow off the quilted kapok, exposing the embroidered "J "on the breast pocket, while his apprehensive eyes probed into the circle of darkness outside the pool of light. "I don't like this at all," he complained.

"Neither do I." Vallery was unhappy. "And I don't like Charlie's sudden disappearance either."

"He hasn't disappeared," Turner said grimly. "Listen!" They listened, ears straining intently, caught the intermittent, distant thunder of the heavy engines. "He's 'way astern of us, closing."

Less than a minute later the Condor roared overhead again, higher this time, lost in the clouds. Again he released a flare, higher, much higher than the last, and this time squarely over the heart of the convoy.

Again the roar of the engines died to a distant murmur, again the desynchronised clamour strengthened as the Condor overtook the convoy a second time. Glimpsed only momentarily in the inverted valleys between the scudding clouds, it flew wide, this time, far out on the port hand, riding clear above the pitiless glare of the sinking flares. And, as it thundered by, flares exploded into blazing life, four of them, just below cloud level, at four-second intervals. The northern horizon was alive with light, glowing and pulsating with a fierce flame that threw every tiny detail into the starkest relief. And to the south there was only the blackness: the rim of the pool of light stopped abruptly just beyond the starboard line of ships.

It was Turner who first appreciated the significance, the implications of this. Realisation struck at him with the galvanic effect of sheer physical shock. He gave a hoarse cry, fairly flung himself at the broadcast transmitter: there was no time to await permission.

"'B' turret!" he roared. "Starshells to the south. Green 90, green 90. Urgent! Urgent! Starshells, green 90. Maximum elevation 10. Close settings. Fire when you are ready!" He looked quickly over his shoulder.

"Pilot! Can you "'B' turret training, sir."

"Good, good!" He lifted the transmitter again. "All guns! All guns!

Stand by to repel air attack from starboard. Probable bearing green 90.

Hostiles probably torpedo-bombers." Even as he spoke, he caught sight of the intermittent flashing of the fighting lights on the lower yardarm:

Vallery was sending out an emergency signal to the convoy.

"You're right, Commander," Vallery whispered. In the gaunt pallor, in the skin taut stretched across the sharp and fleshless bones, his face, in that blinding glare, was a ghastly travesty of humanity; it was a death's-head, redeemed only by the glow of the deep-sunken eyes, the sudden flicker of bloodless lids as the whip-lash crash of 'B' turret shattered the silence. "You must be," he went on slowly. "Every ship silhouetted from the north-and a maximum run-in from the south under cover of darkness." He broke off suddenly as the shells exploded in great overlapping globules of light, two miles to the south. "You are right," he said gently. "Here they come."

H.U. 225 H They came from the south, wing-tip to wing-tip, flying in three waves with four or five planes in each wave. They were coming in at about 500 feet, and even as the shells burst their noses were already dipping into the plane of the shallow attack dive of the torpedo-bomber. And as they dived, the bombers fanned out, as if in search of individual targets-or what seemed, at first sight, to be individual targets. But within seconds it became obvious that they were concentrating on two ships and two ships alone-the Stirling and the Ulysses. Even the ideal double target of the crippled merchantman and the destroyer Sirrus, almost stopped alongside her, was strictly ignored. They were flying under orders.

'B' turret pumped out two more starshells at minimum settings, reloaded with H.E. By this time, every gun in the convoy had opened up, the barrage was intense: the torpedo-bombers-curiously difficult to identify, but looking like Heinkels-had to fly through a concentrated lethal curtain of steel and high explosive. The element of surprise was gone: the starshells of the Ulysses had gained a priceless twenty seconds.

Five bombers were coming at the Ulysses now, fanned out to disperse fire, but arrowing in on a central point. They were levelling off, running in on firing tracks almost at wave-top height, when one of them straightened up a fraction too late, brushed lightly against a cresting wave-top, glanced harmlessly off, then catapulted crazily from wave-top to wave-top-they were flying at right angles to the set of the sea-before disappearing in a trough. Misjudgment of distance or the pilot's windscreen suddenly obscured by a flurry of snow-it was impossible to say.

A second later the leading plane in the middle disintegrated in a searing burst of flame-a direct hit on its torpedo warhead. A third plane, behind and to the west, sheered off violently to the left to avoid the hurtling debris, and the subsequent dropping of its torpedo was no more than an empty gesture. It ran half a cable length behind the Ulysses, spent itself in the empty sea beyond.

Two bombers left now, pressing home their attack with suicidal courage, weaving violently from side to side to avoid destruction. Two seconds passed, three, four-and still they came on, through the falling snow and intensely heavy fire, miraculous in their immunity. Theoretically, there is no target so easy to hit as a plane approaching directly head on: in practice, it never worked out that way. In the Arctic, the Mediterranean, the Pacific, the relative immunity of the torpedo-bombers, the high percentage of successful attacks carried out in the face of almost saturation fire, never failed to confound the experts. Tension, over-anxiety, fear-these were part of the trouble, at least: there are no half measures about a torpedo-bomber-you get him or he gets you. And there is nothing more nerve-racking-always, of course, with the outstanding exception of the screaming, near-vertical power-dive of the gull-winged Stuka dive-bomber-than to see a torpedo-bomber looming hugely, terrifyingly over the open sights of your gun and know that you have just five inexorable seconds to live...

And with the Ulysses, of course, the continuous rolling of the cruiser in the heavy cross-sea made accuracy impossible.

These last two bombers came in together, wing-tip to wing-tip. The plane nearer the bows dropped its torpedo less than two hundred yards away, pulled up in a maximum climbing turn to starboard, a fusillade of light cannon and machine-gun shells smashing into the upper works of the bridge: the torpedo hit the water obliquely, porpoised high into the air, then crashed back again nose first into a heavy wave, diving steeply into the sea: it passed under the Ulysses.

But seconds before that the last torpedo-bomber had made its attack-made its attack and failed and died. It had come roaring in less than ten feet above the waves, had come straight on without releasing its torpedo, without gaining an inch in height, until the crosses on the upper sides of the wings could be clearly seen, until it was less than a hundred yards away. Suddenly, desperately, the pilot had begun to climb: it was immediately obvious that the torpedo release mechanism had jammed, either through mechanical failure or icing in the intense cold: obviously, too, the pilot had intended to release the torpedo at the last minute, had banked on the sudden decrease of weight to lift him over the Ulysses. The nose of the bomber smashed squarely into the for'ard funnel, the starboard wing shearing off like cardboard as it scythed across the after leg of the tripod mast. There was an instantaneous, blinding sheet of gasoline flame, but neither smoke nor explosion. A moment later the crumpled, shattered bomber, no longer a machine but a torn and flaming crucifix, plunged into the hissing sea a dozen yards away. The water had barely closed over it when a gigantic underwater explosion heeled the Ulysses far over to starboard, a vicious hammer-blow that flung men off their feet and shattered the lighting system on the port side of the cruiser.

Commander Turner hoisted himself painfully to his feet, shook his head to clear it of the cordite fumes and the dazed confusion left by cannon shells exploding almost at arm's length. The shock of the detonating torpedo hadn't thrown him to the duckboards-he'd hurled himself there five seconds previously as the flaming guns of the other bomber had raked the bridge from point-blank range.

His first thought was for Vallery. The Captain was lying on his side, crumpled strangely against the binnacle. Dry-mouthed, cold with a sudden chill that was not of that Polar wind, Turner bent quickly, turned him gently over.

Vallery lay still, motionless, lifeless. No sign of blood, no gaping wound-thank God for that! Turner peeled off a glove, thrust a hand below duffel coat and jacket, thought he detected a faint, a very faint beating of the heart. Gently he lifted the head off the frozen slush, then looked up quickly. The Kapok Kid was standing above him.

"Get Brooks up here, Pilot," he said swiftly. "It's urgent!"

Unsteadily, the Kapok Kid crossed over the bridge. The communication rating was leaning over the gate, telephone in his hand.

"The Sick Bay, quickly!" the Kapok Kid ordered. "Tell the Surgeon Commander..." He stopped suddenly, guessed that the man was still too dazed to understand. "Here, give me that phone!" Impatiently, he stretched out his hand and grabbed the telephone, then stiffened in horror as the man slipped gradually backwards, extended arms trailing stiffly over the top of the gate until they disappeared. Carpenter opened the gate, stared down at the dead man at his feet: there was a hole the size of his gloved fist between the shoulder-blades.

He lay alongside the Asdic cabinet, a cabinet, the Kapok Kid now saw for the first time, riddled and shattered with machine-gun bullets and shells. His first thought was the numbing appreciation that the set must be smashed beyond recovery, that their last defence against the U-boats was gone. Hard on the heels of that came the sickening realisation that there had been an Asdic operator inside there... His eyes wandered away, caught sight of Chrysler rising to his feet by the torpedo control. He, too, was staring at the Asdic cabinet, his face drained of expression. Before the Kapok Kid could speak, Chrysler lurched forward, fists battering frantically, blindly at the jammed door of the cabinet. Like a man in a dream, the Kapok Kid heard him sobbing.... And then he remembered. The Asdic operator-his name was Chrysler too. Sick to his heart, the Kapok Kid lifted the phone again....

Turner pillowed the Captain's head, moved across to the starboard corner of the compass platform. Bentley, quiet, unobtrusive as always, was sitting on the deck, his back wedged between two pipes, his head pillowed peacefully on his chest. His hand under Bentley's chin, Turner gazed down into the sightless eyes, the only recognisable feature of what had once been a human face. Turner swore in savage quiet, tried to prise the dead fingers locked round the hand-grip of the Aldis, then gave up. The barred beam shone eerily across the darkening bridge.

Methodically, Turner searched the bridge-deck for further casualties. He found three others and it was no consolation at all that they must have died unknowing. Five dead men for a three-second burst-a very fair return, he thought bitterly. Standing on the after ladder, his face stilled in unbelief as he realised that he was staring down into the heart of the shattered for'ard funnel. More he could not see: the boat deck was already blurred into featureless anonymity in the dying glare of the last of the flares. He swung on his heel, returned to the compass platform.

At least, he thought grimly, there was no difficulty in seeing the Stirling. What was it that he had said-said less than ten minutes ago?

"I wish they'd have a go at the Stirling once in a while." Something like that. His mouth twisted. They'd had a go, all right. The Stirling, a mile ahead, was slewing away to starboard, to the south-east, her for'ard superstructure enveloped in a writhing cocoon of white flame. He stared through his night glasses, tried to assess the damage; but a solid wall of flame masked the superstructure, from the fo'c'sle deck clear abaft the bridge. He could see nothing there, just nothing-but he could see, even in that heavy swell, that the Stirling was listing to starboard. It was learned later that the Stirling had been struck twice: she had been torpedoed in the for'ard boiler-room, and seconds later a bomber had crashed into the side of her bridge, her torpedo still slung beneath the belly of her fuselage: almost certainly, in the light of the similar occurrence on the Ulysses, severe icing had jammed the release mechanism. Death must have been instantaneous for every man on the bridge and the decks below; among the dead were Captain Jeffries, the First Lieutenant and the Navigator.

The last bomber was hardly lost in the darkness when Carrington replaced the poop phone, turned to Hartley.

"Think you can manage now, Chief? I'm wanted on the bridge."

"I think so, sir." Hartley, blackened and stained with smoke and extinguisher foam, passed his sleeve wearily across his face. "The worst is over... Where's Lieutenant Carslake? Shouldn't he------?"

"Forget him," Carrington interrupted brusquely. "I don't know where he is, nor do I care. There's no need for us to beat about the bush, Chief we're better without him. If he returns, you're still in charge.

Look after things."

He turned away, walked quickly for'ard along the port alley. On the packed snow and ice, the pad of his rubber seaboots was completely soundless.

He was passing the shattered canteen when he saw a tall, shadowy figure standing in the gap between the snow covered lip of the outer torpedo tube and the end stanchion of the guard rails, trying to open a jammed extinguisher valve by striking it against the stanchion. A second later, he saw another blurred form detach itself stealthily from the shadows, creep up stealthily behind the man with the extinguisher, a heavy bludgeon of wood or metal held high above his head.

"Look out!" Carrington shouted. "Behind you!"

It was all over in two seconds, the sudden, flailing rush of the attacker, the crash as the victim, lightning fast in his reactions, dropped his extinguisher and fell crouched to his knees, the thin piercing scream of anger and terror as the attacker catapulted over the stooping body and through the gap between tubes and rails, the splash and then the silence.

Carrington ran up to the man on the deck, helped him to his feet. The last flare had not yet died, and it was still light enough for him to see who it was Ralston, the L.T.O. Carrington gripped his arms, looked at him anxiously.

"Are you all right? Did he get you? Good God, who on earth------?"

"Thank you, sir." Ralston was breathing quickly, but his face was almost expressionless again. "That was too close I Thank you very much, sir."

"But who on earth------?" Carrington repeated in wonder.

"Never saw him, sir." Ralston was grim. "But I know who it was-Sub-Lieutenant Carslake. He's been following me around all night, never let me out of his sight, not once. Now I know why."

It took much to disturb the First Lieutenant's iron equanimity, but now he shook his head in slow disbelief.

"I knew there was bad blood!" he murmured. "But that it should come to this! What the Captain will say to this I just------"

"Why tell him?" Ralston said indifferently. "Why tell anyone? Perhaps Carslake had relations. What good will it do to hurt them, to hurt anyone. Let anyone think what they like." He laughed shortly. "Let them think he died a hero's death fire-fighting, fell over the side, anything." He looked down into the dark, rushing water, then shivered suddenly. 'ù Let him go, sir, please. He's paid."

For a long second Carrington, too, stared down over the side, looked back at the tall boy before him. Then he clapped his arm, nodded slowly and turned away.

Turner heard the clanging of the gate, lowered the binoculars to find Carrington standing by his side, gazing wordlessly at the burning cruiser. Just then Vallery moaned softly, and Carrington looked down quickly at the prone figure at his feet.

"My God! The Old Man! Is he hurt badly, sir?"

"I don't know, Number One. If not, it's a bloody miracle," he added bitterly. He stooped down, raised the dazed Captain to a sitting position.

"Are you all right, sir?" he asked anxiously. "Do you? have you been hit?"

Vallery shuddered in a long, exhausting paroxysm of coughing, then shook his head feebly.

"I'm all right," he whispered weakly. He tried to grin, a pitiful, ghastly travesty of a smile in the reflected light from the burning Aldis. "I dived for the deck, but I think the binnacle got in my way."

He rubbed his forehead, already bruised and discoloured. "How's the ship, Commander?"

"To hell with the ship!" Turner said roughly. He passed an arm round Vallery, raised him carefully to his feet. "How are things aft, Number One?"

"Under control. Still burning, but under control. I left Hartley in charge." He made no mention of Carslake.

"Good! Take over. Radio Stirling, Sirrus, see how they are. Come on, sir. Shelter for you!"

Vallery protested feebly, a token protest only, for he was too weak to stand. He checked involuntarily as he saw the snow falling whitely through the barred beam of the Aldis, slowly followed the beam back to its source.

"Bentley?" he whispered. "Don't tell me..." He barely caught the Commander's wordless nod, turned heavily away. They passed by the dead man stretched outside the gate, then stopped at the Asdic cabinet. A sobbing figure was crouched into the angle between the shelter and the jammed and shattered door of the hut, head pillowed on the forearm resting high against the door. Vallery laid a hand on the shaking shoulder, peered into the averted face.

"What is it? Oh, it's you, boy." The white face had been lifted towards him. "What's the matter, Chrysler?"

"The door, sir!" Chrysler's voice was muffled, quivering. "The door, I can't open it."

For the first time, Vallery looked at the cabinet, at the gashed and torn metal. His mind was still dazed, exhausted, and it was almost by a process of association that he suddenly, horrifyingly thought of the gashed and mangled operator that must lie behind that locked door.

"Yes," he said quietly. "The door's buckled... There's nothing anyone can do, Chrysler." He looked more closely at the grief dulled eyes. "Come on, my boy, there's no need-----"

"My brother's in there, sir." The words, the hopeless despair, struck Vallery like a blow. Dear God! He had forgotten... Of course Leading Asdic Operator Chrysler... He stared down at the dead man at his feet, already covered with a thin layer of snow.

"Have that Aldis unplugged, Commander, will you?" he asked absently.

"And Chrysler?"

"Yes, sir." A flat monotone.

"Go below and bring up some coffee, please."

"Coffee, sir!" He was bewildered, uncomprehending. "Coffee! But, but-my-my brother------"

"I know," Vallery said gently. "I know. Bring some coffee, will you?"

Chrysler stumbled off. When the shelter door closed behind them, clicking on the light, Vallery turned to the Commander.

"Cue for moralising on the glories of war," he murmured quietly.

"Dulce et decorum, and the proud privilege of being the sons of Nelson and Drake. It's not twenty-four hours since Ralston watched his father die... And now this boy. Perhaps------"

"I'll take care of things," Turner nodded. He hadn't yet forgiven himself for what he had said and done to Ralston last night, in spite of Ralston's quick friendliness, the ready acceptance of his apologies.

"I'll keep him busy out of the way till we open up the cabinet.... Sit down, sir. Have a swig of this." He smiled faintly. "Friend Williams having betrayed my guilty secret.... Hallo! Company."

The light clicked off and a burly figure bulked momentarily against the grey oblong of the doorway. The door shut, and Brooks stood blinking in the sudden light, red of face and gasping for breath. His eyes focused on the bottle in Turner's hand.

"Ha!" he said at length. "Having a bottle party, are we? All contributions gratefully received, I have no doubt." He opened his case on a convenient table, was rummaging inside when someone rapped sharply on the door.

"Come in," Vallery called.

A signalman entered, handed a note to Vallery. "From London, sir. Chief says there may be some reply."

"Thank you. I'll phone down."

The door opened and closed again. Vallery looked up at an empty handed Turner.

"Thanks for removing the guilty evidence so quickly," he smiled. Then he shook his head. "My eyes, they don't seem so good. Perhaps you would read the signal, Commander?"

"And perhaps you would like some decent medicine," Brooks boomed, "instead of that filthy muck of Turner's." He fished in his bag, produced a bottle of amber liquid. "With all the resources of modern medicine, well, practically all, anyway, at my disposal, I can find nothing to equal this."

"Have you told Nicholls?" Vallery was stretched out on the settee now, eyes closed, the shadow of a smile on his bloodless lips.

"Well, no," Brooks confessed. "But plenty of time. Have some?"

"Thanks. Let's have the good news, Turner."

"Good news!" The sudden deadly quiet of the Commander's voice fell chilly over the waiting men. "No, sir, it's not good news.

"'Rear-Admiral Vallery, Commanding 14 A.C.S., FR77.' "The voice was drained of all tone and expression. "'Tirpitz, escorting cruisers, destroyers, reported moving out Alta Fjord sunset. Intense activity Alta Fjord airfield. Fear sortie under air cover. All measures avoid useless sacrifice Merchant, Naval ships. D.N.O., London.'" With deliberate care Turner folded the paper, laid it on the table. "Isn't that just wonderful," he murmured. "Whatever next?"

Vallery was sitting bolt upright on the settee, blind to the blood trickling down crookedly from one corner of his mouth. His face was calm, unworried.

"I think I'll have that glass, now, Brooks, if you don't mind," he said quietly. The Tirpitz. The Tirpitz. He shook his head tiredly, like a man in a dream. The Tirpitz the name that no man mentioned without a far off echo of awe and fear, the name that had completely dominated North Atlantic naval strategy during the past two years. Moving out at last, an armoured Colossus, sister ship to that other Titan that had destroyed the Hood with one single, savage blow, the Hood, the darling of the Royal Navy, the most powerful ship in the world, or so men had thought. What chance had their tiny cockle-shell cruiser... Again he shook his head, angrily this time, forced himself to think of the present.

"Well, gentlemen, I suppose time bringeth all things, even the Tirpitz. It had to come some day. Just our ill luck the bait was too close, too tempting."

"My young colleague is going to be just delighted," Brooks said grimly.

"A real battleship at long, long last."

"Sunset," Turner mused. "Sunset. My God!" he said sharply, "even allowing for negotiating the fjord they'll be on us in four hours on this course!"

"Exactly," Vallery nodded. "And it's no good running north. They'd overtake us before we're within a hundred miles of them."

"Them? Our big boys up north?" Turner scoffed. "I hate to sound like a gramophone record, but you'll recall my earlier statement about them too -----, late as usual!" He paused, swore again. "I hope that old bastard Starr's satisfied at last!" he finished bitterly.

"Why all the gloom?" Vallery looked up quizzically, went on softly.

"We can still be back, safe and sound in Scapa in forty-eight hours. 'Avoid useless sacrifice Merchant, Naval ships,' he said. The Ulysses is probably the fastest ship in the world today. It's simple, gentlemen."

"No, no!" Brooks moaned. "Too much of an anti-climax. I couldn't stand it!"

"Do another PQ17?" [3]

Turner smiled, but the smile never touched his eyes. "The Royal Navy could never stand it: Captain, Rear-Admiral Vallery would never permit it; and speaking for myself and, I'm fairly certain, this bunch of cut-throat mutineers of ours, well, I don't think we'd ever sleep so sound o' nights again."

"Gad!" Brooks murmured. "The man's a poet!"

"You're right, Turner." Vallery drained his glass, lay back exhausted.

"We don't seem to have much option... What if we receive orders for a-ah-high-speed withdrawal?"

"You can't read," Turner said bluntly. "Remember, you just said your eyes are going back on you."

"'Souls that have toiled and wrought and fought With me,'" Vallery quoted softly. "Thank you, gentlemen. You make things very easy for me." He propped himself on an elbow, his mind made up. He smiled at Turner, and his face was almost boyish again.

"Inform all merchant ships, all escorts. Tell them to break north."

Turner stared at him.

"North? Did you say' north'?" But the Admiralty-----"

"North, I said," Vallery repeated quietly. "The Admiralty can do what they like about it. We've played along long enough. We've sprung the trap. What more can they want? This way there's a chance, an almost hopeless chance, perhaps, but a fighting chance. To go east is suicide."

He smiled again, almost dreamily. "The end is not all important," he said softly. "I don't think I'll have to answer for this. Not now, not ever."

Turner grinned at him, his face lit up. "North, you said."

"Inform C.-in-C.," Vallery went on. "Ask Pilot for an interception course. Tell the convoy we'll tag along behind, give 'em as much cover as we can, as long as we can... As long as we can. Let us not delude ourselves. 1,000 to 1 at the outside... Nothing else we can do, Commander?"

"Pray," Turner said succinctly.

"And sleep," Brooks added. "Why don't you have half an hour, sir?"

"Sleep!" Vallery seemed genuinely amused. "We'll have all the time in the world to sleep, just by and by."

"You have a point," Brooks conceded. "You are very possibly right."