HMS Ulysses

CHAPTER SEVEN WEDNESDAY NIGHT

THE CONVOY came steadily up from the west, rolling heavily in cross seas, a rich argosy, a magnificent prize for any German wolf-pack.

Eighteen ships in this argosy, fifteen big, modern cargo ships, three 16,000-ton tankers, carrying a freight far more valuable, infinitely more vital, than any fleet of quinqueremes or galleons had ever known.

Tanks, planes and petrol-what were gold and jewels, silks and the rarest of spices compared to these? œ10,000,000, œ20,000,000-the total worth of that convoy was difficult to estimate: in any event, its real value was not to be measured in terms of money.

Aboard the merchant ships, crews lined the decks as the Ulysses steamed up between the port and centre lines. Lined the decks and looked and wondered-and thanked their Maker they had been wide of the path of that great storm. The Ulysses, seen from another deck, was a strange sight: broken-masted, stripped of her rafts, with her boat falls hauled taut over empty cradles, she glistened like crystal in the morning light: the great wind had blown away all snow, had abraded and rubbed and polished the ice to a satin-smooth, transparent gloss: but on either side of the bows and before the bridge were huge patches of crimson, where the hurricane sand-blaster of that long night had stripped off camouflage and base coats, exposing the red lead below.

The American escort was small, a heavy cruiser with a seaplane for spotting, two destroyers and two near frigates of the coastguard type.

Small, but sufficient: there was no need of escort carriers (although these frequently sailed with the Atlantic convoys) because the Luftwaffe could not operate so far west, and the wolf-packs, in recent months, had moved north and east of Iceland: there, they were not only nearer base-they could more easily lie astride the converging convoy routes to Murmansk.

ENE. they sailed in company, freighters, American warships and the Ulysses until, late in the afternoon, the box-like silhouette of an escort carrier bulked high against the horizon. Half an hour later, at 1600, the American escorts slowed, dropped astern and turned, winking farewell messages of good luck. Aboard the Ulysses, men watched them depart with mixed feelings. They knew these ships had to go, that another convoy would already be mustering off the St. Lawrence. There was none of the envy, the bitterness one might expect-and had indeed been common enough only a few weeks ago-among these exhausted men who carried the brunt of the war. There was instead a careless acceptance of things as they were, a quasi-cynical bravado, often a queer, high nameless pride that hid itself beneath twisted jests and endless grumbling.

The 14th Aircraft Carrier Squadron-or what was left of it-was only two miles away now. Tyndall, coming to the bridge, swore fluently as he saw that a carrier and minesweeper were missing. An angry signal went out to Captain Jeffries of the Stirling, asking why orders had been disobeyed, where the missing ships were.

An Aldis nickered back its reply. Tyndall sat grim-faced and silent as Bentley read out the signal to him. The Wrestler's steering gear had broken down during the night. Even behind Langanes the weather position had been severe, had worsened about midnight when the wind had veered to the north. The Wrestler, even with two screws, had lost almost all steering command, and, in zero visibility and an effort to maintain position, had gone too far ahead and grounded on the Vejle bank. She had grounded on the top of the tide. She had still been there, with the minesweeper Eager in attendance, when the squadron had sailed shortly after dawn.

Tyndall sat in silence for some minutes. He dictated a W.T. signal to the Wrestler, hesitated about breaking radio silence, countermanded the signal, and decided to go to see for himself. After all, it was only three hours' steaming distance. He signalled the Stirling: "Take over squadron command: will rejoin in the morning," and ordered Vallery to take the Ulysses back to Langanes.

Vallery nodded unhappily, gave the necessary orders. He was worried, badly so, was trying hard not to show it. The least of his worries was himself, although he knew, but never admitted to anyone, that he was a very sick man. He thought wryly that he didn't have to admit it anyway-he was amused and touched by the elaborate casualness with which his officers sought to lighten his load, to show their concern for him.

He was worried, too, about his crew-they were in no fit state to do the lightest work, to survive that killing cold, far less sail the ship and fight her through to Russia. He was depressed, also, over the series of misfortunes that had befallen the squadron since leaving Scapa: it augured ill for the future, and he had no illusions as to what lay ahead for the crippled squadron. And always, a gnawing torment at the back of his mind, he worried about Ralston.

Ralston-that tall throwback to his Scandinavian ancestors, with his flaxen hair and still blue eyes. Ralston, whom nobody understood, with whom nobody on the ship had an intimate friendship, who went his own unsmiling, self-possessed way. Ralston, who had nothing left to fight for, except memories, who was one of the most reliable men in the Ulysses, extraordinarily decisive, competent and resourceful in any emergency-and who again found himself under lock and key. And for nothing that any reasonable and just man could call fault of his own.

On the bridge of the Ulysses, Tyndall watched the carrier vanish into the night, zig-zagging as the captain tried to balance the steering on the two screws.

"No doubt they'll get the hang of it before they get to Scapa," he growled. He felt cold, exhausted and only the way an Admiral can feel when he has lost three-quarters of his carrier force. He sighed wearily and turned to Vallery.

"When do you reckon we'll overtake the convoy?"

Vallery hesitated: not so the Kapok Kid.

"0805," he answered readily and precisely. "At twenty-seven knots, on the intersection course I've just pencilled out."

"Oh, my God!" Tyndall groaned. "That stripling again. What did I ever do to deserve him. As it happens, young man, it's imperative that we overtake before dawn."

"Yes, sir." The Kapok Kid was imperturbable. "I thought so myself. On my alternative course, 33 knots, thirty minutes before dawn."

"I thought so myself! Take him away!" Tyndall raved. "Take him away or I'll wrap his damned dividers round..." He broke off, climbed stiffly out of his chair, took Vallery by the arm. "Come on, Captain. Let's go below. What the hell's the use of a couple of ancient has-beens like us getting in the way of youth?" He passed out the gate behind the Captain, grinning tiredly to himself.

The Ulysses was at dawn Action Stations as the shadowy shapes of the convoy, a bare mile ahead, lifted out of the greying gloom. The great bulk of the Blue Ranger, on the starboard quarter of the convoy, was unmistakable. There was a moderate swell running, but not enough to be uncomfortable: the breeze was light, from the west, the temperature just below zero, the sky chill and cloudless. The time was exactly 0700.

At 0702, the Blue Ranger was torpedoed. The Ulysses was two cable-lengths away, on her starboard quarter: those on the bridge felt the physical shock of the twin explosions, heard them shattering the stillness of the dawn as they saw two searing columns of flame fingering skywards, high above the Blue Ranger's bridge and well aft of it. A second later they heard a signalman shouting something unintelligible, saw him pointing forwards and downwards. It was another torpedo, running astern of the carrier, trailing its evil phosphorescent wake across the heels of the convoy, before spending itself in the darkness of the Arctic.

Vallery was shouting down the voice-pipe, pulling round the Ulysses, still doing upwards of twenty knots, in a madly heeling, skidding turn, to avoid collision with the slewing carrier. Three sets of Aldis lamps and the fighting lights were already stuttering out the "Maintain Position "code signal to ships in the convoy. Marshall, on the phone, was giving the stand-by order to the depth-charge L.T.O.: gun barrels were already depressing, peering hungrily into the treacherous sea. The signal to the Sirrus stopped short, unneeded: the destroyer, a half-seen blue in the darkness, was already knifing its way through the convoy, white water piled high at its bows, headed for the estimated position of the U-boat.

The Ulysses sheered by parallel to the burning carrier, less than 150 feet away; travelling so fast, heeling so heavily and at such close range, it was impossible to gather more than a blurred impression, a tangled, confused memory of heavy black smoke laced with roaring columns of flame, appalling in that near-darkness, of a drunkenly listing flight-deck, of Grummans and Corsairs cartwheeling grotesquely over the edge to splash icy clouds of spray in shocked faces, as the cruiser slewed away; and then the Ulysses was round, heading back south for the kill.

Within a minute, the signal-lamp of tine Vectra, up front with the convoy, started winking. "Contact, Green 70, closing : Contact, Green 70, closing."

"Acknowledge; "Tyndall ordered briefly;

The Aldis had barely begun to clack when the Vectra cut through the signal.

"Contacts, repeat contacts. Green 90, Green 90. Closing. Very close.

Repeat contacts, contacts."

Tyndall cursed softly.

"Acknowledge. Investigate." He turned to Vallery. "Let's join him, Captain. This is it. Wolf-pack Number One-and in force. No bloody right to be here," he added bitterly. "So much for Admiralty Intelligence!"

The Ulysses was round again, heading for the Vectra. It should have been growing lighter now, but the Blue Ranger, her squadron fuel tanks on fire, a gigantic torch against the eastern horizon, had the curious effect of throwing the surrounding sea into heavy darkness. She lay almost athwart of the flagship's course for the Vectra, looming larger every minute. Tyndall had his night glasses to his eyes, kept on muttering: "The poor bastards, the poor bastards!"

The Blue Ranger was almost gone. She lay dead in the water, heeled far over to starboard, ammunition and petrol tanks going up in a constant series of crackling reports. Suddenly, a succession of dull, heavy explosions rumbled over the sea: the entire bridge island structure lurched crazily sideways, held, then slowly, ponderously, deliberately, the whole massive body of it toppled majestically into the glacial darkness of the sea. God only knew how many men perished with it, deep down in the Arctic, trapped in its iron walls. They were the lucky ones.

The Vectra, barely two miles ahead now, was pulling round south in a tight circle. Vallery saw her, altered course to intercept. He heard Bentley shouting something unintelligible from the fore corner of the compass platform. Vallery shook his head, heard him shouting again, his voice desperate with some nameless urgency, his arm pointing frantically over the windscreen, and leapt up beside him.

The sea was on fire. Flat, calm, burdened with hundreds of tons of fuel oil, it was a vast carpet of licking, twisting flames. That much, for a second, and that only, Vallery saw: then with heart-stopping shock, with physically sickening abruptness, he saw something else again: the burning sea was alive with swimming, struggling men. Not a handful, not even dozens, but literally hundreds, soundlessly screaming, agonisingly dying in the barbarous contrariety of drowning and cremation.

"Signal from Vectra, sir." It was Bentley speaking, his voice abnormally matter-of-fact. "'Depth-charging. 3, repeat 3 contacts. Request immediate assistance.'"

Tyndall was at Vallery's side now. He heard Bentley, looked a long second at Vallery, following his sick, fascinated gaze into the sea ahead, For a man in the sea, oil is an evil thing. It clogs his movements, burns his eyes, sears his lungs and tears away his stomach in uncontrollable paroxysms of retching; but oil on fire is a hellish thing, death by torture, a slow, shrieking death by drowning, by burning, by asphyxiation-for the flames devour all the life-giving oxygen on the surface of the sea. And not even in the bitter Arctic is there the merciful extinction by cold, for the insulation of an oil-soaked body stretches a dying man on the rack for eternity, carefully preserves him for the last excruciating refinement of agony.

All this Vallery knew.

He knew, too, that for the Ulysses to stop, starkly outlined against the burning carrier, would have been suicide.

And to come sharply round to starboard, even had there been time and room to clear the struggling, dying men in the sea ahead, would have wasted invaluable minutes, time and to spare for the U-boats ahead to line up firing-tracks on the convoy; and the Ulysses's first responsibilty was to the convoy. Again all this Vallery knew. But, at that moment, what weighed most heavily with him was common humanity.

Fine off the port bow, close in to the Blue Ranger, the oil was heaviest, the flames fiercest, the swimmers thickest: Vallery looked back over his shoulder at the Officer of the Watch.

"Port 10!"

"Port 10, sir."

"Midships!"

"Midships, sir."

"Steady as she goes!"

For ten, fifteen seconds the Ulysses held her course, arrowing through the burning sea to the spot where some gregariously atavistic instinct for self-preservation held two hundred men knotted together in a writhing, seething mass, gasping out their lives in hideous agony. For a second a great gout of flame leapt up in the centre of the group, like a giant, incandescent magnesium flare, a flame that burnt the picture into the hearts and minds of the men on the bridge with a permanence and searing clarity that no photographic plate could ever have reproduced: men on fire, human torches beating insanely at the flames that licked, scorched and then incinerated clothes, hair and skin: men flinging themselves almost out of the water, backs arched like tautened bows, grotesque in convulsive crucifixion: men lying dead in the water, insignificant, featureless little oil-stained maunds in an oil-soaked plain: and a handful of fear-maddened men, faces inhumanly contorted, who saw the Ulysses and knew what was coming, as they frantically thrashed their way to a safety that offered only a few more brief seconds of un-speakable agony before they gladly died.

"Starboard 30!" Vallery's voice was low, barely a murmur, but it carried clearly through the shocked silence on the bridge. "Starboard 30, sir."

For the third time in ten minutes, the Ulysses slewed crazily round in a racing turn. Turning thus, a ship does not follow through the line of the bows cutting the water; there is a pronounced sideways or lateral motion, and the faster and sharper the turn, the more violent the broadside skidding motion, like a car on ice. The side of the Ulysses, still at an %Cttte 'attgte, caught the edge of the group on the port bow : almost on the instant, the entire length of the swinging hull smashed into the heart of the fire, into the thickest press of dying men.

For most of them, it was just extinction, swift and glad and merciful.

The tremendous concussion and pressure waves crushed the life out of them, thrust them deep down into the blessed oblivion of drowning, thrust them down and sucked them back into the thrashing vortex of the four great screws....

On board the Ulysses, men for whom death and destruction had become the stuff of existence, to be accepted with the callousness and jesting indifference that alone kept them sane-these men clenched impotent fists, mouthed meaningless, useless curses over and over again and wept heedlessly like little children. They wept as pitiful, charred faces, turned up towards the Ulysses and alight with joy and hope, petrified into incredulous staring horror, as realisation dawned and the water closed over them; as hate-filled men screamed insane invective, both arms raised aloft, shaking fists white-knuckled through the dripping oil as the Ulysses trampled them under: as a couple of young boys were sucked into the maelstrom of the propellers, still giving the thumbs-up sign: as a particularly shocking case, who looked as if he had been barbecued on a spit and had no right to be alive, lifted a scorified hand to the blackened hole that had been his mouth, flung to the bridge a kiss in token of endless gratitude ; and wept, oddly, most of all, at the inevitable humorist who lifted his fur cap high above his head and bowed gravely and deeply, his face into the water as he died.

Suddenly, mercifully, the sea was empty. The air was strangely still and quiet, heavy with the sickening stench of charred flesh and burning Diesel, and the Ulysses's stern was swinging wildly almost under the black pall overhanging the Blue Ranger amidships, when the shells struck her.

The shells-three 3.7s-came from the Blue Ranger. Certainly, no living gun-crews manned these 3.7s-the heat must have ignited the bridge fuses in the cartridge cases. The first shell exploded harmlessly against the armour-plating: the second wrecked the bosun's store, fortunately empty: the third penetrated No. 3 Low Power Room via the deck. There were nine men in there-an officer, seven ratings and Chief-Torpedo Gunner's Mate Noyes. In that confined space, death was instantaneous.

Only seconds later a heavy rumbling explosion blew out a great hole along the waterline of the Blue Ranger and she fell slowly, wearily right over on her starboard side, her flight-deck vertical to the water, as if content to die now that, dying, she had lashed out at the ship that had destroyed her crew.

On the bridge, Vallery still stood on the yeoman's platform, leaning over the starred, opaque Windscreen. His head hung down, his eyes were shut and he was retching desperately, the gushing blood-arterial blood-ominously bright and scarlet in the erubescent glare of the sinking carrier. Tyndall stood there helplessly beside him, not knowing what to do, his mind numbed and sick. Suddenly, he was brushed unceremoniously aside by the Surgeon-Commander, who pushed a white towel to Vallery's mouth and led him gently below. Old Brooks, everyone knew, should have been at his Action Stations position in the Sick Bay: no one dared say anything.

Carrington straightened the Ulysses out on course, while he waited for Turner to move up from the after Director tower to take over the bridge.

In three minutes the cruiser was up with the Vectra, methodically quartering for a lost contact. Twice the ships regained contact, twice they dropped heavy patterns. A heavy oil slick rose to the surface: possibly a kill, probably a ruse, but in any event, neither ship could remain to investigate further. The convoy was two miles ahead now, and only the Stirling and Viking were there for its protection-a wholly inadequate cover and powerless to save the convoy from any determined attack.

It was the Blue Ranger that saved FR77. In these high latitudes, dawn comes slowly, interminably: even so, it was more than half-ligljt, and the merchant ships, line ahead through that very gentle swell, lifted clear and sharp against a cloudless horizon, a U-boat Commander's dream-or would have been, had he been able to see them. But, by this time, the convoy was completely obscured from the wolf-pack lying to the south: the light westerly wind carried the heavy black smoke from the blazing carrier along the southern flank of the convoy, at sea level, the perfect smoke-screen, dense, impenetrable. Why the U-boats had departed from their almost invariable practice of launching dawn attacks from the north, so as to have their targets between themselves and the sunrise, could only be guessed. Tactical surprise, probably, but whatever the reason it was the saving of the convoy. Within an hour, the thrashing screws of the convoy had left the wolf-pack far behind-and FR77, having slipped the pack, was far too fast to be overtaken again.

Aboard the flagship, the W.T. transmitter was chattering out a coded signal to London. There was little point, Tyndall had decided, in maintaining radio silence now; the enemy knew their position to a mile.

Tyndall smiled grimly as he thought of the rejoicing in the German Naval High Command at the news that FR77 was without any air cover whatsoever; as a starter, they could expect Charlie within the hour.

The signal read: "Admiral, 14 A.C.S.: To D.N.C., London. Rendezvoused FR77 1030 yesterday. Weather conditions extreme. Severe damage to Carriers: Defender, Wrestler unserviceable, returning base under escort: Blue Ranger torpedoed 0702, sunk 0730 today: Convoy Escorts now Ulysses, Stirling, Sirrus, Vectra, Viking: no minesweepers--Eager to base, minesweeper from Hvalfjord failed rendezvous: Urgently require air support: Can you detach carrier battle squadron: Alternatively, permission return base. Please advise immediately."

The wording of the message, Tyndall pondered, could have been improved.

Especially the bit at the end-probably sounded sufficiently like a threat to infuriate old Starr, who would only see in it pusillanimous confirmation of his conviction of the Ulysses's-and Tyndall's-unfitness for the job... Besides, for almost two years now-since long before the sinking of the Hood by the Bismarck-it had been Admiralty policy not to break up the Home Fleet squadrons by detaching capital ships or carriers. Old battleships, too slow for modern inter-naval surface action-vessels such as the Ramillies and the Malaya-were used for selected Arctic convoys : with that exception, the official strategy was based on keeping the Home Fleet intact, containing the German Grand Fleet-and risking the convoys...

Tyndall took a last look round the convoy, sighed wearily and eased himself down to the duckboards. What the hell, he thought, let it go. If it wasted his time sending it, it would also waste old Starr's time reading it.

He clumped his way heavily down the bridge ladders, eased his bulk through the door of the Captain's cabin, hard by the F.D.R.

Vallery, partly undressed, was lying in his bunk, between very clean, very white sheets: their knife-edged ironing crease-marks contrasted oddly with the spreading crimson stain. Vallery himself, gaunt-cheeked and cadaverous beneath dark stubble of beard, red eyes sunk deep in great hollow sockets, looked corpse-like, already dead. From one corner of his mouth blood trickled down a parchment cheek. As Tyndall shut the door, Vallery lifted a wasted hand, all ivory knuckles and blue veins, in feeble greeting.

Tyndall closed the door carefully, quietly. He took his time, tune and to spare to allow the shock to drain out of his face. When he turned round, his face was composed, but he made no attempt to disguise bis concern.

"Thank God for old Socrates!" he said feelingly. "Only man in the ship who can make you see even a modicum of sense." He parked himself on the edge of the bed. "How do you feel, Dick?"

Vallery grinned crookedly. There was no humour in his smile.

"All depends what you mean, sir. Physically or mentally? I feel a bit worn out-not really ill, you know. Doc says he can fix me up-temporarily anyway. He's going to give me a plasma transfusion-says I've lost too much blood."

"Plasma?"

"Plasma. Whole blood would be a better coagulant. But he thinks it may prevent-or minimise-future attacks..." He paused, wiped some froth off his lips, and smiled again, as mirthlessly as before. "It's not really a doctor and medicine I need, John-it's a padre-and forgiveness."

His voice trailed off into silence. The cabin was very quiet.

Tyndall shifted uncomfortably and cleared his throat noisily. Rarely had he been so conscious that he was, first and last, a man of action.

"Forgiveness? What on earth do you mean, Dick?" He hadn't meant to speak so loudly, so harshly.

"You know damn' well what I mean," Vallery said mildly. He was a man who was rarely heard to swear, to use the most innocuous oath. "You were with me on the bridge this morning."

For perhaps two minutes neither man said a word. Then Vallery broke into a fresh paroxysm of coughing. The towel in his hand grew dark, sodden, and when he leaned back on his pillow Tyndall felt a quick stab of fear. He bent quickly over the sick man, sighed in soundless relief as he heard the quick, shallow breathing. Vallery spoke again, his eyes still closed. "It's not so much the men who were killed in the Low Power Room." He seemed to be talking to himself, his voice a drifting murmur. "My fault, I suppose-I took the Ulysses too near the Ranger. Foolish to go near a sinking ship, especially if she's burning... But just one of these things, just one of the risks... they happen..." The rest was a blurred, dying whisper. Tyndall couldn't catch it. He rose abruptly to his feet, pulling his gloves on. "Sorry, Dick," he apologised. "Shouldn't have come, shouldn't have stayed so long. Old Socrates will give me hell."

"It's the others, the boys in the water." Vallery might never have heard him. "I hadn't the right, I mean, perhaps some of them would..." Again his voice was lost for a moment, then he went on strongly: "Captain Richard Vallery, D.S.O., judge, jury and executioner. Tell me, John, what am I going to say when my turn comes?"

Tyndall hesitated, heard the authoritative rap on the door and jerked round, his breath escaping in a long, inaudible sigh of thankfulness.

"Come in," he called.

The door opened and Brooks walked in. He stopped short at the sight of the Admiral, turned to the white-coated assistant behind him, a figure weighed down with stands, bottles, tubing and various paraphernalia.

"Remain outside, Johnson, will you?" he asked. "I'll call you when I want you."

He closed the door, crossed the cabin and pulled a chair up to the Captain's bunk. Vallery's wrist between his fingers, he looked coldly across at Tyndall. Nicholls, Brooks remembered, was insistent that the Admiral was far from well. He looked tired, certainly, but more unhappy than tired... The pulse was very fast, irregular. "You've been upsetting him," Brooks accused. "Me? Good God, nol" Tyndall was injured.

"So help me, Doc, I never said-----"

"Not guilty, Doc." It was Vallery who spoke, his voice stronger now.

"He never said a word. I'm the guilty man, guilty as hell."

Brooks looked at him for a long moment. Then he smiled, smiled in understanding and compassion.

"Forgiveness, sir. That's it, isn't it?" Tyndall started in surprise, looked at him in wonder.

Vallery opened his eyes. "Socrates!" he murmured. "You would know."

"Forgiveness," Brooks mused. "Forgiveness. From whom, the living, the dead, or the Judge?"

Again Tyndall started. "Have you, have you been listening outside? How can you------?"

"From all three, Doc. A tall order, I'm afraid."

"From the dead, sir, you are quite right. There would be no forgiveness: only their blessing, for there is nothing to forgive. I'm a doctor, don't forget-I saw those boys in the water... you sent them home the easy way. As for the Judge, you know, 'The Lord giveth, the Lord taketh away. Blessed be the name of the Lord', the Old Testament conception of the Lord who takes away in His own time and His own way, and to hell with mercy and charity." He smiled at Tyndall. "Don't look so shocked, sir. I'm not being blasphemous. If that were the Judge, Captain, neither you nor I-nor the Admiral, would ever want any part of him. But you know it isn't so..."

Vallery smiled faintly, propped himself up on his pillow. "You make good medicine, Doctor. It's a pity you can't speak for the living also."

"Oh, can't I?" Brooks smacked his hand on his thigh, guffawed in sudden recollection. "Oh, my word, it was magnificent!" He laughed again in genuine amusement. Tyndall looked at Vallery in mock despair.

"Sorry," Brooks apologised. "Just fifteen minutes ago a bunch of sympathetic stokers deposited on the deck of the Sick Bay the prone and extremely unconscious form of one of their shipmates. Guess who? None other than our resident nihilist, our old friend Riley. Slight concussion and assorted facial injuries, but he should be restored to the bosom of his mess deck by nightfall. Anyway, he insists on it, claims his kittens need him."

Vallery looked up, amused, curious.

"Fallen down the stokehold again, I presume?"

"Exactly the question I put, sir-although it looked more as if he had fallen into a concrete mixer. 'No, sir,' says one of the stretcher-bearers. 'He tripped over the ship's cat.'

'Ship's cat?' I says. 'What ship's cat?' So he turns to his oppo and says: 'Ain't we got a ship's cat, Nobby?' Where upon the stoker Nobby looks at him pityingly and says:' 'E's got it all wrong, sir.

Poor old Riley just came all over queer, took a weak turn, 'e did. I 'ope 'e ain't 'urt 'isself?' He sounded quite anxious."

"What had happened?" Tyndall queried.

"I let it go at that. Young Nicholls took two of them aside, promised no action and had it out of them in a minute flat. Seems that Riley saw in this morning's affair a magnificent opportunity for provoking trouble. Cursed you for an inhuman, cold-blooded murderer and, I regret to say, cast serious aspersions on your immediate ancestors, and all of this, mind you, where he thought he was safe-among his own friends. His friends half-killed him... You know, sir, I envy you..."

He broke off, rose abruptly to his feet.

"Now, sir, if you'll just lie down and roll up your sleeve... Oh, damn!"

"Come in." It was Tyndall who answered the knock. "'Ah, for me, young Chrysler. Thank you."

He looked up at Vallery. "From London-in reply to my signal." He turned it over in his hand two or three times. "I suppose I have to open it some time," he said reluctantly.

The Surgeon-Commander half-rose to his feet.

"Shall I------"

"No, no, Brooks. Why should you? Besides, it's from our mutual friend, Admiral Starr. I'm sure you'd like to hear what he's got to say, wouldn't you?"

"No, I wouldn't." Brooks was very blunt. "I can't imagine it'll be anything good."

Tyndall opened the signal, smoothed it out.

"D.N.O. to Admiral Commanding 14 A.C.S.," he read slowly. "Tirpitz reported preparing to move out. Impossible detach Fleet carrier: FR77 vital: proceed Murmansk all speed: good luck: Starr." Tyndall paused, his mouth twisted. "Good luck! He might have spared us that!"

For a long time the three men looked at each other, silently, without expression. Characteristically, it was Brooks who broke the silence.

"Speaking of forgiveness," he murmured quietly, "what I want to know is, who on God's earth, above or below it, is ever going to forgive that vindictive old bastard?"