H. M. S. Ulysses (18 page)

‘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 mounds 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 unspeakable 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 acute angle, 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 realization 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-light, 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 WT 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 ACS: To DNC, 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 warily 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 FDR. 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, time 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 his 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 minimize—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 apologized. ‘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, DSO—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, no!' 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.