H. M. S. Ulysses (27 page)

‘We won't forget you,' he murmured indistinctly. ‘I promise you, we won't forget you.' He splashed quickly away, out of the pool of water, out of the pool of light, into the darkness at the foot of the ladder.

Ten minutes later, they emerged from ‘Y' turret. The night sky was cloudless now, brilliant with diamantine stars, little chips of frozen fire in the dark velvet of that fathomless floor. The cold was intense. Captain Vallery shivered involuntarily as the turret door slammed behind them.

‘Hartley?'

‘Sir?'

‘I smelt rum in there!'

‘Yes, sir. So did I.' The Chief was cheerful, unperturbed. ‘Proper stinking with it. Don't worry about it though, sir. Half the men in the ship bottle their rum ration, keep it for action stations.'

‘Completely forbidden in regulations, Chief. You know that as well as I do!'

‘I know. But there's no harm, sir. Warms 'em up—and if it gives them Dutch courage, all the better. Remember that night the for'ard pom-pom got two Stukas?'

‘Of course.'

‘Canned to the wide. Never have done it otherwise . . . And now, sir, they
need
it.'

‘Suppose you're right, Chief. They do and I don't blame them.' He chuckled. ‘And don't worry about my knowing—I've always known. But it smelled like a saloon bar in there . . . '

They climbed up to ‘X' turret—the marine turret—then down to the magazine. Wherever he went, as in ‘Y' magazine, Vallery left the men the better for his coming. In personal contact, he had some strange indefinable power that lifted men above themselves, that brought out in them something they had never known to exist. To see dull apathy and hopelessness slowly give way to resolution, albeit a kind of numbed and desperate resolve, was to see something that baffled the understanding. Physically and mentally, Nicholls knew, these men had long since passed the point of no return.

Vaguely, he tried to figure it out, to study the approach and technique. But the approach varied every time, he saw, was no more than a natural reaction to different sets of circumstances as they presented themselves, a reaction utterly lacking in calculation or finesse. There
was
no technique. Was pity, then, the activating force, pity for the heart-breaking gallantry of a man so clearly dying? Or was it shame—if
he
can do it, if
he
can still drive that wasted mockery of a body, if he can kill himself just to come to see if
we're
all right—if he can do that and smile—then, by God, we can stick it out, too? That's it, Nicholls said to himself, that's what it is, pity and shame, and he hated himself for thinking it, and not because of the thought, but because he knew he lied . . . He was too tired to think anyway. His mind was woolly, fuzzy round the edges, his thoughts disjointed, uncontrolled. Like everyone else's. Even Andy Carpenter, the last man you would suspect of it—he felt that way, too, and admitted it . . . He wondered what the Kapok Kid would have to say to this . . . The Kid was probably wandering too, but wandering in his own way, back as always on the banks of the Thames. He wondered what the girl in Henley was like. Her name started with ‘J'—Joan, Jean—he didn't know: the Kapok Kid had a big golden ‘J' on the right breast of his kapok suit—
she
had put it there. But what was she like? Blonde and gay, like the Kid himself? Or dark and kind and gentle, like St Francis of Assisi? St Francis of Assisi? Why in the world did he—ah, yes, old Socrates had been talking about him. Wasn't he the man of whom Axel Munthe . . .

‘Nicholls! Are you all right?' Vallery's voice was sharp with anxiety.

‘Yes, of course, sir.' Nicholls shook his head, as if to clear it. ‘Just gathering wool. Where to now, sir?'

‘Engineers' Flat, Damage Control parties, Switchboard, Number 3 Low Power room—no, of course, that's gone—Noyes was killed there, wasn't he? . . . Hartley, I'd appreciate it if you'd let my feet touch the deck occasionally . . . '

All these places they visited in turn and a dozen others besides— not even the remotest corner, the most impossible of access, did Vallery pass by, if he knew a man was there, closed up to his action station.

They came at last to the engine and boiler-rooms, to the gulping pressure changes on unaccustomed eardrums as they went through the airlocks, to the antithetically breath-taking blast of heat as they passed inside. In ‘A' boiler-room, Nicholls insisted on Vallery's resting for some minutes. He was grey with pain and weakness, his breathing very distressed. Nicholls noticed Hartley talking in a corner, was dimly aware of someone leaving the boiler-room.

Then his eyes caught sight of a burly, swarthy stoker, with bruised cheeks and the remnants of a gorgeous black eye, stalking across the floor. He carried a canvas chair, set it down with a thump behind Vallery.

‘A seat, sir,' he growled.

‘Thank you, thank you.' Vallery lowered himself gratefully, then looked up in surprise. ‘Riley?' he murmured, then switched his glance to Hendry, the Chief Stoker. ‘Doing his duty with a minimum of grace, eh?'

Hendry stirred uncomfortably.

‘He did it off his own bat, sir.'

‘I'm sorry,' Vallery said sincerely. ‘Forgive me, Riley. Thank you very much.' He stared after him in puzzled wonder, looked again at Hendry, eyebrows lifted in interrogation.

Hendry shook his head.

‘Search me, sir. I've no idea. He's a queer fish. Does things like that. He'd bend a lead pipe over your skull without batting an eyelid—and he's got a mania for looking after kittens and lame dogs. Or if you get a bird with a broken wing—Riley's your man. But he's got a low opinion of his fellowmen, sir.'

Vallery nodded slowly, without speaking, leaned against the canvas back and closed his eyes in exhaustion. Nicholls bent over him.

‘Look, sir,' he urged quietly, ‘why not give it up? Frankly, sir, you're killing yourself. Can't we finish this some other time?'

‘I'm afraid not, my boy.' Vallery was very patient. ‘You don't understand. “Some other time” will be too late.' He turned to Hendry. ‘So you think you'll manage all right, Chief?'

‘Don't you worry about us, sir.' The soft Devon voice was grim and gentle at the same time. ‘Just you look after yourself. The stokers won't let you down, sir.'

Vallery rose painfully to his feet, touched him lightly on the arm. ‘Do you know, Chief, I never thought you would . . . Ready, Hartley?' He stopped short, seeing a giant duffel-coated figure waiting at the foot of the ladder, the face below the hood dark and sombre. ‘Who's that? Oh, I know. Never thought stokers got so cold,' he smiled.

‘Yes, sir, it's Petersen,' Hartley said softly. ‘He's coming with us.'

‘Who said so? And—and Petersen? Wasn't that—?'

‘Yes, sir. Riley's—er—lieutenant in the Scapa business . . . Surgeon Commander's orders, sir. Petersen's going to give us a hand.'

‘Us? Me, you mean.' There was no resentment, no bitterness in Vallery's voice. ‘Hartley, take my advice—never let yourself get into the hands of the doctors . . . You think he's safe?' he added half-humorously.

‘He'd probably kill the man who looked sideways at you,' Hartley stated matter-of-factly. ‘He's a good man, sir. Simple, easily led—but good.'

At the foot of the ladder, Petersen stepped aside to let them pass, but Vallery stopped, looked up at the giant towering six inches above him, into the grave, blue eyes below the flaxen hair.

‘Hallo, Petersen. Hartley tells me you're coming with us. Do you really want to? You don't have to, you know.'

‘Please, Captain.' The speech was slow and precise, the face curiously dignified in unhappiness. ‘I am very sorry for what has happened—'

‘No, no!' Vallery was instantly contrite. ‘You misunderstand. It's a bitter night up top. But I would like it very much if you would come. Will you?'

Petersen stared at him, then began slowly to smile, his face darkening with pleasure. As the Captain set foot on the first step, the giant arm came round him. The sensation, as Vallery described it later, was very much like going up in a lift.

From there they visited Engineer Commander Dodson in his engine-room, a cheerful, encouraging, immensely competent Dodson, an engineer to his finger-tips in his single-minded devotion to the great engines under his care. Then aft to the Engineers' Flat, up the companionway between the wrecked Canteen and the Police Office, out on to the upper deck. After the heat of the boiler-room, the 100° drop in temperature, a drop that strangled breath with the involuntary constriction of the throat and made a skin-crawling mockery of ‘Arctic clothing,' was almost literally paralysing.

The starboard torpedo tubes—the only ones at the standby—were only four paces away. The crew, huddled in the lee of the wrecked bosun's store—the one destroyed by the
Blue Ranger
's shells—were easily located by the stamping of frozen feet, the uncontrollable chattering of teeth.

Vallery peered into the gloom. ‘LTO there?'

‘Captain, sir?' Surprise, doubt in the voice.

‘Yes. How are things going?'

‘All right, sir.' He was still off-balance, hesitant. ‘I think young Smith's left foot is gone, sir—frostbite.'

‘Take him below—at once. And organize your crew into ten-minute watches: one to keep a telephone watch here, the other four in the Engineers' Flat. From now on. You understand?' He hurried away, as if to avoid the embarrassment of thanks, the murmurs of smiling gladness.

They passed the torpedo shop, where the spare torpedoes and compressed air cylinders were stored, climbed the ladder to the boat-deck. Vallery paused a moment, one hand on the boat-winch, the other holding the bloody scarf, already frozen almost solid, to mouth and nose. He could just distinguish the shadowy bulkiness of merchantmen on either side: their masts, though, were oddly visible, swinging lazily, gently against the stars as the ships rolled to a slight swell, just beginning. He shuddered, pulled his scarf higher round his neck. God, it was cold! He moved for'ard, leaning heavily on Petersen's arm. The snow, three to four inches deep, cushioned his footsteps as he came up behind an Oerlikon gun. Quietly, he laid a hand on the shoulder of the hooded gunner hunched forward in his cockpit.

‘Things all right, gunner?'

No reply. The man appeared to stir, moved forward, then fell still again.

‘I said, “Are you all right?”' Vallery's voice had hardened. He shook the gunner by the shoulder, turned impatiently to Hartley.

‘Asleep, Chief! At Action Stations! We're all dead from lack of sleep, I know—but his mates below are depending on him. There's no excuse. Take his name!'

‘Take his name!' Nicholls echoed softly, bent over the cockpit. He shouldn't speak like this, he knew, but he couldn't help it. ‘Take his name,' he repeated. ‘What for? His next of kin? This man is dead.'

The snow was beginning to fall again, cold and wet and feathery, the wind lifting a perceptible fraction. Vallery felt the first icy flakes, unseen in the darkness, brushing his cheeks, heard the distant moan of the wind in the rigging, lonely and forlorn. He shivered.

‘His heater's gone.' Hartley withdrew an exploratory hand, straightened up. He seemed tired. ‘These Oerlikons have black heaters bolted to the side of the cockpit. The gunners lean against them, sir, for hours at a time . . . I'm afraid the fuses must have blown. They've been warned against this, sir, a thousand times.'

‘Good God! Good God!' Vallery shook his head slowly. He felt old, terribly tired. ‘What a useless, futile way to die . . . Have him taken to the Canteen, Hartley.'

‘No good, sir.' Nicholls straightened up also. ‘It'll have to wait. What with the cold and the quick onset of rigor mortis—well, it'll have to wait.'

Vallery nodded assent, turned heavily away. All at once, the deck speaker aft of the winch blared into raucous life, a rude desecration that shattered the chilled hush of the evening.

‘Do you hear there? Do you hear there? Captain, or notify Captain, to contact bridge immediately, please.' Three times the message was repeated, then the speaker clicked off.

Quickly Vallery turned to Hartley.

‘Where's the nearest phone, Chief?'

‘Right here, sir.' Hartley turned back to the Oerlikon, stripped earphones and chest mouthpiece from the dead man. ‘That is, if the AA tower is still manned?'

‘What's left of it is.'

‘Tower? Captain to speak to bridge. Put me through.' He handed the receiver to Vallery. ‘Here you are, sir.'

‘Thank you. Bridge? Yes, speaking . . . Yes, yes . . . Very good. Detail the
Sirrus . . .
No, Commander, nothing I can do anyway— just maintain position, that's all.' He took the handset off, handed it back to Hartley.

‘Asdic contact from
Viking
,' he said briefly. ‘Red 90.' He turned, looked out over the dark sea, realized the futility of his instinctive action, and shrugged. ‘We've sent the
Sirrus
after him. Come on.'