H. M. S. Ulysses (43 page)

Richard Vallery was dead, and with his death a great change had come over the men of the
Ulysses
. When Vallery died, other things died also, for he took these things with him. He took with him the courage, the kindliness, the gentleness, the unshakable faith, the infinitely patient and understanding endurance, all these things which had been so peculiarly his own. And now these things were gone and the
Ulysses
was left without them and it did not matter. The men of the
Ulysses
no longer needed courage and all the adjuncts of courage, for they were no longer afraid. Vallery was dead and they did not know how much they respected and loved that gentle man until he was gone. But then they knew. They knew that something wonderful, something that had become an enduring part of their minds and memories, something infinitely fine and good, was gone and they would never know it again, and they were mad with grief. And, in war, a grief-stricken man is the most terrible enemy there is. Prudence, caution, fear, pain—for the grief-stricken man these no longer exist. He lives only to lash out blindly at the enemy, to destroy, if he can, the author of his grief. Rightly or wrongly, the
Ulysses
never thought to blame the Captain's death on any but the enemy. There was only, for them, the sorrow and the blind hate. Zombies, Nicholls had called them once, and the
Ulysses
was more than ever a ship manned by living zombies, zombies who prowled restlessly, incessantly, across the snow and ice of the heaving decks, automatons living only for revenge.

The weather changed just before the end of the middle watch. The seas did not change—FR77 was still butting into the heavy, rolling swell from the north, still piling up fresh sheets of glistening ice on their labouring fo'c'sles. But the wind dropped, and almost at once the snowstorm blew itself out, the last banks of dark, heavy cloud drifting away to the south. By four o'clock the sky was completely clear.

There was no moon that night, but the stars were out, keen and sharp and frosty as the icy breeze that blew steadily out of the north.

Then, gradually, the sky began to change. At first there was only a barely perceptible lightening on the northern rim then, slowly, a pulsating flickering band of light began to broaden and deepen and climb steadily above the horizon, climbing higher to the south with the passing of every minute. Soon that pulsating ribbon of light was paralleled by others, streamers in the most delicate pastel shades of blue and green and violet, but always and predominantly white. And always, too, these lanes of multi-coloured light grew higher and stronger and brighter: at the climax, a great band of white stretched high above the convoy, extending from horizon to horizon . . . These were the Northern Lights, at any time a spectacle of beauty and wonder, and this night surpassing lovely: down below, in ships clearly illumined against the dark and rolling seas, the men of FR77 looked up and hated them.

On the bridge of the
Ulysses
, Chrysler—Chrysler of the uncanny eyesight and super-sensitive hearing, was the first to hear it. Soon everyone else heard it too, the distant roar, throbbing and intermittent, of a Condor approaching from the south. After a time they became aware that the Condor was no longer approaching, but sudden hope died almost as it was born. There was no mistaking it now—the deeper, heavier note of a Focke-Wulf in maximum climb. The Commander turned wearily to Carrington.

‘It's Charlie, all right,' he said grimly. ‘The bastard's spotted us. He'll already have radioed Alta Fjord and a hundred to one in anything you like that he's going to drop a market flare at 10,000 feet or so. It'll be seen fifty miles away.'

‘Your money's safe.' The First Lieutenant was withering. ‘I never bet against dead certs . . . And then, by and by, maybe a few flares at a couple of thousand?'

‘Exactly!' Turner nodded. ‘Pilot, how far do you reckon we're from Alta Fjord—in flying time, I mean?'

‘For a 200-knot plane, just over an hour,' the Kapok Kid said quietly. His ebullience was gone: he had been silent and dejected since Vallery had died two hours previously.

‘An hour!' Carrington exclaimed. ‘And they'll
be
here. My God, sir,' he went on wonderingly, ‘they're really out to get us. We've never been bombed nor torpedoed at night before. We've never had the
Tirpitz
after us before. We never—'

‘The
Tirpitz
,' Turner interrupted. ‘Just where the hell
is
that ship? She's had time to come up with us. Oh, I know it's dark and we've changed course,' he added, as Carrington made to object, ‘but a fast destroyer screen would have picked us—Preston!' He broke off, spoke sharply to the Signal Petty Officer. ‘Look alive, man! That ship's flashing us.'

‘Sorry, sir.' The signalman, swaying on his feet with exhaustion, raised his Aldis, clacked out an acknowledgement. Again the light on the merchantman began to wink furiously.

‘“Transverse fracture engine bedplate,”' Preston read out. ‘“Damage serious: shall have to moderate speed.”'

‘Acknowledge,' said Turner curtly. ‘What ship is that, Preston?'

‘The
Ohio Freighter
, sir.'

‘The one that stopped a tin fish a couple of days back?'

‘That's her, sir.'

‘Make a signal. “Essential maintain speed and position.”' Turner swore. ‘What a time to choose for an engine breakdown . . . Pilot, when do we rendezvous with the Fleet?'

‘Six hours' time, sir: exactly.'

‘Six hours.' Turner compressed his lips. ‘Just six hours—perehaps!' he added bitterly.

‘Perhaps?' Carrington murmured.

‘Perhaps,' Turner affirmed. ‘Depends entirely on the weather. C-in-C won't risk capital ships so near the coast unless he can fly off fighter cover against air attack. And, if you ask me, that's why the
Tirpitz
hasn't turned up yet—some wandering U-boat's tipped him off that our Fleet Carriers are steaming south. He'll be waiting on the weather . . . What's he saying now, Preston?' The
Ohio
's signal lamp had flashed briefly, then died.

‘“Imperative slow down,”' Preston repeated. ‘“Damage severe. Am slowing down.”'

‘He is, too,' Carrington said quietly. He looked up at Turner, at the set face and dark eyes, and knew the same thought was in the Commander's mind as was in his own. ‘He's a goner, sir, a dead duck. He hasn't a chance. Not unless—'

‘Unless what?' Turner asked harshly. ‘Unless we leave him an escort? Leave what escort, Number One? The
Viking
—the only effective unit we've left?' He shook his head in slow decision. ‘The greatest good of the greatest number: that's how it has to be. They'll know that. Preston, send “Regret cannot leave you standby. How long to effect repairs?”'

The flare burst even before Preston's hand could close on the trigger. It burst directly over FR77. It was difficult to estimate the height—probably six to eight thousand feet—but at that altitude it was no more than an incandescent pinpoint against the great band of the Northern Lights arching majestically above. But it was falling quickly, glowing more brightly by the sound: the parachute, if any, could have been only a steadying drogue.

The crackling of the WT speaker broke through the stuttering chatter of the Aldis.

‘WT—bridge. WT—bridge. Message from
Sirrus
: “Three survivors dead. Many dying or seriously wounded. Medical assistance urgent, repeat urgent.”' The speaker died, just as the
Ohio
started flickering her reply.

‘Send for Lieutenant Nicholls,' Turner ordered briefly. ‘Ask him to come up to the bridge at once.'

Carrington stared down at the dark broad seas, seas flecked with milky foam: the bows of the
Ulysses
were crashing down heavily, continuously.

‘You're going to risk it, sir?'

‘I must. You'd do the same, Number One . . . What does the
Ohio
say, Preston?'

‘“I understand. Too busy to look after the Royal Navy anyway. We will make up on you. Au revoir!”'

‘We will make up on you. Au revoir.' Turner repeated softly. ‘He lies in his teeth, and he knows it. By God!' he burst out. ‘If anyone ever tells me the Yankee sailors have no guts—I'll push his perishing face in. Preston, send: “Au revoir. Good luck.” . . . Number One, I feel like a murderer.' He rubbed his hand across his forehead, nodded towards the shelter where Vallery lay stretched out, and strapped to his settee. ‘Month in, month out, he's been taking these decisions. It's no wonder . . .' He broke off as the gate creaked open.

‘Is that you, Nicholls? There is work for you, my boy. Can't have you medical types idling around uselessly all day long.' He raised his hand. ‘All right, all right,' he chuckled. ‘I know . . . How are things on the surgical front?' he went on seriously.

‘We've done all we can, sir. There was very little left for us to do,' Nicholls said quietly. His face was deeply lined, haggard to the point of emaciation. ‘But we're in a bad way for supplies. Hardly a single dressing left. And no anæsthetics at all—except what's left in the emergency kit. The Surgeon-Commander refused to touch those.'

‘Good, good,' Turner murmured. ‘How do you feel, laddie?'

‘Awful.'

‘You look it,' Turner said candidly. ‘Nicholls—I'm terribly sorry, boy—I want you to go over to the
Sirrus
.'

‘Yes, sir.' There was no surprise in the voice: it hadn't been difficult to guess why the Commander had sent for him. ‘Now?'

Turner nodded without speaking. His face, the lean strong features, the heavy brows and sunken eyes were quite visible now in the strengthening light of the plunging flare. A face to remember, Nicholls thought.

‘How much kit can I take with me, sir?'

‘Just your medical gear. No more. You're not travelling by Pullman, laddie!'

‘Can I take my camera, my films?'

‘All right.' Turner smiled briefly. ‘Looking forward keenly to photographing the last seconds of the
Ulysses
, I suppose . . . Don't forget that the
Sirrus
is leaking like a sieve, Pilot—get through to the WT. Tell the
Sirrus
to come alongside, prepare to receive medical officer by breeches buoy.'

The gate creaked again. Turner looked at the bulky figure stumbling wearily on to the compass platform. Brooks, like every man in the crew was dead on his feet; but the blue eyes burned as brightly as ever.

‘My spies are everywhere,' he announced. ‘What's this about the
Sirrus
shanghaiing young Johnny here?'

‘Sorry, old man,' Turner apologized. ‘It seems things are pretty bad on the
Sirrus
.'

‘I see.' Brooks shivered. It might have been the thin threnody of the wind in the shattered rigging, or just the iceladen wind itself. He shivered again, looked upwards at the sinking flare. ‘Pretty, very pretty,' he murmured. ‘What are the illuminations in aid of?'

‘We are expecting company,' Turner smiled crookedly. ‘An old world custom, O Socrates—the light in the window and what have you.' He stiffened abruptly, then relaxed, his face graven in granitic immobility. ‘My mistake,' he murmured. ‘The company has already arrived.'

The last words were caught up and drowned in the rumbling of a heavy explosion. Turner had known it was coming—he'd seen the thin stiletto of flame stabbing skywards just for'ard of the
Ohio
Freighter's
bridge. The sound had taken five or six seconds to reach them—the
Ohio
was already over a mile distant on the starboard quarter, but clearly visible still under the luminance of the Northern Lights—the Northern Lights that had betrayed her, almost stopped in the water, to a wandering U-boat.

The
Ohio Freighter
did not remain visible for long. Except for the moment of impact, there was neither smoke, nor flame, nor sound. But her back must have been broken, her bottom torn out—and she was carrying a full cargo of nothing but tanks and ammunition. There was a curious dignity about her end—she sank quickly, quietly, without any fuss. She was gone in three minutes.

It was Turner who finally broke the heavy silence on the bridge. He turned away and in the light of the flare his face was not pleasant to see.

‘Au revoir,' he muttered to no one in particular. ‘Au revoir. That's what he said, the lying . . . ' He shook his head angrily, touched the Kapok Kid on the arm. ‘Get through to WT,' he said sharply. ‘Tell the
Viking
to sit over the top of that sub till we get clear.'

‘Where's it all going to end?' Brooks's face was still and heavy in the twilight.

‘God knows! How I hate those murdering bastards!' Turner ground out. ‘Oh, I know, I know, we do the same—but give me something I can see, something I can fight, something—'

‘You'll be able to see the
Tirpitz
all right,' Carrington interrupted dryly. ‘By all accounts, she's big enough.'

Turner looked at him, suddenly smiled. He clapped his arm, then craned his head back, staring up at the shimmering loveliness of the sky. He wondered when the next flare would drop.