‘Starboard 20!’
‘Starboard 20!’
Nicholls risked a glance over his shoulder. In the split second before his eyes blinded, filled with tears, he saw a huge wave bearing down on them, the bows already swinging diagonally away from it. Good God! Why hadn’t Carrington waited until that was past?
The great wave flung the bows up, pushed the Ulysses far over to starboard, then passed under. The Ulysses staggered over the top, corkscrewed wickedly down the other side, her masts, great gleaming tree trunks thick and heavy with ice, swinging in a great arc as she rolled over, burying her port rails in the rising shoulder of the next sea.
‘Full ahead port!’
‘Full ahead port!’
‘Starboard 30!’
‘Starboard 30!’
The next sea, passing beneath, merely straightened the Ulysses up. And then, at last, Nicholls understood. Incredibly, because it had been impossible to see so far ahead, Carrington had known that two opposing wave systems were due to interlock in an area of comparative calm: how he had sensed it, no one knew, would ever know, not even Carrington himself: but he was a great seaman, and he had known. For fifteen, twenty seconds, the sea was a seething white mass of violently disturbed, conflicting waves—of the type usually found, on a small scale, in tidal races and overfalls—and the Ulysses curved gracefully through. And then another great sea, towering almost to bridge height, caught her on the far turn of the quarter circle. It struck the entire length of the Ulysses—for the first time that night—with tremendous weight. It threw her far over on her side, the lee rails vanishing. Nicholls was flung off his feet, crashed heavily into the side of the bridge, the glass shattering. He could have sworn he heard Carrington laughing. He clawed his way back to the middle of the compass platform.
And still the great wave had not passed. It towered high above the trough into which the Ulysses, now heeled far over to 40°, had been so contemptuously flung, bore down remorselessly from above and sought, in a lethal silence and with an almost animistic savagery, to press her under. The inclinometer swung relentlessly over—45°, 50°, 53°, and hung there an eternity, while men stood on the side of the ship, braced with their hands on the deck, numbed minds barely grasping the inevitable. This was the end. The Ulysses could never come back.
A lifetime ticked agonizingly by. Nicholls and Carpenter looked at each other, blank-faced, expressionless. Tilted at that crazy angle, the bridge was sheltered from the wind. Carrington’s voice, calm, conversational, carried with amazing clarity.
‘She’d go to 65° and still come back,’ he said matter-of-factly. ‘Hang on to your hats, gentlemen. This is going to be interesting.’
Just as he finished, the Ulysses shuddered, then imperceptibly, then slowly, then with vicious speed lurched back and whipped through an arc of 90°, then back again. Once more Nicholls found himself in the corner of the bridge. But the Ulysses was almost round.
The Kapok Kid, grinning with relief, picked himself up and tapped Carrington on the shoulder.
‘Don’t look now, sir, but we have lost our mainmast.’
It was a slight exaggeration, but the top fifteen feet, which had carried the after radar scanner, were undoubtedly gone. That wicked, double whip-lash, with the weight of the ice, had been too much.
‘Slow ahead both! Midships!’
‘Slow ahead both! Midships!’
‘Steady as she goes!’
The Ulysses was round.
The Kapok Kid caught Nicholls’s eye, nodded at the First Lieutenant.
‘See what I mean, Johnny?’
‘Yes,’ Nicholls was very quiet. ‘Yes, I see what you mean.’ Then he grinned suddenly. ‘Next time you make a statement, I’ll just take your word for it, if you don’t mind. These demonstrations of proof take too damn much out of a person!’
Running straight before the heavy stern sea, the Ulysses was amazingly steady. The wind, too, was dead astern now, the bridge in magical shelter. The scudding mist overhead had thinned out, was almost gone. Far away to the south-east a dazzling white sun climbed up above a cloudless horizon. The long night was over.
An hour later, with the wind down to thirty knots, radar reported contacts to the west. After another hour, with the wind almost gone and only a heavy swell running, smoke plumes tufted above the horizon. At 1030, in position, on time, the Ulysses rendezvoused with the convoy from Halifax.
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? £10,000,000, £20,000,000—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 stain-smooth, transparent gloss: but on either side of the bows and before the bridge were huge patches of crimson, where the hurricane sandblaster 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 flickered 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 WT signal to the Wrestler, hesitated about breaking radio silence, counter-manded 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.
Under lock and key—that was what hurt. Last night, Vallery had gladly seized the excuse of bad weather to release him, had intended to forget the matter, to let sleeping dogs lie. But Hastings, the Master-At-Arms, had exceeded his duty and returned him to cells during the forenoon watch. Masters-At-Arms—disciplinary Warrant Officers, in effect—had never been particularly noted for a humane, tolerant and ultra-kindly attitude to life in general or the lower deck in particular— they couldn’t afford to be. But even amongst such men, Hastings was an exception—a machinelike, seemingly emotionless creature, expressionless, unbending, strict, fair according to his lights, but utterly devoid of heart and sympathy. If Hastings were not careful, Vallery mused, he might very well go the same way as Lister, until recently the highly unpopular Master-At-Arms of the Blue Ranger. Not, when he came to think of it, that anyone knew what had happened to Lister, except that he had been so misguided as to take a walk on the flight-deck on a dark and starless night . . .
Vallery sighed. As he had explained to Foster, his hands were tied. Foster, the Captain of Marines, with an aggrieved and incensed Colour-Sergeant Evans standing behind him, had complained bitterly at having his marines withdrawn for guard duty, men who needed every minute of sleep they could snatch. Privately, Vallery had sympathized with Foster, but he couldn’t afford to countermand his original order—not, at least, until he had held a Captain’s Defaulters and placed Ralston under open arrest . . . He sighed again, sent for Turner and asked him to break out grass lines, a manila and a five-inch wire on the poop. He suspected that they would be needed shortly, and, as it turned out, his preparations were justified.
Darkness had fallen when they moved up to the Vejle bank, but locating the Wrestler was easy—her identification challenge ten minutes ago had given her approximate position, and now her squat bulk loomed high before them, a knife-edged silhouette against the pale afterglow of sunset. Ominously, her flight-deck raked perceptibly towards the stern, where the Eager lay, apparently at anchor. The sea was almost calm here—there was only a gentle swell running.
Aboard the Ulysses, a hooded pin-hole Aldis started to chatter.
‘Congratulations! How are you fast?’
From the Wrestler, a tiny light flickered in answer. Bentley read aloud as the message came.
‘Bows aft 100 feet.’
‘Wonderful,’ said Tyndall bitterly. ‘Just wonderful! Ask him, “How is steering-gear?”’
Back came the answer: ‘Diver down: transverse fracture of post: dockyard job.’
‘My God!’ Tyndall groaned. ‘A dockyard job! That’s handy. Ask him, “What steps have you taken?”’
‘All fuel and water pumped aft. Kedge anchor. Eager towing. Full astern, 1200-1230.’
The turn of the high tide, Tyndall knew. ‘Very successful, very successful indeed,’ he growled. ‘No, you bloody fool, don’t send that. Tell him to prepare to receive towing wire, bring own towing chain aft.’
‘Message understood,’ Bentley read.
‘Ask him, “How much excess squadron fuel have you?”’
‘800 tons.’
‘Get rid of it.’
Bentley read, ‘Please confirm.’
‘Tell him to empty the bloody stuff over the side!’ Tyndall roared.
The light on the Wrestler flickered and died in hurt silence.
At midnight the Eager steamed slowly ahead of the Ulysses, taking up the wire that led back to the cruiser’s fo’c’sle capstan: two minutes later, the Ulysses began to shudder as the four great engines boiled up the shallow water into a seething mudstained cauldron. The chain from the poop-deck to the Wrestler’s stern was a bare fifteen fathoms in length, angling up at 30°. This would force the carrier’s stern down—only a fraction, but in this situation every ounce counted—and give more positive buoyancy to the grounded bows. And much more important—for the racing screws were now aerating the water, developing only a fraction of their potential thrust— the proximity of the two ships helped the Ulysses’s screws reinforce the action of the Wrestler’s in scouring out a channel in the sand and mud beneath the carrier’s keel.
Twenty minutes before high tide, easily, steadily, the Wrestler slid off. At once the blacksmith on the Ulysses’s bows knocked off the shackle securing the Eager’s towing wire, and the Ulysses pulled the carrier, her engines shut down, in a big half-circle to the east.
By one o’clock the Wrestler was gone, the Eager in attendance and ready to pass a head rope for bad weather steering. 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 sk
ywards, 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 LTO: 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 the 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!’
H. M. S. Ulysses Page 12
