These last two bombers came in together, wing-tip to wing-tip. The plane nearer the bows dropped its torpedo less than two hundred yards away, pulled up in a maximum climbing turn to starboard, a fusillade of light cannon and machine-gun shells smashing into the upper works of the bridge: the torpedo hit the water obliquely, porpoised high into the air, then crashed back again nose first into a heavy wave, diving steeply into the sea: it passed under the Ulysses.
But seconds before that the last torpedo-bomber had made its attack—made its attack and failed and died. It had come roaring in less than ten feet above the waves, had come straight on without releasing its torpedo, without gaining an inch in height, until the crosses on the upper sides of the wings could be clearly seen, until it was less than a hundred yards away. Suddenly, desperately, the pilot had begun to climb: it was immediately obvious that the torpedo release mechanism had jammed, either through mechanical failure or icing in the intense cold: obviously, too, the pilot had intended to release the torpedo at the last minute, had banked on the sudden decrease of weight to lift him over the Ulysses.
The nose of the bomber smashed squarely into the for’ard funnel, the starboard wing shearing off like cardboard as it scythed across the after leg of the tripod mast. There was an instantaneous, blinding sheet of gasoline flame, but neither smoke nor explosion. A moment later the crumpled, shattered bomber, no longer a machine but a torn and flaming crucifix, plunged into the hissing sea a dozen yards away. The water had barely closed over it when a gigantic underwater explosion heeled the Ulysses far over to starboard, a vicious hammer-blow that flung men off their feet and shattered the lighting system on the port side of the cruiser.
Commander Turner hoisted himself painfully to his feet, shook his head to clear it of the cordite fumes and the dazed confusion left by cannon shells exploding almost at arm’s length. The shock of the detonating torpedo hadn’t thrown him to the duckboards—he’d hurled himself there five seconds previously as the flaming guns of the other bomber had wrecked the bridge from pointblank range.
His first thought was for Vallery. The Captain was lying on his side, crumpled strangely against the binnacle. Dry-mouthed, cold with a sudden chill that was not of that Polar wind, Turner bent quickly, turned him gently over.
Vallery lay still, motionless, lifeless. No sign of blood, no gaping wound—thank God for that! Turner peeled off a glove, thrust a hand below duffel coat and jacket, thought he detected a faint, a very faint beating of the heart. Gently he lifted the head off the frozen slush, then looked up quickly. The Kapok Kid was standing above him.
‘Get Brooks up here, Pilot,’ he said swiftly. ‘It’s urgent!’
Unsteadily, the Kapok Kid crossed over the bridge. The communication rating was leaning over the gate, telephone in his hand.
‘The Sick Bay, quickly!’ the Kapok Kid ordered. ‘Tell the Surgeon Commander . . . ’ He stopped suddenly, guessed that the man was still too dazed to understand. ‘Here, give me that phone!’ Impatiently, he stretched out his hand and grabbed the telephone, then stiffened in horror as the man slipped gradually backwards, extended arms trailing stiffly over the top of the gate until they disappeared. Carpenter opened the gate, stared down at the dead man at his feet: there was a hole the size of his gloved fist between the shoulder-blades.
He lay alongside the Asdic cabinet, a cabinet, the Kapok Kid now saw for the first time, riddled and shattered with machine-gun bullets and shells. His first thought was the numbing appreciation that the set must be smashed beyond recovery, that their last defence against the U-boats was gone. Hard on the heels of that came the sickening realization that there had been an Asdic operator inside there . . . His eyes wandered away, caught sight of Chrysler rising to his feet by the torpedo control. He, too, was staring at the Asdic cabinet, his face drained of expression. Before the Kapok Kid could speak, Chrysler lurched forward, fists battering frantically, blindly at the jammed door of the cabinet. Like a man in a dream, the Kapok Kid heard him sobbing . . . And then he remembered. The Asdic operator—his name was Chrysler too. Sick to his heart, the Kapok Kid lifted the phone again . . .
Turner pillowed the Captain’s head, moved across to the starboard corner of the compass platform. Bentley, quiet, unobtrusive as always, was sitting on the deck, his back wedged between two pipes, his head pillowed peacefully on his chest. His hand under Bentley’s chin, Turner gazed down into the sightless eyes, the only recognizable feature of what had once been a human face. Turner swore in savage quiet, tried to prise the dead fingers locked round the hand-grip of the Aldis, then gave up. The barred beam shone eerily across the darkening bridge.
Methodically, Turner searched the bridge-deck for further casualties. He found three others and it was no consolation at all that they must have died unknowing. Five dead men for a three-second burst—a very fair return, he thought bitterly. Standing on the after ladder, his face stilled in unbelief as he realized that he was staring down into the heart of the shattered for’ard funnel. More he could not see: the boat deck was already blurred into featureless anonymity in the dying glare of the last of the flares. He swung on his heel, returned to the compass platform.
At least, he thought grimly, there was no difficulty in seeing the Stirling. What was it that he had said—said less than ten minutes ago? ‘I wish they’d have a go at the Stirling once in a while.’ Something like that. His mouth twisted. They’d had a go, all right. The Stirling, a mile ahead, was slewing away to starboard, to the south-east, her for’ard superstructure enveloped in a writhing cocoon of white flame. He stared through his night glasses, tried to assess the damage; but a solid wall of flame masked the superstructure, from the fo’c’sle deck clear abaft the bridge. He could see nothing there, just nothing—but he could see, even in that heavy swell, that the Stirling was listing to starboard. It was learned later that the Stirling had been struck twice: she had been torpedoed in the for’ard boiler-room, and seconds later a bomber had crashed into the side of her bridge, her torpedo still slung beneath the belly of her fuselage: almost certainly, in the light of the similar occurrence on the Ulysses, severe icing had jammed the release mechanism. Death must have been instantaneous for every man on the bridge and the decks below; among the dead were Captain Jeffries, the First Lieutenant and the Navigator.
The last bomber was hardly lost in the darkness when Carrington replaced the poop phone, turned to Hartley.
‘Think you can manage now, Chief? I’m wanted on the bridge.’
‘I think so, sir.’ Hartley, blackened and stained with smoke and extinguisher foam, passed his sleeve wearily across his face. ‘The worst is over . . . Where’s Lieutenant Carslake? Shouldn’t he—?’
‘Forget him,’ Carrington interrupted brusquely. ‘I don’t know where he is, nor do I care. There’s no need for us to beat about the bush, Chief—we’re better without him. If he returns, you’re still in charge. Look after things.’
He turned away, walked quickly for’ard along the port alley. On the packed snow and ice, the pad of his rubber seaboots was completely soundless.
He was passing the shattered canteen when he saw a tall, shadowy figure standing in the gap between the snow-covered lip of the outer torpedo tube and the end stanchion of the guard-rails, trying to open a jammed extinguisher valve by striking it against the stanchion. A second later, he saw another blurred form detach itself stealthily from the shadows, creep up stealthily behind the man with the extinguisher, a heavy bludgeon of wood or metal held high above his head.
‘Look out!’ Carrington shouted. ‘Behind you!’
It was all over in two seconds—the sudden, flailing rush of the attacker, the crash as the victim, lightning fast in his reactions, dropped his extinguisher and fell crouched to his knees, the thin piercing scream of anger and terror as the attacker catapulted over the stooping body and through the gap between tubes and rails, the splash—and then the silence.
Carrington ran up to the man on the deck, helped him to his
feet. The last flare had not yet died, and it was still light enough for him to see who it was—Ralston, the LTO. Carrington gripped his arms, looked at him anxiously.
‘Are you all right? Did he get you? Good God, who on earth—?’
‘Thank you, sir.’ Ralston was breathing quickly, but his face was almost expressionless again. ‘That was too close! Thank you very much, sir.’
‘But who on earth—?’ Carrington repeated in wonder.
‘Never saw him, sir.’ Ralston was grim. ‘But I know who it was— Sub-Lieutenant Carslake. He’s been following me around all night, never let me out of his sight, not once. Now I know why.’
It took much to disturb the First Lieutenant’s iron equanimity, but now he shook his head in slow disbelief.
‘I knew there was bad blood!’ he murmured. ‘But that it should come to this! What the Captain will say to this I just—’
‘Why tell him?’ Ralston said indifferently. ‘Why tell anyone? Perhaps Carslake had relations. What good will it do to hurt them, to hurt anyone. Let anyone think what they like.’ He laughed shortly. ‘Let them think he died a hero’s death fire-fighting, fell over the side, anything.’ He looked down into the dark, rushing water, then shivered suddenly. ‘Let him go, sir, please. He’s paid.’
For a long second Carrington, too, stared down over the side, looked back at the tall boy before him. Then he clapped his arm, nodded slowly and turned away.
Turner heard the clanging of the gate, lowered the binoculars to find Carrington standing by his side, gazing wordlessly at the burning cruiser. Just then Vallery moaned softly, and Carrington looked down quickly at the prone figure at his feet.
‘My God! The Old Man! Is he hurt badly, sir?’
‘I don’t know, Number One. If not, it’s a bloody miracle,’ he added bitterly. He stooped down, raised the dazed Captain to a sitting position.
‘Are you all right, sir?’ he asked anxiously. ‘Do you—have you been hit?’
Vallery shuddered in a long, exhausting paroxysm of coughing, then shook his head feebly.
‘I’m all right,’ he whispered weakly. He tried to grin, a pitiful, ghastly travesty of a smile in the reflected light from the burning Aldis. ‘I dived for the deck, but I think the binnacle got in my way.’ He rubbed his forehead, already bruised and discoloured. ‘How’s the ship, Commander?’
‘To hell with the ship!’ Turner said roughly. He passed an arm round Vallery, raised him carefully to his feet. ‘How are things aft, Number One?’
‘Under control. Still burning, but under control. I left Hartley in charge.’ He made no mention of Carslake.
‘Good! Take over. Radio Stirling, Sirrus, see how they are. Come on, sir. Shelter for you!’
Vallery protested feebly, a token protest only, for he was too weak to stand. He checked involuntarily as he saw the snow falling whitely through the barred beam of the Aldis, slowly followed the beam back to its source.
‘Bentley?’ he whispered. ‘Don’t tell me . . . ’ He barely caught the Commander’s wordless nod, turned heavily away. They passed by the dead man stretched outside the gate, then stopped at the Asdic cabinet. A sobbing figure was crouched into the angle between the shelter and the jammed and shattered door of the hut, head pillowed on the forearm resting high against the door. Vallery laid a hand on the shaking shoulder, peered into the averted face.
‘What is it? Oh, it’s you, boy.’ The white face had been lifted towards him. ‘What’s the matter, Chrysler?’
‘The door, sir!’ Chrysler’s voice was muffled, quivering. ‘The door—I can’t open it.’
For the first time, Vallery looked at the cabinet, at the gashed and torn metal. His mind was still dazed, exhausted, and it was almost by a process of association that he suddenly, horrifyingly thought of the gashed and mangled operator that must lie behind that locked door.
‘Yes,’ he said quietly. ‘The door’s buckled . . . There’s nothing anyone can do, Chrysler.’ He looked more closely at the grief-dulled eyes. ‘Come on, my boy, there’s no need—’
‘My brother’s in there, sir.’ The words, the hopeless despair, struck Vallery like a blow. Dear God! He had forgotten . . . Of course— Leading Asdic Operator Chrysler . . . He stared down at the dead man at his feet, already covered with a thin layer of snow.
‘Have that Aldis unplugged, Commander, will you?’ he asked absently. ‘And Chrysler?’
‘Yes, sir.’ A flat monotone.
‘Go below and bring up some coffee, please.’
‘Coffee, sir!’ He was bewildered, uncomprehending. ‘Coffee! But—but—my—my brother—’
‘I know,’ Vallery said gently. ‘I know. Bring some coffee, will you?’
Chrysler stumbled off. When the shelter door closed behind them, clicking on the light, Vallery turned to the Commander.
‘Cue for moralizing on the glories of war,’ he murmured quietly. ‘Dulce et decorum, and the proud privilege of being the sons of Nelson and Drake. It’s not twenty-four hours since Ralston watched his father die . . . And now this boy. Perhaps—’
‘I’ll take care of things,’ Turner nodded. He hadn’t yet forgiven himself for what he had said and done to Ralston last night, in spite of Ralston’s quick friendliness, the ready acceptance of his apologies. ‘I’ll keep him busy out of the way till we open up the cabinet . . . Sit down, sir. Have a swig of this.’ He smiled faintly. ‘Friend Williams having betrayed my guilty secret . . . Hallo! Company.’
The light clicked off and a burly figure bulked momentarily against the grey oblong of the doorway. The door shut, and Brooks stood blinking in the sudden light, red of face and gasping for breath. He eyes focused on the bottle in Turner’s hand.
‘Ha!’ he said at length. ‘Having a bottle party, are we? All contributions gratefully received, I have no doubt.’ He opened his case on a convenient table, was rummaging inside when someone rapped sharply on the door.
‘Come in,’ Vallery called.
A signalman entered, handed a note to Vallery. ‘From London, sir. Chief says there may be some reply.’
‘Thank you. I’ll phone down.’
The door opened and closed again. Vallery looked up at an empty-handed Turner.
‘Thanks for removing the guilty evidence so quickly,’ he smiled. Then he shook his head. ‘My eyes—they don’t seem so good. Perhaps you would read the signal, Commander?’
‘And perhaps you would like some decent medicine,’ Brooks boomed, ‘instead of that filthy muck of Turner’s.’ He fished in his bag, produced a bottle of amber liquid. ‘With all the resources of modern medicine—well, practically all, anyway—at my disposal, I can find nothing to equal this.’
‘Have you told Nicholls?’ Vallery was stretched out on the settee now, eyes closed, the shadow of a smile on his bloodless lips.
‘Well, no,’ Brooks confessed. ‘But plenty of time. Have some?’
‘Thanks. Let’s have the good news, Turner.’
‘Good news!’ The sudden deadly quiet of the Commanderr’s voice fell chilly over the waiting men. ‘No, sir, it’s not good news.
‘“Rear-Admiral Vallery, Commanding 14 ACS, FR77.”’ The voice was drained of all tone and expression. ‘“Tirpitz, escorting cruisers, destroyers, reported moving out Alta Fjord sunset. Intense activity Alta Fjord airfield. Fear sortie under air cover. All measures avoid useless sacrifice Merchant, Naval ships. DNO, London.”’ With deliberate care Turner folded the paper, laid it on the table. ‘Isn’t that just wonderful,’ he murmured. ‘Whatever next?’
Vallery was sitting bolt upright on the settee, blind to the blood trickling down crookedly from one corner of his mouth. His face was calm, unworried.
‘I think I’ll have that glass, now, Brooks, if you don’t mind,’ he said quietly. The Tirpitz. The Tirpitz. He shook his head tiredly, like a man in a dream. The Tirpitz—the name that no man mentioned without a far-off echo of awe and fear, the name that had completely dominated North Atlantic naval strate
gy during the past two years. Moving out at last, an armoured Colossus, sister-ship to that other Titan that had destroyed the Hood with one single, savage blow—the Hood, the darling of the Royal Navy, the most powerful ship in the world—or so men had thought. What chance had their tiny cockleshell cruiser . . . Again he shook his head, angrily this time, forced himself to think of the present.
‘Well, gentlemen, I suppose time bringeth all things—even the Tirpitz. It had to come some day. Just our ill luck—the bait was too close, too tempting.’
‘My young colleague is going to be just delighted,’ Brooks said grimly. ‘A real battleship at long, long last.’
‘Sunset,’ Turner mused. ‘Sunset. My God!’ he said sharply, ‘even allowing for negotiating the fjord they’ll be on us in four hours on this course!’
‘Exactly,’ Vallery nodded. ‘And it’s no good running north. They’d overtake us before we’re within a hundred miles of them.’
‘Them? Our big boys up north?’ Turner scoffed. ‘I hate to sound like a gramophone record, but you’ll recall my earlier statement about them—too—late as usual!’ He paused, swore again. ‘I hope that old bastard Starr’s satisfied at last!’ he finished bitterly.
‘Why all the gloom?’ Vallery looked up quizzically, went on softly. ‘We can still be back, safe and sound in Scapa in forty-eight hours. “Avoid useless sacrifice Merchant, Naval ships,” he said. The Ulysses is probably the fastest ship in the world today. It’s simple, gentlemen.’
H. M. S. Ulysses Page 28
