Every man is what environment and heredity makes him. Riley was no exception, and Nicholls, who knew something of his upbringing, appreciated that life had never really given the big stoker a chance.
Born of a drunken, illiterate mother in a filthy, overcrowded and fever-ridden Liverpool slum, he was an outcast from the beginning: allied to that, his hairy, ape-like figure, the heavy prognathous jaw, the twisted mouth, the wide flaring nose, the cunning black eyes squinting out beneath the negligible clearance between hairline and eyebrows that so accurately reflected the mental capacity within, were all admirably adapted to what was to become his chosen vocation.
Nicholls looked at him and disapproved without condemning; for a moment, he had an inkling of the tragedy of the inevitable.
Riley was never at any time a very successful criminal, his intelligence barely cleared the moron level. He dimly appreciated his limitations, and had left the higher, more subtle forms of crime severely alone.
Robbery, preferably robbery with violence, was his metier. He had been in prison six times, the last time for two years.
His induction into the Navy was a mystery which bafHed both Riley and the authorities responsible for his being there. But Riley had accepted this latest misfortune with equanimity, and gone through the bomb, shattered 'G' and 'H' blocks in the Royal Naval, Barracks, Portsmouth, like a high wind through a field of corn, leaving behind him a trail of slashed suitcases and empty wallets. He had been apprehended without much difficulty, done sixty days' cells, then been drafted to the Ulysses as a stoker.
His career of crime aboard the Ulysses had been brief and painful. His first attempted robbery had been his last, a clumsy and incredibly foolish rifling of a locker in the marine sergeants' mess. He had been caught red-handed by Colour-Sergeant Evans and Sergeant Macintosh. They had preferred no charges against him and Riley had spent the next three days in the Sick Bay. He claimed to have tripped on the rung of a ladder and fallen twenty feet to the boiler-room floor. But the actual facts of the case were common knowledge, and Turner had recommended his discharge. To everyone's astonishment, not least that of Stoker Riley, Dodson, the Engineer Commander had insisted he be given a last chance, and Riley had been reprieved.
Since that date, four months previously, he had confined his activities to stirring up trouble. Illogically but understandably, his brief encounter with the marines had swept away his apathetic tolerance of the Navy: a smouldering hatred took its place. As an agitator, he had achieved a degree of success denied him as a criminal. Admittedly, he had a fertile field for operations; but credit, if that is the word, was due also to his shrewdness, his animal craft and cunning, his hold over his crew-mates. The husky, intense voice, his earnestness, his deep-set eyes, lent Riley a strangly elemental power, a power he had used to its maximum effect a few days previously when he had precipitated the mutiny which had led to the death of Ralston, the stoker, and the marine, mysteriously dead from a broken neck. Beyond any possible doubt, their deaths lay at Riley's door; equally beyond doubt, that could never be proved. Nicholls wondered what new devilment was hatching behind these lowering, corrugated brows, wondered how on earth it was that that same Riley was continually in trouble for bringing aboard the Ulysses and devotedly tending every stray kitten, every broken-winged bird he found.
The loudspeaker crackled, cutting through his thoughts, stilling the low voices in the Sick Bay. And not only there, but throughout the ship, in turrets and magazines, in engine-rooms and boiler-rooms, above and below deck everywhere, all conversation ceased. Then there was only the wind, the regular smash of the bows into the deepening troughs, the muffled roar of the great boiler-room intake fans and the hum of a hundred electric motors. Tension lay heavy over the ship, over 730 officers and men, tangible, almost, in its oppression.
"This is the Captain speaking. Good evening." The voice was calm, well modulated, without a sign of strain or exhaustion. "As you all know, it is my custom at the beginning of every voyage to inform you as soon as possible of what lies in store for you. I feel that you have a right to know, and that it is my duty. It's not always a pleasant duty, it never has been during recent months. This time, however, Fm almost glad." He paused, and the words came, slow and measured. "This is our last operation as a unit of the Home Fleet. In a month's tune, God willing, we will be in the Med."
Good for you, thought Nicholls. Sweeten the pill, lay it on, thick and heavy. But the Captain had other ideas.
"But first, gentlemen, the job on hand. It's the mixture as before, Murmansk again. We rendezvous at 1030 Wednesday, north of Iceland, with a convoy from Halifax. There are eighteen ships in this convoy, big and fast, all fifteen knots and above. Our third Fast Russian convoy, gentlemen, FR77, in case you want to tell your grandchildren about it," he added dryly. "These ships are carrying tanks, planes, aviation spirit and oil-nothing else.
"I will not attempt to minimise the dangers. You know how desperate is the state of Russia today, how terribly badly she needs these weapons and fuel. You can also be sure that the Germans know too, and that her Intelligence agents will already have reported the nature of this convoy and the date of sailing." He broke off short, and the sound of his harsh, muffled coughing into a handkerchief echoed weirdly through the silent ship. He went on slowly. "There are enough fighter planes and petrol in this convoy to alter the whole character of the Russian war.
The Nazis will stop at nothing, I repeat, nothing, to stop this convoy from going through to Russia.
"I have never tried to mislead or deceive you. I will not now. The signs are not good. In our favour we have, firstly, our speed, and secondly, I hope, the element of surprise. We shall try to break through direct for the North Cape. There are four major factors against us. You will all have noticed the steady worsening of the weather. We are, I'm afraid, running into abnormal weather conditions, abnormal even for the Arctic. It may, I repeat, may, prevent U-boat attacks: on the other hand it may mean losing some of the smaller units of our screen, we have no time to heave to or run before bad weather. FR77 is going straight through... And it almost certainly means that the carriers will be unable to fly off fighter cover."
Good God, has the skipper lost his senses, Nicholls wondered. He'll wreck any morale that's left. Not that there is any left. What in the world----- "Secondly," the voice went on, calm, inexorable, "we are taking no rescue ships on this convoy. There will be no time to stop. Besides, you all know what happened to the Stockport and the Zafaaran[1]. You're safer where you are."
"Thirdly, two, possibly three, U-boat packs are known to be strung out along latitude seventy degrees and our Northern Norway agents report a heavy mustering of German bombers of all types in their area."
"Finally, we have reason to believe that the Tirpitz is preparing to move out." Again he paused, for an interminable time, it seemed. It was as if he knew the tremendous shock carried in these few words, and wanted to give it time to register. "I need not tell you what that means. The Germans may risk her to stop the convoy. The Admiralty hope they will. During the latter part of the voyage, capital units of the Home Fleet, including possibly the aircraft-carriers Victorious and Furious, and three cruisers, will parallel our course at twelve hours' steaming distance. They have been waiting a long time, and we are the bait to spring the trap..."
"It is possible that things may go wrong. The best-laid plans... or the trap may be late in springing shut. This convoy must still get through. If the carriers cannot fly off cover, the Ulysses must cover the withdrawal of FR77. You will know what that means. I hope this is all perfectly clear."
There was another long bout of coughing, another long pause, and when he spoke again the tone had completely changed. He was very quiet.
"I know what I am asking of you. I know how tired, how hopeless, how sick at heart you all feel. I know, no-one knows better, what you have been through, how much you need, how much you deserve a rest. Rest you shall have. The entire ship's company goes on ten days' leav
e from Portsmouth on the eighteenth, then for refit in Alexandria." The words were casual, as if they carried no significance for him. "But before that, well, I know it seems cruel, inhuman, it must seem so to you, to ask you to go through it all again, perhaps worse than you've ever gone through before. But I can't help it, no one can help it." Every sentence, now, was punctuated by long silences: it was difficult to catch his words, so low and far away.
"No one has any right to ask you to do it, I least of all... least of all. I know you will do it. I know you will not let me down. I know you will take the Ulysses through. Good luck. Good luck and God bless you. Good night."
The loudspeakers clicked off, but the silence lingered on. Nobody spoke and nobody moved. Not even the eyes moved. Those who had been looking at the 'speakers still gazed on, unseeingly; or stared down at their hands; or down into the glowing butts of forbidden cigarettes, oblivious to the acrid smoke that laced exhausted eyes. It was strangely as if each man wanted to be alone, to look into his own mind, follow his thoughts out for himself, and knew that if his eyes caught another's he would no longer be alone. A strange hush, a supernatural silence, the wordless understanding that so rarely touches mankind: the veil lifts and drops again and a man can never remember what Be has seen but knows that he has seen something and that nothing will ever be quite the same again.
Seldom, all too seldom it comes: a sunset of surpassing loveliness, a fragment from some great symphony, the terrible stillness which falls over the huge rings of Madrid and Barcelona as the sword of the greatest of the matadors sinks inevitably home. And the Spaniards have the word for it, "the moment of truth."
The Sick Bay clock, unnaturally loud, ticked away one minute, maybe two.
With a heavy sigh, it seemed ages since he had breathed last, Nicholls softly pulled to the sliding door behind the curtains and switched on the light. He looked round at Brooks, looked away again.
"Well, Johnny?" The voice was soft, almost bantering.
"I just don't know, sir, I don't know at all." Nicholls shook his head.
"At first I thought he was going to, well, make a hash of it. You know, scare the lights out of 'em. And good God!" he went on wonderingly, "that's exactly what he did do. Piled it on, gales, Tirpitz, hordes of subs., and yet..." His voice trailed off.
"And yet?" Brooks echoed mockingly. "That's just it. Too much intelligence, that's the trouble with the young doctors today. I saw you-sitting there like a bogus psychiatrist, analysing away for all you were worth at the probable effect of the speech on the minds of the wounded warriors without, and never giving it a chance to let it register on yourself." He paused and went on quietly.
"It was beautifully done, Johnny. No, that's the wrong word-there was nothing premeditated about it. But don't you see? As black a picture as man could paint: points out that this is just a complicated way of committing suicide: no silver lining, no promises, even Alex, thrown in as a casual afterthought. Builds 'em up, then lets 'em down. No inducements, no hope, no appeal, and yet the appeal was tremendous... What was it, Johnny?"
"I don't know." Nicholls was troubled. He lifted his head abruptly, then smiled faintly. "Maybe there was no appeal. Listen."
Noiselessly, he slid the door back, flicked off the lights. The rumble of Riley's harsh voice, low and intense, was unmistakable.
"Just a lot of bloody clap-trap. Alex.? The Med.? Not on your -----, life, mate. You'll never see it. You'll never even see Scapa again. Captain Richard Vallery, D.S.O.l Know what that old bastard wants, boys? Another bar to his D.S.O. Maybe even a V.C. Well, by Christ's, he's not going to have it! Not at my expense. Not if I can -----, well help it. 'I know you won't let me down,'" he mimicked, his voice high-pitched. "Whining old bastard!" He paused a moment, then rushed on.
"The Tirpitz! Christ Almighty! The Tirpitz! We're going to stop it, us! This bloody toy ship! Bait, he says, bait!" His voice rose. "I tell you, mates, nobody gives a damn about us. Direct for the North Cape! They're throwing us to the bloody wolves! And that old bastard up top ------"
"Shaddap!" It was Petersen who spoke, his voice a whisper, low and fierce. His hand stretched out, and Brooks and Nicholls in the surgery winced as they heard Riley's wrist-bones crack under the tremendous pressure of the giant's hand. "Often I wonder about you, Riley,"
Petersen went on I slowly. "But not now, not any more. You make me sick!" He flung Riley's hand down and turned away.
Riley rubbed his wrist in agony, and turned to Burgess.
"For God's sake, what's the matter with him? What the hell..." He broke off abruptly. Burgess was looking at him steadily, kept looking for a long time. Slowly, deliberately, he eased himself down in bed, pulled the blankets up to his neck and turned his back on Riley.
Brooks rose quickly to his feet, closed the door and pressed the light switch.
"Act I, Scene I. Cut! Lights!" he murmured. "See what I mean, Johnny?"
"Yes, sir." Nicholls nodded slowly. "At least, I think so."
"Mind you, my boy, it won't last. At least, not at that intensity." He grinned. "But maybe it'll take us the length of Murmansk. You never know."
"I hope so, sir. Thanks for the show." Nicholls reached up for his duffel-coat. "Well, I suppose I'd better make my way aft."
"Off you go, then. And, oh-Johnny------"
"Sir?"
"That scarlet-fever notice-board of yours. On your way aft you might consign it to the deep. I don't think we'll be needing it any more."
Nicholls grinned and closed the door softly behind him.
CHAPTER FOUR
MONDAY NIGHT
DUSK ACTION STATIONS dragged out its interminable hour and was gone. That night, as on a hundred other nights, it was just another nagging irritation, a pointless precaution that did not even justify its existence, far less its meticulous thoroughness. Or so it seemed. For although at dawn enemy attacks were routine, at sunset they were all but unknown. It was not always so with other ships, indeed it was rarely so, but then, the Ulysses was a lucky ship. Everyone knew that. Even Vallery knew it, but he also knew why. Vigilance was the first article of his sailor's creed.
Soon after the Captain's broadcast, radar had reported a contact, closing. That it was an enemy plane was certain: Commander Westcliffe, Senior Air Arm Officer, had before him in the Fighter Direction Room a wall map showing the operational routes of all Coastal and Ferry Command planes, and this was a clear area. But no one paid the slightest attention to the report, other than Tyndall's order for a 45ø course alteration. This was as routine as dusk Action Stations themselves. It was their old friend Charlie coming to pay his respects again.
"Charlie", usually a four-engine Focke-Wulf Condor, was an institution on the Russian Convoys. He had become to the seamen on the Murmansk run very much what the albatross had been the previous century to sailing men, far south in the Roaring Forties: a bird of ill-omen, half feared but almost amicably accepted, and immune from destruction, though with Charlie, for a different reason. In the early days, before the advent of cam-ships and escort carriers, Charlie frequently spent the entire day, from first light to last, circling a convoy and radioing to base pin-point reports of its position. 'Exchanges of signals between British ships and German' reconnaissance planes were not unknown, and apocryphal stories were legion. An exchange of pleasantries about the weather was almost commonplace. On several occasions Charlie had plaintively asked for his position and been given highly-detailed latitude and longitude bearings which usually placed him somewhere in the South Pacific; and, of course, dozen ships claimed the authorship of the story wherein the convoy Commodore sent the signal,"
Please fly the other way a round. You are making us dizzy," and Charlie had courteously acknowledged and turned in his tracks.
Latterly, however, amiability had been markedly absent, and Charlie, grown circumspect with the passing of the months and the appearance of ship-borne fighters, rarely appeared except at dusk. His usual practice was to make a single circle of the
convoy at a prudent distance and then disappear into the darkness.
That night was no exception. Men caught only fleeting glimpses of the Condor in the driving snow, then quickly lost it in the gathering gloom.
Charlie would report the strength, nature and course of the Squadron, although Tyndall had; little hope that the German Intelligence would be deceived as to their course. A naval squadron, near the sixty-second degree of latitude, just east of the Faroes, and heading NNE., Cam-ships were merchant ships with specially strengthened fo'c'sles.
On these were fitted fore-and-aft angled ramps from which fighter planes, such as modified Hurricanes, were catapulted for convoy defence. After breaking off action, the pilot had either to bale out or land in the sea. "Hazardous" is rather an inadequate word to describe the duties of this handful of very gallant pilots: the chances of survival were not high.
It wouldn't make sense to use them, especially as they almost certainly knew of the departure of the convoy from Halifax. Two and two, far too obviously totted up to four.
No attempt was made to fly off Seafires-the only plane with a chance to overhaul the Condor before it disappeared into the night. To locate the carrier again in almost total darkness, even on a radio beam, was difficult: to land at night, extremely dangerous; and to land, by guess and by God, in the snow and blackness on a pitching, heaving deck, a suicidal impossibility. The least miscalculation, the slightest error of judgment and you had not only a lost plane but a drowned pilot. A ditched Seafire, with its slender, torpedo-shaped fuselage and the tremendous weight of the great Rolls-Royce Merlin in its nose, was a literal death-trap. When it went down into the sea, it just kept on going.
Back on to course again, the Ulysses pushed blindly into the gathering storm. Hands fell out from Action Stations, and resumed normal Defence Stations-watch and watch, four on, four off. Not a killing routine, one would think: twelve hours on, twelve hours off a day-a man could stand that. And so he could, were that all. But the crew also spent three hours a day at routine Action Stations, every second morning-the forenoon watch-at work (this when they were off-watch) and God only knew how many hours at Action Stations. Beyond all this, all meals-when there were meals, were eaten in their off-duty time. A total of three to four hours' sleep a day was reckoned unusual: forty-eight hours without sleep hardly called for comment.
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