"Notice how every now and again we're beginning to get a wave half as big again as the others? Every seventh wave, the old sailors say. No, Johnny, he's not a superman. Just the greatest seaman you'll ever see.
Holds two master's-tickets, square-rigged and steam. He was going round the Horn in Finnish barques when we were still in our prams. Commander could tell you enough stories about him to fill a book." He paused then went on quietly: "He really is one of the few great seamen of today. Old Blackbeard Turner is no slouch himself, but he'll tell anyone that he can't hold a candle to Jimmy... I'm no hero-worshipper, Johnny. You know that. But you can say about Carrington what they used to say about Shackleton, when there's nothing left and all hope is gone, get down on your knees and pray for him. Believe me, Johnny, I'm damned glad he's here."
Nicholls said nothing. Surprise held him silent. For the Kapok Kid, flippancy was a creed, derogation second nature: seriousness was a crime and anything that smacked of adulation bordered on blasphemy. Nicholls wondered what manner of man Carrington must be.
The cold was vicious. The wind was tearing great gouts of water off the wave-tops, driving the atomised spray at bullet speed against fo'c'sle and sides. It was impossible to breathe without turning one's back, without wrapping layers of wool round mouth and nose. Faces blue and white, shaking violently with the cold, neither suggested, neither even thought of going below. Men hypnotised, men fascinated by the tremendous seas, the towering waves, 1,000, 2,000 feet in length, long, sloping on the lee side, steep-walled and terrifying on the other, pushed up by a sixty knot wind and by some mighty force lying far to the north-west. In these gigantic troughs, a church steeple would be lost for ever.
Both men turned round as they heard the screen door crashing behind them. A duffel-coated figure, cursing fluently, fought to shut the heavy door against the pitching of the Ulysses, finally succeeded in heaving the clips home. It was Leading Seaman Doyle, and even though his beard hid three-quarters of what could be seen of his face, he still looked thoroughly disgusted with life.
Carpenter grinned at him. He and Doyle had served a commission together on the China Station. Doyle was a very privileged person.
"Well, well, the Ancient Mariner himself! How are things down below, Doyle?"
"Bloody desperate, sir!" His voice was as lugubrious as his face.
"Cold as charity, sir, and everything all over the bloody place. Cups, saucers, plates in smithereens. Half the crew------"
He broke off suddenly, eyes slowly widening in blank disbelief. He was staring out to sea between Nicholls and Carpenter.
"Well, what about half the crew?... What's the matter, Doyle?'
"Christ Almighty!" Doyle's voice was slow, stunned: it was almost a prayer. "Oh, Christ Almighty!" The voice rose sharply on the last two syllables.
The two officers twisted quickly round. The Defender was climbing-all 500 feet of her was literally climbing up the lee side of a wave that staggered the imagination, whose immensity completely defied immediate comprehension. Even as they watched, before shocked minds could grasp the significance of it all, the Defender reached the crest, hesitated, crazily tilted up her stern till screw and rudder were entirely clear of the water, then crashed down, down, down...
Even at two cable-lengths' distance in that high wind the explosive smash of the plummeting bows came like a thunder-clap. An aeon ticked by, and still the Defender seemed to keep on going under, completely buried now, right back to the bridge island, in a sea of foaming white.
How long she remained like that, arrowed down into the depths of the Arctic, no one could afterwards say: then slowly, agonisingly, incredibly, great rivers of water cascaded off her bows, she broke surface again. Broke surface, to present to frankly disbelieving eyes a spectacle entirely without precedent, anywhere, at any time. The tremendous, instantaneous, up-thrusting pressure of unknown thousands of tons of water had torn the open flight-deck completely off its mountings and bent it backwards, in a great, sweeping "U," almost as far as the bridge. It was a sight to make men doubt their sanity, to leave them stupefied, to leave them speechless, all, that is, except the Kapok Kid.
He rose magnificently to the occasion.
"My word I" he murmured thoughtfully. "That is unusual."
Another such wave, another such shattering impact, and it would have been the end for the Defender. The finest ships, the stoutest, most powerful vessels, are made only of thin, incredibly thin, sheets of metal, and metal, twisted and tortured as was the Defender's, could never have withstood another such impact.
But there were no more such waves, no more such impacts. It had been a freak wave, one of these massive, inexplicable contortions of the sea which have occurred, With blessed infrequency, from time immemorial, in all the great seas of the world whenever Nature wanted to show mankind, an irreverent, over-venturesome mankind, just how puny and pitifully helpless a thing mankind really is.. There were no more such waves and, by five o'clock, although land was still some eight to ten miles away, the squadron had moved into comparative shelter behind the tip of the Langanes peninsula.
From time to time, the captain of the Defender, who seemed to be enjoying himself hugely, sent reassuring messages to the Admiral. He was making a good deal of water, but he was managing nicely, thank you. He thought the latest shape in flight-decks very fashionable, and a vast improvement on the old type; straight flight-dec'cs lacked imagination, he thought, and didn't the Admiral think so too. The vertical type, he stated, provided excellent protection against wind and weather, and would make a splendid sail with the wind in the right quarter. With his last message, to the effect that he thought that it would be rather difficult to fly off planes, a badly-worried Tyndall lost his temper and sent back such a blistering signal that all communications abruptly ceased.
Shortly before six o'clock, the squadron hove-to under the shelter of Langanes, less than two miles offshore Langanes is low-lying, and the wind, still climbing the scale, swept over it and into the bay beyond without a brpak ; but the sea, compared to an hour ago, was mercifully calm, although the ships still rolled heavily. At once the cruisers and the screen vessels-except the Portpatrick and the Gannet-moved alongside the carriers, took oil hoses aboard. Tyndall, reluctantly and after much heart-searching, had decided that the Portpatrick and Gannet were suspect, a potential liability: they were to escort the crippled carrier back to Scapa.
Exhaustion, an exhaustion almost physical, almost tangible, lay heavily over the mess-decks and the wardroom of the Ulysses. Behind lay another sleepless night, another twenty-four hours with peace unknown and rest impossible. With dull tired minds, men heard the broadcast that the Defender, the Portpatrick and the Gannet were to return to Scapa when the weather moderated. Six gone now, only eight left-half the carrier force gone. Little wonder that men felt sick at heart, felt as if they were being deserted, as if, in Riley's phrase, they were being thrown to the wolves.
But there was remarkably little bitterness, a puzzling lack of resentment which, perhaps, sprung only from sheer passive acceptance.
Brooks was aware of it, this inaction of feeling, this unnatural extinction of response, and was lost for a reason to account for it.
Perhaps, he thought, this was the nadir, the last extremity when sick men and sick minds cease altogether to function, the last slow-down of all vital processes, both human and animal. Perhaps this was just the final apathy. His intellect told him that was reasonable, more, it was inevitable... And all the time some fugitive intuition, some evanescent insight, was thrusting upon him an awareness, a dim shadowy awareness of something altogether different; but his mind was too tired to grasp it.
Whatever it was, it wasn't apathy. For a brief moment that evening, a white-hot anger ran through the ship like a flame, then resentment of the injustice which had provoked it. That there had been cause for anger even Vallery admitted; but his hand had been forced.
It had all happened simply enough. During routine evening tests
, it had been discovered that the fighting lights on the lower yardarm were not working. Ice was at once suspected as being the cause.
The lower yardarm, on this evening dazzling white and heavily coated with snow and ice, paralleled the deck, sixty feet above it, eighty feet above the waterline. The fighting lights were suspended below the outer tip: to work on these, a man had either to sit on the yardarm-a most uncomfortable position as the heavy steel W.T. transmission aerial was bolted to its upper length-or in a bosun's chair suspended from the yardarm. It was a difficult enough task at any time: tonight, it had to be done with the maximum speed, because the repairs would interrupt radio transmission-the 3,000-volt steel "Safe-to-Transmit" boards (which broke the electrical ckcuits) had to be withdrawn and left in the keeping of the Officer of the Watch during the repair: it had to be done-very precise, finicky work had to be done-in that sub-zero temperature: it had to be done on that slippery, glass-smooth yardarm, with the Ulysses rolling regularly through a thirty-degree arc: the job was more than ordinarily difficult, it was highly dangerous.
Marshall did not feel justified in detailing the duty L.T.O. for the job, especially as that rating was a middle-aged and very much overweight reservist, long past his climbing prime. He asked for volunteers. It was inevitable that he should have picked Ralston, for that was the kind of man Ralston was.
The task took half an hour, twenty minutes to climb the mast, edge out to the yardarm tip, fit the bosun's chair and lifeline, and ten minutes for the actual repair. Long before he was finished, a hundred, two hundred tired men, robbing themselves of sleep and supper, had come on deck and huddled there in the bitter wind, watching in fascination.
Ralston swung in a great arc across the darkening sky, the gale plucking viciously at his duffel and hood. Twice, wind and wave flung him out, still in his chair, parallel to the yard-arm, forcing him to wrap both arms around the yardarm and hang on for his life. On the second occasion he seemed to strike his face against the aerial, for he held his head for a few seconds afterwards, as if he were dazed. It was then that he lost his gauntlets-he must have had them in his lap, while making some delicate adjustment: they dropped down together, disappeared over the side.
A few minutes later, while Vallery and Turner were standing amidships examining the damage the motor boat had suffered in Scapa Flow, a short, stocky figure came hurriedly out of the after screen door, made for the fo'c'sle at an awkward stumbling run. He pulled up abruptly at the sight of the Captain and the Commander: they saw it was Hastings, the Master-at-Arms.
"What's the matter, Hastings?" Vallery asked curtly. He always found it difficult to conceal his dislike for the Master-at-Arms, his dislike for his harshness, his uncalled-for severity.
"Trouble on the bridge, sir" Hastings jerked out breathlessly. Vallery could have sworn to a gleam of satisfaction in his eye. "Don't know exactly what-could hardly hear a thing but the wind on the phone... I think you'd better come, sir."
They found only three people on the bridge: Etherton, the gunnery officer, one hand still clutching a phone, worried, unhappy: Ralston, his hands hanging loosely by his sides, the palms raw and torn, the face ghastly, the chin with the dead pallor of frostbite, the forehead masked in furrowed, frozen blood: and, lying in a corner, Sub-Lieutenant Carslake, moaning in agony, only the whites of his eyes showing, stupidly fingering his smashed mouth, the torn, bleeding gaps in his prominent upper teeth.
"Good God!" Vallery ejaculated. "Good God above!" He stood there, his hand on the gate, trying to grasp tRe significance of the scene before him. Then his mouth clamped shut and he swung round on the Gunnery Officer.
"What the devil's happened here, Etherton?" he demanded harshly. "What is all this? Has Carslake------"
"Ralston hit him, sir," Etherton broke in.
"Don't be so bloody silly, Guns!" Turner grunted.
"Exactly!" Vallery's voice was impatient. "We can see that. Why?"
"A W.T. messenger came up for the 'Safe-to-Transmit' boards. Carslake gave them to him, about ten minutes ago, I-I think."
"You think! Where were you, Etherton, and why did you permit it? You know very well..." Vallery broke off short, remembering the presence of Ralston and the MA.A.
Etherton muttered something. His words were inaudible in the gale.
Vallery bent forward. "What did you say, Etherton?"
"I was down below, sir." Etherton was looking at the deck. "Just-just for a moment, sir."
"I see. You were down below." Vallery's voice was controlled now, quiet and even; his eyes held an expression that promised ill for Etherton. He looked round at Turner. "Is he badly hurt, Commander?"
"He'll survive," said Turner briefly. He had Carslake on his feet now, still moaning, his hand covering his smashed mouth.
For the first time, the Captain seemed to notice Ralston. He looked at him for a few seconds, an eternity on that bitter, storm lashed bridge, then spoke, monosyllabic, ominous, thirty years of command behind the word.
"Well?"
Ralston's face was frozen, expressionless. His eyes never left Carslake.
"Yes, sir. I did it. I hit him, the treacherous, murdering bastard!"
"Ralston!" The MA.A.'s voice was a whiplash.
Suddenly Ralston's shoulders sagged. With an effort, he looked away from Carslake, looked wearily at Vallery.
"I'm sorry. I forgot. He's got a stripe on his arm, only ratings are bastards." Vallery winced at the bitterness. "But he------"
"You've got frostbite."
"Rub your chin, man!" Turner interrupted sharply.
Slowly, mechanically, Ralston did as he was told. He used the back of his hand. Vallery winced again as he saw the palm of the hand, raw and mutilated, skin and flesh hanging in strips. The agony of that bare-handed descent from the yardarm...
"He tried to murder me, sir. It was deliberate." Ralston sounded tired.
"Do you realise what you are saying?" Vallery's voice was as icy as the wind that swept over Langanes. But he felt the first, faint chill of fear.
"He tried to murder me, sir," Ralston repeated tonelessly. "He returned the boards five minutes before I left the yard-arm. W.T. must have started transmitting just as soon as I reached the mast, coming down."
"Nonsense, Ralston. How dare you------"
"He's right, sir." It was Etherton speaking. He was replacing the receiver carefully, his voice unhappy. "I've just checked."
The chill of fear settled deeper on Vallery's mind. Almost desperately he said:
"Anyone can make a mistake. Ignorance may be culpable, but------"
"Ignorance!" The weariness had vanished from Ralston as if it had never been. He took two quick steps forward. "Ignorance I I gave him these boards, sir, when I came to the bridge. I asked for the Officer of the Watch and he said he was, I didn't know the Gunnery Officer was on duty, sir. When I told him that the boards were to be returned only to me, he said:' I don't want any of your damned insolence, Ralston. I know my job, you stick to yours. Just you get up there and perform your heroics.' He knew, sir."
Carslake burst from the Commander's supporting arm, turned and appealed wildly to the Captain. The eyes were white and staring, the whole face working.
"That's a lie, sir! It's a damned, filthy lie!" He mouthed the words, slurred them through smashed lips. "I never said..."
The words crescendoed into a coughing, choking scream as Ralston's fist smashed viciously, terribly into the torn, bubbling mouth. He staggered drunkenly through the port gate, crashed into the chart house, slid down to lie on the deck, huddled and white and still. Both Turner and the M.AA. had at once leapt forward to pinion the L.T.O.'s arms, but he made no attempt to move.
Above and beyond the howl of the wind, the bridge seemed strangely silent. When Vallery spoke, his voice was quite expressionless.
"Commander, you might phone for a couple of our marines. Have Carslake taken down to his cabin and ask Brooks to have a look at him.
Master-at-Arms?"
/>
"Sir?"
"Take this rating to the Sick Bay, let him have any necessary treatment. Then put him in cells. With an armed guard. Understand?"
"I understand, sir." There was no mistaking the satisfaction in Hastings's voice.
Vallery, Turner and the Gunnery Officer stood in silence as Ralston and the M.A.A. left, in silence as two burly marines carried Carslake, still senseless, off the bridge and below. Vallery moved after them, broke step at Etherton's voice behind him.
"Sir?"
Vallery did not even turn round. "I'll see you later, Etherton."
"No, sir. Please. This is important."
Something in the Gunnery Officer's voice held Vallery. He turned back, impatiently.
"I'm not concerned with excusing myself, sir. There's no excuse." The eyes were fixed steadily on Vallery. "I was standing at the Asdic door when Ralston handed the boards to Carslake. I overheard them, every word they said."
Vallery's face became very still. He glanced at Turner, saw that he, too, was waiting intently.
"And Ralston's version of the conversation?" In spite of himself, Vallery's voice was rough, edged with suspense.
"Completely accurate, sir." The words were hardly audible. "In every detail. Ralston told the exact truth."
Vallery closed his eyes for a moment, turned slowly, heavily away. He made no protest as he felt Turner's hand under his arm, helping him down the steep ladder. Old Socrates had told him a hundred times that he carried the ship on his back. He could feel the weight of it now, the crushing burden of every last ounce of it.
Vallery was at dinner with Tyndall, in the Admiral's day cabin, when the message arrived. Sunk in private thought, he gazed down at his untouched food as Tyndall smoothed out the signal.
The Admiral cleared his throat.
"On course. On time. Sea moderate, wind freshening. Expect rendezvous as planned. Commodore 77."
He laid the signal down. "Good God! Seas moderate, fresh winds, Do you reckon he's in the same damned ocean as us?"
Vallery smiled faintly.
HMS Ulysses Page 9
