In spite of this, the Vectra's 4.7s opened up, firing into the sea where the U-boat had submerged, but stopping almost immediately when two shells in succession had ricocheted off the water and whistled dangerously through the convoy. She steadied on course, raced over the position of the submerged U-boat: watchers on the Ulysses, binoculars to their Vectra's poop-deck hurling more scuttling charges over the eyes, could just distinguish duffel-coated figures on the side. Almost at once, the Vectra's helm went hard over and she clawed her way back south again, guns at maximum depression pointing down over her starboard side.
The U-boat must have been damaged, more severely this time, by either the shells or the last charges. Again she surfaced, even more violently than before, in a seething welter of foam, and again the Vectra was caught on the wrong foot, for the submarine had surfaced off her port bow, three cable-lengths away.
And this time, the U-boat was up to stay. Whatever Captain and crew lacked, it wasn't courage. The hatch was open, and men were swarming over the side of the conning-tower to man the gun, in a token gesture of defiance against crushing odds.
The first two men over the side never reached the gun, breaking, sweeping waves, waves that towered high above the submarine's deck, washed them over the side and they were gone. But others flung themselves forward to take their place, frantically training their gun through a 90ø arc to bear on the onrushing bows of the Vectra.
Incredibly, for the seas were washing over the decks, seas which kept tearing the men from their posts, and the submarine was rolling with impossible speed and violence-their first shell, fired over open sights, smashed squarely into the bridge of the Vectra. The first shell and the last shell, for the crew suddenly crumpled and died, sinkiag down by the gua or pitching convulsively over the side.
It was a massacre. The Vectra had two Boltoa-Paul Defiant night-fighter turrets, quadruple hydraulic turrets complete with astrodome, bolted to her fo'c'sle, and these had opened up simultaneously, firing, between them, something like a fantastic total of 300 shells every ten seconds. That often misused cliche "hail of lead" was completely accurate here. It was impossible for a man to live two seconds on the exposed deck of that U-boat, to hope to escape that lethal storm. Man after man kept flinging himself over the coaming in suicidal gallantry, but none reached the gun.
Afterwards, no one aboard the Ulysses could say when they first realised that the Vectra, pitching steeply through the heavy seas, was going to ram the U-boat. Perhaps her Captain had never intended to do so. Perhaps he had expected the U-boat to submerge, had intended to carry away conning-tower and periscope standard, to make sure that she could not escape again. Perhaps he had been killed when that shell had struck the bridge. Or perhaps he had changed his mind at the last second, for the Vectra, which had been arrowing in on the conning-tower, suddenly slewed sharply to starboard.
For an instant, it seemed that she might just clear the U-boat's bows, but the hope died the second it was born. Plunging heavily down the sheering side of a gaping trough, the Vectra's forefoot smashed down and through the hull of the submarine, some thirty feet aft of the bows, slicing through the toughened steel of the pressure hull as if it were cardboard. She was still plunging, still driving down, when two shattering explosions, so close together as to be blurred into one giant blast, completely buried both vessels under a sky-rocketing mushroom of boiling water and twisted steel. The why of the explosion was pure conjecture; but what had happened was plain enough. Some freak of chance must have triggered off the T.N.T.-normally an extremely stable and inert disruptive, in a warhead in one of the U-boat's tubes: and then the torpedoes in the storage racks behind and possibly, probably even, the for'ard magazine of the Vectra had gone up in sympathetic detonation.
Slowly, deliberately almost, the great clouds of water fell back into the sea, and the Vectra and the U-boat-or what little was left of them-came abruptly into view. To the watchers on the Ulysses, it was inconceivable that either of them should still be afloat. The U-boat was very deep in the water, seemed to end abruptly just for'ards of the gun platform: the Vectra looked as if some great knife had sheared her athwartships, just for'ard of the bridge. The rest was gone, utterly gone. And throughout the convoy unbelieving minds were still wildly rejecting the evidence of their eyes when the shattered hull of the Vectra lurched into the same trough as the U-boat, rolled heavily, wearily, over on top of her, bridge and mast cradling the conning-tower of the submarine. And then the water closed over them and they were gone, locked together to the bottom of the sea.
The last ships in the convoy were two miles away now, and in the broken seas, at that distance, it was impossible to see whether there were any survivors. It did not seem likely. And if there were, if there were men over there, struggling, swimming, shouting for help in the murderous cold of that glacial sea, they would be dying already. And they would have been dead long before any rescue ship could even have turned round.
The convoy steamed on, beating steadily east. All but two, that is-the Electro and the Sirrus.
The Electro lay beam on to the seas, rolling slowly, sluggishly, dead in the water. She had now a list of almost 15ø to port. Her decks, fore and aft of the bridge, were lined with waiting men. They had given up their attempt to abandon ship by lifeboat when they had seen the Sirrus rolling up behind them, fine on the port quarter. A boat had been swung out on its davits, and with the listing of the Electra and the rolling of the sea it had proved impossible to recover it. It hung now far out from the ship's side, swinging wildly at the end of its davits about twenty feet above the sea. On his approach, Orr had twice sent angry signals, asking the falls to be cut. But the lifeboat remained there, a menacing pendulum in the track of the Sirrus: panic, possibly, but more likely winch brakes jammed solid with ice. In either event, there was no time to be lost: another ten minutes and the Electra would be gone.
The Sirrus made two runs past in all, Orr had no intention of stopping alongside, of being trampled under by the 15,000-ton deadweight of a toppling freighter. On his first run he steamed slowly by at five knots, at a distance of twenty feet-the nearest he dared go with the set of the sea rolling both ships towards each other at the same instant.
As the Sirrus's swinging bows slid up past the bridge of the Electro, the waiting men began to jump. They jumped as the Sirrus's fo'c'sle reared up level with their deck, they jumped as it plunged down fifteen, twenty feet below. One man carrying a suitcase and Burberry stepped nonchalantly across both sets of guard-rails during the split second that they were relatively motionless to each other: others crashed sickeningly on to the ice-coated steel deck far below, twisting ankles, fracturing legs and thighs, dislocating hip-joints. And two men jumped and missed; above the bedlam of noise, men heard the blood-chilling, bubbling scream of one as the swinging hulls crushed the life out of him, the desperate, terror-stricken cries of the other as the great, iron wall of the Electra guided him into the screws of the Sirrus.
It was just then that it happened and there could be no possible reflection on Commander Orr's seamanship: he had handled the Sirrus brilliantly. But even his skill was helpless against these two successive freak waves, twice the size of the others. The first flung the Sirrus close in to the Electra, then passing under the Electra, lurched her steeply to port as the second wave heeled the Sirrus far over to starboard. There was a grinding, screeching crash. The Sirrus's guard-rails and upper side plates buckled and tore along a 150-foot length: simultaneously, the lifeboat smashed endwise into the front of the bridge, shattering into a thousand pieces. Immediately, the telegraphs jangled, the water boiled whitely at the Sirrus's stern-shocked realisation of its imminence and death itself must have been only a merciful hair's-breadth apart for the unfortunate man in the water, and then the destroyer was clear, sheering sharply away from the Electra.
In five minutes the Sirrus was round again. It was typical of Orr's ice-cold, calculating nerve and of the luck that never deserted 'him that he should this
time choose to rub the Sirrus's shattered starboard side along the length of the Electra, she was too low in the water now to fall on him, and that he should do so in a momentary spell of slack water. Willing hands caught men as they jumped, cushioned their fall. Thirty seconds and the destroyer was gone again and the decks of the Electra were deserted. Two minutes later and a muffled roar shook the sinking ship, her boilers going.
And then she toppled slowly over on her side: masts and smokestack lay along the surface of the sea, dipped and vanished: the straight-back of bottom and keel gleamed fractionally, blackly, against the grey of sea and sky, and was gone. For a minute, great gouts of air rushed turbulently to the surface. By and by the bubbles grew smaller and smaller and then there were no more.
The Sirrus steadied on course, crowded decks throbbing as she began to pick up speed, to overtake the convoy. Convoy No. FR77. The convoy the Royal Navy would always want to forget. Thirty-six ships had left Scapa and St. John's. Now there were twelve, only twelve. And still almost thirty-two hours to the Kola Inlet...
Moodily, even his tremendous vitality and zest temporarily subdued, Turner watched the Sirrus rolling up astern. Abruptly he turned away, looked furtively, pityingly at Captain Vallery, no more now than a living skeleton driven by God only knew what mysterious force to wrest hour after impossible hour from death. And for Vallery now, death, even the hope of it, Turner suddenly realised, must be infinitely sweet. He looked, and saw the shock and sorrow in that grey mask, and he cursed, bitterly, silently. And then these tired, dull eyes were on him and Turner hurriedly cleared his throat.
"How many survivors does that make in the Sirrus now?" he asked.
Vallery lifted weary shoulders in the ghost of a shrug.
"No idea, Commander. A hundred, possibly more. Why?"
"A hundred," Turner mused. "And no-survivors-will-be-picked-up. I'm just wondering what old Orr's going to say when he dumps that little lot in Admiral Starr's lap when we get back to Scapa Flow!"
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
SATURDAY AFTERNOON
THE Sirrus was still a mile astern when her Aldis started flickering.
Bentley took the message, turned to Vallery.
"Signal, sir.' Have 25-30 injured men aboard. Three very serious cases, perhaps dying. Urgently require doctor.'"
"Acknowledge," Vallery said. He hesitated a moment, then: "My compliments to Surgeon-Lieutenant Nicholls. Ask him to come to the bridge." He turned to the Commander, grinned faintly. "I somehow don't see Brooks at his athletic best in a breeches buoy on a day like this. It's going to be quite a crossing."
Turner looked again at the Sirrus, occasionally swinging through a 40ø arc as she rolled and crashed her way up from the west.
"It'll be no picnic," he agreed. "Besides, breeches buoys aren't made to accommodate the likes of our venerable chief surgeon." Funny, Turner thought, how matter-of-fact and offhand everyone was: nobody had as much as mentioned the Vectra since she'd rammed the U-boat.
The gate creaked. Vallery turned round slowly, acknowledged Nicholls's sketchy salute.
"The Sirrus needs a doctor," he said without preamble. "How do you fancy it?"
Nicholls steadied himself against the canted bridge and the rolling of the cruiser. Leave the Ulysses-suddenly, he hated the thought, was amazed at himself for his reaction. He, Johnny Nicholls, unique, among the officers anyway, in his thorough-going detestation and intolerance of all things naval-to feel like that! Must be going soft in the head.
And just as suddenly he knew that his mind wasn't slipping, knew why he wanted to stay. It was not a matter of pride or principle or sentiment: it was just that-well, just that he belonged. The feeling of belonging-even to himself he couldn't put it more accurately, more clearly than that, but it affected him strangely, powerfully. Suddenly he became aware that curious eyes were on him, looked out in confusion over the rolling sea.
"Well?" Vallery's voice was edged with impatience.
"I don't fancy it at all," Nicholls said frankly. "But of course I'll go, sir. Right now?"
"As soon as you can get your stuff together," Vallery nodded.
"That's now. We have an emergency kit packed all the time." He cast a jaundiced eye over the heavy sea again. "What am I supposed to do, sir-jump?"
"Perish the thought!" Turner clapped him on the back with a large and jovial hand. "You haven't a thing to worry about," he boomed cheerfully, "you positively won't feel a thing, these, if I recall rightly, were your exact words to me when you extracted that old molar of mine two-three weeks back." He winced in painful recollection. "Breeches buoy, laddie, breeches buoy!"
"Breeches buoy!" Nicholls protested. "Haven't noticed the weather, have you? I'll be going up and down like a blasted yo-yo!"
"The ignorance of youth." Turner shook his head sadly. "We'll be turning into the sea, of course. It'll be like a ride in a Rolls, my boy! We're going to rig it now." He turned away. "Chrysler-get on to Chief Petty Officer Hartley. Ask him to come up to the bridge."
Chrysler gave no sign of having heard. He was in his usual favourite position these days-gloved hands on the steam pipes, the top half of his face crushed into the rubber eyepiece of the powerful binoculars on the starboard searchlight control. Every few seconds a hand would drop, revolve the milled training rack a fraction. Then again the complete immobility.
"Chrysler!" Turner roared. "Are you deaf?"
Three, four, five more seconds passed in silence. Every eye was on Chrysler when he suddenly jerked back, glanced down at the bearing indicator, then swung round. His face was alive with excitement.
"Green one-double-oh!" he shouted. "Green one-double oh! Aircraft. Just on the horizon!" He fairly flung himself back at his binoculars.
"Four, seven-no, ten! Ten aircraft!" he yelled.
"Green one-double-oh?" Turner had his glasses to his eyes. "Can't see a thing! Are you sure, boy?" he called anxiously.
"Still the same, sir." There was no mistaking the agitated conviction in the young voice.
Turner was through the gate and beside him in four swift steps. "Let me have a look," he ordered. He gazed through the glasses, twisted the training rack once or twice, then stepped back slowly, heavy eyebrows lowering in anger.
"There's something bloody funny here, young man!" he growled. "Either your eyesight or your imagination? And if you ask me-----"
"He's right," Carrington interrupted calmly. "I've got 'em, too."
"So have I, sir!" Bentley shouted.
Turner wheeled back to the mounted glasses, looked through them briefly, stiffened, looked round at Chrysler.
"Remind me to apologise some day!" he smiled, and was back on the compass platform before he had finished speaking.
"Signal to convoy," Vallery was saying rapidly. "Code H. Full ahead, Number One. Bosun's mate? Broadcaster: stand by all guns. Commander?"
"Sir?"
"Independent targets, independent fire all AA. guns? Agreed? And the turrets?"
"Couldn't say yet... Chrysler, can you make out------"
"Condors, sir," Chrysler anticipated him.
"Condors!" Turner stared in disbelief. "A dozen Condors! Are you sure that... Oh, all right, all right!" he broke off hastily. "Condors they are." He shook his head in wonderment, turned to Vallery. "Where's my bloody tin hat? Condors, he says!"
"So Condors they are," Vallery repeated, smiling. Turner marvelled at the repose, the unruffled calm.
"Bridge targets, independent fire control for all turrets?" Vallery went on.
"I think so, sir." Turner looked at the two communication ratings just aft of the compass platform-one each on the group phones to the for'ard and after turrets. "Ears pinned back, you two. And hop to it when you get the word."
Vallery beckoned to Nicholls.
"Better get below, young man," he advised. "Sorry your little trip's been postponed."
"I'm not," Nicholls said bluntly.
"No?" Vallery was smiling. "Scared?"
"No, sir," Nicholls smiled back. "Not scared. And you know I wasn't."
"I know you weren't," Vallery agreed quietly. "I know, and thank you."
He watched Nicholls walk off the bridge, beckoned to the W.T. messenger, then turned to the Kapok Kid.
"When was our last signal to the Admiralty, Pilot? Have a squint at the log."
"Noon yesterday," said the Kapok Kid readily.
"Don't know what I'll do without you," Vallery murmured. "Present position?"
"72.20 north, 13.40 east."
"Thank you." He looked at Turner. "No point in radio silence now, Commander?"
Turner shook his head.
"Take this message," Vallery said quickly. "To D.N.O., London... How are our friends doing, Commander?"
"Circling well to the west, sir. Usual high altitude, gambit from the stern, I suppose," he added morosely. "Still," he brightened, "cloud level's barely a thousand feet."
Vallery nodded. "'FR77. 1600. 72.20,13.40. Steady on 090. Force 9, north, heavy swell: Situation desperate. Deeply regret Admiral Tyndall died 1200 today. Tanker Vytura torpedoed last night, sunk by self. Washington State sunk 0145 today. Vectra sunk 1515, collision U-boat. Electro sunk 1530. Am being heavily attacked by twelve, minimum twelve, Focke-Wulf 200s.' A reasonable assumption, I think, Commander," he said wryly, "and it'll shake their Lordships. They're of the opinion there aren't so many Condors in the whole of Norway. 'Imperative send help. Air cover essential. Advise immediately.' Get that off at once, will you?"
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