H. M. S. Ulysses (30 page)

‘I'll do it myself, sir,' Turner interrupted his wandering. ‘I'll take over the bridge Torpedo Control—used to be the worst Torps officer on the China Station.' He smiled faintly. ‘Perhaps the hand has not lost what little cunning it ever possessed!'

‘Thank you.' Vallery was grateful. ‘You just do that.'

‘We'll have to take him from starboard,' Turner reminded him. ‘Port control was smashed this morning—foremast didn't do it any good . . . I'll go check the Dumaresq
¹
. . . Good God!' His hand gripped Vallery's shoulder with a strength that made him wince. ‘It's the Admiral, sir! He's coming on the bridge!'

Incredulously, Vallery twisted round in his chair. Turner was right. Tyndall was coming through the gate, heading purposefully towards him. In the deep shadow cast by the side of the bridge, he seemed disembodied. The bare head, sparsely covered with thin, straggling wisps of white, the grey, pitifully-shrunken face, the suddenly stooped shoulders, unaccountably thin under black oilskins, all these were thrown into harsh relief by the flames. Below, nothing was visible. Silently, Tyndall padded his way across the bridge, stood waiting at Vallery's side.

Slowly, leaning on Turner's ready arm, Vallery climbed down. Unsmiling, Tyndall looked at him, nodded gravely, hoisted himself into his seat. He picked up the binoculars from the ledge before him, slowly quartered the horizon.

It was Turner who noticed it first.

‘Sir! You've no gloves on, sir!'

‘What? What did you say?' Tyndall replaced the glasses, looked incredulously at his bloodstained, bandaged hands. ‘Ah! Do you know, I
knew
I had forgotten something. That's the second time. Thank you, Commander.' He smiled courteously, picked up the binoculars again, resumed his quartering of the horizon. All at once Vallery felt another, deadlier chill pass through him, and it had nothing to do with the bitter chill of the Arctic night.

Turner hesitated helplessly for a second, then turned quickly to the Kapok Kid.

‘Pilot! Haven't I seen gauntlets hanging in your charthouse?'

‘Yes, sir. Right away!' The Kapok Kid hurried off the bridge.

Turner looked up at the Admiral again.

‘Your head, sir—you've nothing on. Wouldn't you like a duffel coat, a hood, sir?'

‘A hood?' Tyndall was amused. ‘What in the world for? I'm not cold . . . If you'll excuse me, Commander?' He turned the binoculars full into the glare of the blazing
Vytura
. Turner looked at him again, looked at Vallery, hesitated, then walked aft.

Carpenter was on his way back with the gloves when the WT loudspeaker clicked on.

‘WT—bridge. WT—bridge. Signal from
Viking
: “Lost contact. Am continuing search.”'

‘Lost contact!' Vallery exclaimed. Lost contact—the worst possible thing that could have happened! A U-boat out there, loose, unmarked, and the whole of FR77 lit up like a fairground. A fairground, he thought bitterly, clay pipes in a shooting gallery and with about as much chance of hitting back once contact had been lost. Any second now . . .

He wheeled round, clutched at the binnacle for support. He had forgotten how weak he was, how the tilting of the shattered bridge affected balance.

‘Bentley! No reply form the
Vytura
yet?'

‘No, sir,' Bentley was as concerned as the Captain, as aware of the desperate need for speed. ‘Maybe his power's gone—no, no, no, there he is now, sir!'

‘Captain, sir.'

Vallery looked round. ‘Yes, Commander, what is it? Not more bad news, I hope?'

‘Fraid so, sir. Starboard tubes won't train—jammed solid.'

‘Won't train,' Vallery snapped irritably. ‘That's nothing new, surely. Ice, frozen snow. Chip it off, use boiling water, blowlamps, any old—'

‘Sorry, sir.' Turner shook his read regretfully. ‘Not that. Rack and turntable buckled. Must have been either the shell that got the bosun's store or Number 3 Lower Power Room—immediately below. Anyway—kaput!'

‘Very well, then!' Vallery was impatient. ‘It'll have to be the port tubes.'

‘No bridge control left, sir,' Turner objected. ‘Unless we fire by local control?'

‘No reason why not, is there?' Vallery demanded. ‘After all, that's what torpedo crews are trained for. Get on to the port tubes—I assume the communication line there is still intact—tell them to stand by.'

‘Yes, sir.'

‘And Turner?'

‘Sir?'

‘I'm sorry.' He smiled crookedly. ‘As old Giles used to say of himself, I'm just a crusty old curmudgeon. Bear with me, will you?'

Turner grinned sympathetically, then sobered quickly. He jerked his head forward.

‘How is he, sir?'

Vallery looked at the Commander for a long second, shook his head, almost imperceptibly. Turner nodded heavily and was gone.

‘Well, Bentley? What does he say?'

‘Bit confused, sir,' Bentley apologized. ‘Couldn't get it all. Says he's going to leave the convoy, proceed on his own. Something like that, sir.'

Proceed on his own! That was no solution, Vallery knew. He might still burn for hours, a dead give-away, even on a different course. But to proceed on his own! An unprotected, crippled, blazing tanker—and a thousand miles to Murmansk, the worst thousand miles in all the world! Vallery closed his eyes. He felt sick to his heart. A man like that, and a ship like that—and he had to destroy them both!

Suddenly Tyndall spoke.

‘Port 30!' he ordered. His voice was loud, authoritative. Vallery stiffened in dismay. Port 30! They'd turn into the
Vytura
.

There was a couple of seconds' silence, then Carrington, Officer of the Watch, bent over the speaking-tube, repeated: ‘Port 30.' Vallery started forward, stopped short as he saw Carrington gesturing at the speaking-tube. He'd stuffed a gauntlet down the mouthpiece.

‘Midships!'

‘Midships, sir!'

‘Steady! Captain?'

‘Sir?'

‘That light hurts my eyes,' Tyndall complained. ‘Can't we put the fire out?'

‘We'll try, sir.' Vallery walked across, spoke softly. ‘You look tired, sir. Wouldn't you like to go below?'

‘What? Go below! Me!'

‘Yes, sir. We'll send for you if we need you,' he added persuasively.

Tyndall considered this for a moment, shook his head grimly.

‘Won't do, Dick. Not fair to you . . . ' His voice trailed away and he muttered something that sounded like ‘Admiral Tyndall', but Vallery couldn't be sure.

‘Sir? I didn't catch—'

‘Nothing!' Tyndall was very abrupt. He looked away towards the
Vytura
, exclaimed in sudden pain, flung up an arm to protect his eyes. Vallery, too, started back, eyes screwed up to shut out the sudden blinding flash of flame from the
Vytura
.

The explosion crashed in their ears almost simultaneously, the blast of the pressure wave sent them reeling. The
Vytura
had been torpedoed again, right aft, close to her engine-room, and was heavily on fire there. Only the bridge island, amidships, was miraculously free from smoke and flames. Even in the moment of shock, Vallery thought, ‘She must go now. She can't last much longer.' But he knew he was deluding himself, trying to avoid the inevitable, the decision he must take. Tankers, as he'd told Nicholls, died hard, terribly hard. Poor old Giles, he thought unaccountably, poor old Giles.

He moved aft to the port gate. Turner was shouting angrily into the telephone.

‘You'll damn well do what you're told, do you hear? Get them out immediately! Yes, I said “immediately”!'

Vallery touched his arm in surprise. ‘What's the matter, Commander?'

‘Of all the bloody insolence!' Turner snorted. ‘Telling
me
what to do!'

‘Who?'

‘The LTO on the tubes. Your friend Ralston!' said Turner wrathfully.

‘Ralston! Of course!' Vallery remembered now. ‘He told me that was his night Action Stations. What's wrong?'

‘What's wrong: Says he doesn't think he can do it. Doesn't like to, doesn't wish to do it, if you please. Blasted insubordination!' Turner fumed.

Vallery blinked at him. ‘Ralston—are you sure? But of course you are . . . That boy's been through a very private hell, Turner. Do you think—'

‘I don't know what to think!' Turner lifted the phone again. ‘Tubes nine-oh? At last! . . . What? What did you say? . . . Why don't we . . . Gunfire! Gunfire!' He hung up the receiver with a crash, swung round on Vallery.

‘Asks me, pleads with me, for gunfire instead of torpedoes! He's mad, he must be! But mad or not, I'm going down there to knock some sense into that mutinous young devil!' Turner was angrier than Vallery had ever seen him. ‘Can you get Carrington to man this phone, sir?'

‘Yes, yes, of course!' Vallery himself had caught up some of Turner's anger. ‘Whatever his sentiments, this is no time to express them!' he snapped. ‘Straighten him up . . . Maybe I've been too lenient, too easy, perhaps he thinks we're in his debt, at some psychological disadvantage, for the shabby treatment he's received . . . All right, all right, Commander!' Turner's mounting impatience was all to evident. ‘Off you go. Going in to attack in three or four minutes.' He turned abruptly, passed in to the compass platform.

‘Bentley!'

‘Sir?'

‘Last signal—'

‘Better have a look, sir,' Carrington interrupted. ‘He's slowing up.'

Vallery stepped forward, peered over the windscreen. The
Vytura
, a roaring mass of flames was falling rapidly astern.

‘Clearing the davits, sir!' the Kapok Kid reported excitedly. ‘I think—yes, yes, I can see the boat coming down!'

‘Thank God for that!' Vallery whispered. He felt as though he had been granted a new lease of life. Head bowed, he clutched the screen with both hands—reaction had left him desperately weak. After a few seconds he looked up.

‘WT code signal to
Sirrus
,' he ordered quietly. ‘“Circle well astern. Pick up survivors from the
Vytura
's lifeboat.”'

He caught Carrington's quick look and shrugged. ‘It's a better than even risk, Number One, so to hell with Admiralty orders. God,' he added with sudden bitterness, ‘wouldn't I love to see a boatload of the “no-survivors-will-be-picked-up” Whitehall warriors drifting about in the Barents Sea!' He turned away, caught sight of Nicholls and Petersen.

‘Still here, are you, Nicholls? Hadn't you better get below?'

‘If you wish, sir.' Nicholls hesitated, nodded forward towards Tyndall.

‘I thought, perhaps—'

‘Perhaps you're right, perhaps you're right.' Vallery shook his head in weary perplexity. ‘We'll see. Just wait a bit, will you?' He raised his voice. ‘Pilot!'

‘Sir?'

‘Slow ahead both!'

‘Slow ahead both, sir!'

Gradually, then more quickly, way fell off the
Ulysses
and she dropped slowly astern of the convoy. Soon, even the last ships in the lines were ahead of her, thrashing their way to the north-east. The snow was falling more thickly now, but still the ships were bathed in that savage glare, frighteningly vulnerable in their naked helplessness. Seething with anger, Turner brought up short at the port torpedoes. The tubes were out, their evil, gaping mouths, highlighted by the great flames, pointing out over the intermittent refulgence of the rolling swell. Ralston, perched high on the unprotected control position above the central tube, caught his eye at once.

‘Ralston!' Turner's voice was harsh, imperious. ‘I want to speak to you!'

Ralston turned round quickly, rose, jumped on to the deck. He stood facing the Commander. They were of a height, their eyes on a level, Ralston's still, blue, troubled, Turner's dark and stormy with anger.

‘What the hell's the matter with you, Ralston?' Turner ground out. ‘Refusing to obey orders, is that it?'

‘No, sir.' Ralston's voice was quiet, curiously strained. ‘That's not true.'

‘Not true!' Turner's eyes were narrowed, his fury barely in check. ‘Then what's all this bloody claptrap about not wanting to man the tubes? Are you thinking of emulating Stoker Riley? Or have you just taken leave of your senses—if any?'

Ralston said nothing.

The silence, a silence all too easily interpreted as dumb insolence, infuriated Turner. His powerful hands reached out, grasped Ralston's duffel coat. He pulled the rating towards him, thrust his face close to the other's.

‘I asked a question, Ralston,' he said softly. ‘I haven't had an answer. I'm waiting. What
is
all this?'