H. M. S. Ulysses (7 page)

‘What!' Vallery's voice was sharp, edged with anger. ‘And Nicholls ignored it, didn't report it to me! Happened last night, you say. Why wasn't I told—immediately? Get Nicholls up here—now. No, never mind.' He reached out to pick up the bridge phone. ‘I'll get him myself.'

Brooks laid a gauntleted hand on Vallery's arm.

‘I wouldn't do that, sir. Nicholls is a smart boy—very smart indeed. He knew that if he let the men know they had been overheard, they would know that he must report it to you. And then you'd have been bound to take action—and open provocation of trouble is the last thing you want. You said so yourself in the wardroom last night.'

Vallery hesitated. ‘Yes, yes, of course I said that, but—well, Doc, this is different. It could be a focal point for spreading the idea to—'

‘I told you, sir,' Brooks interrupted softly. ‘Johnny Nicholls is a very smart boy. He's got a big notice, in huge red letters, outside the Sick Bay door: “Keep clear: Suspected scarlet fever infection.” Kills me to watch ‘em. Everybody avoids the place like the plague. Not a hope of communicating with their pals in the Stokers' Mess.'

Tyndall guffawed at him, and even Vallery smiled slightly.

‘Sounds fine, Doc. Still, I should have been told last night.'

‘Why should you be woken up and told every little thing in the middle of the night?' Brooks's voice was brusque. ‘Sheer selfishness on my part, but what of it? When things get bad, you damn well carry this ship on your back—and when we've all got to depend on you, we can't afford to have you anything less than as fit as possible. Agreed, Admiral?'

Tyndall nodded solemnly. ‘Agreed, O Socrates. A very complicated way of saying that you wish the Captain to have a good night's sleep. But agreed.'

Brooks grinned amiably. ‘Well, that's all, gentlemen. See you all at the court-martial—I hope.' He cocked a jaundiced eye over a shoulder, into the thickening snow. ‘Won't the Med be wonderful, gentlemen?' He sighed and slid effortlessly into his native Galway brogue. ‘Malta in the spring. The beach at Sliema—with the white houses behind—where we picnicked, a hundred years ago. The soft winds, me darlin' boys, the
warm
winds, the blue skies and Chianti under a striped umbrealla—'

‘Off!' Tyndall roared. ‘Get off this bridge, Brooks, or I'll—'

‘I'm gone already,' said Brooks. ‘A sit-down strike in the boiler-room! Ha! First thing you know, there'll be a rash of male suffragettes chaining themselves to the guardrails!' The gate clanged shut behind him.

Vallery turned to the Admiral, his face grave.

‘Looks as if you were right about that cornstack, sir.'

Tyndall grunted, non-commitally.

‘Maybe. Trouble is, the men have nothing to do right now except brood and curse and feel bitter about everything. Later on it'll be all right—perhaps.'

‘When we get—ah—busier, you mean?'

‘Mmm. When you're fighting for your life, to keep the ship afloat—well, you haven't much time for plots and pondering over the injustices of fate. Self-preservation is still the first law of nature . . . Speaking to the men tonight. Captain?'

‘Usual routine broadcast, yes. In the first dog, when we're all closed up to dusk action stations.' Vallery smiled briefly. ‘Make sure that they're all awake.'

‘Good. Lay it on thick and heavy. Give 'em plenty to think about—and, if I'm any judge of Vincent Starr's hints, we're going to
have
plenty to think about this trip. It'll keep 'em occupied.'

Vallery laughed. The laugh transformed his thin sensitive face. He seemed genuinely amused.

Tyndall lifted an interrogatory eyebrow. Vallery smiled back at him.

‘Just passing thoughts, sir. As Spencer Faggot would have said, things have come to a pretty pass . . . Things are bad indeed, when only the enemy can save us.'

THREE
Monday Afternoon

All day long the wind blew steadily out of the nor'nor'-west. A strong wind, and blowing stronger. A cold wind, a sharp wind full of little knives, it carried with it snow and ice and the strange dead smell born of the forgotten ice-caps that lie beyond the Barrier. It wasn't a gusty, blowy wind. It was a settled, steady kind of wind, and it stayed fine on the starboard bow from dawn to dusk. Slowly, stealthily, it was lifting a swell. Men like Carrington, who knew every sea and port in the world, like Vallery and Hartley, looked at it and were troubled and said nothing.

The mercury crept down and the snow lay where it fell. The tripods and yardarms were great, glistening Xmas trees, festooned with woolly stays and halliards. On the mainmast, a brown smear appeared now and then, daubed on by a wisp of smoke from the after funnel, felt rather than seen: in a moment, it would vanish. The snow lay on the deck and drifted. It softened the anchor-cables on the fo'c'sle deck into great, fluffy ropes of cottonwool, and drifted high against the breakwater before ‘A' turret. It piled up against the turrets and superstructure, swished silently into the bridge and lay there slushily underfoot. It blocked the great eyes of the Director's range-finder, it crept unseen along passages, it sifted soundlessly down hatches. It sought out the tiniest unprotected chink in metal and wood, and made the mess-decks dank and clammy and uncomfortable: it defied gravity and slid effortlessly up trouser legs, up under the skirts of coats and oilskins, up under duffel hoods, and made men thoroughly miserable. A miserable world, a wet world, but always and predominately a white world of softness and beauty and strangely muffled sound. All day long it fell, this snow, fell steadily and persistently, and the
Ulysses
slid on silently through the swell, a ghost ship in a ghost world.

But not alone in her world. She never was, these days. She had companionship, a welcome, reassuring companionship, the company of the 14th Aircraft Squadron, a tough, experienced and battle-hardened escort group, almost as legendary now as that fabulous Force 8, which had lately moved South to take over that other suicide run, the Malta convoys.

Like the
Ulysses
, the squadron steamed NNW all day long. There were no dog-legs, no standard course alterations. Tyndall abhorred the zig-zag, and, except on actual convoy and then only in known U-boat waters, rarely used it. He believed—as many captains did— that the zig-zag was a greater potential source of danger than the enemy. He had seen the
Curaçoa
, 4,200 tons of cockle-shell cruiser, swinging on a routine zig-zag, being trampled into the grey depths of the Atlantic under the mighty forefoot of the
Queen Mary
. He never spoke of it, but the memory stayed with him.

The
Ulysses
was in her usual position—the position dictated by her role of Squadron flagship—as nearly as possible in the centre of the thirteen warships.

Dead ahead steamed the cruiser
Stirling
. An old Cardiff class cruiser, she was a solid, reliable ship, many years older and many knots slower than the
Ulysses
, adequately armed with five single six-inch guns, but hardly built to hammer her way through the Arctic gales: in heavy seas, her wetness was proverbial. Her primary role was squadron defence: her secondary, to take over the squadron if the flagship were crippled or sunk.

The carriers—
Defender, Invader, Wrestler
and
Blue Ranger
—were in position to port and starboard, the
Defender
and
Wrestler
slightly ahead of the
Ulysses
, the others slightly astern. It seemed
de rigeur
for these escort carriers to have names ending in -er and the fact that the Navy already had a
Wrestler
—a Force 8 destroyer (and a
Defender
, which had been sunk some time previously off Tobruk)— was blithely ignored. These were not the 35,000-ton giants of the regular fleet—ships like the
Indefatigable
and the
Illustrious
—but 1520,000 ton auxiliary carriers, irreverently known as banana boats. They were converted merchantmen, American-built: these had been fitted out at Pascagoula, Mississippi, and sailed across the Atlantic by mixed British-American crews.

They were capable of eighteen knots, a relatively high speed for a single-screw ship—the
Wrestler
had two screws—but some of them had as many as four Busch-Sulzer Diesels geared to the one shaft. Their painfully rectangular flight-decks, 450 feet in length, were built up above the open fo'c'sle—one could see right under the flight-deck for'ard of the bridge—and flew off about thirty fighters—Grummans, Seafires or, most often, Corsairs—or twenty light bombers. They were odd craft, awkward, ungainly and singularly unwarlike; but over the months they had done a magnificent job of providing umbrella cover against air attack, of locating and destroying enemy ships and submarines: their record of kills, above, on and below the water was impressive and frequently disbelieved by the Admiralty.

Nor was the destroyer screen calculated to inspire confidence among the naval strategists at Whitehall. It was a weird hodgepodge, and the term ‘destroyer' was a purely courtesy one.

One, the
Nairn
, was a River class frigate of 1,500 tons: another, the
Eager
, was a Fleet Minesweeper, and a third, the
Gannet
, better known as
Huntley and Palmer
, was a rather elderly and very tired Kingfisher corvette, supposedly restricted to coastal duties only. There was no esoteric mystery as to the origin of her nickname—a glance at her silhouette against the sunset was enough. Doubtless her designer had worked within Admiralty specifications: even so, he must have had an off day.

The
Vectra
and the
Viking
were twin-screwed, modified ‘V' and ‘W' destroyers, in the superannuated class now, lacking in speed and firepower, but tough and durable. The
Baliol
was a diminutive Hunt class destroyer which had no business in the great waters of the north. The
Portpatrick
, a skeleton-lean four stacker, was one of the fifty lend-lease World War I destroyers from the United States. No one even dared guess at her age. An intriguing ship at any time, she became the focus of all eyes in the fleet and a source of intense interest whenever the weather broke down. Rumour had it that two of her sister ships had overturned in the Atlantic during a gale; human nature being what it is, everyone wanted a grandstand view whenever weather conditions deteriorated to an extent likely to afford early confirmation of these rumours. What the crew of the
Portpatrick
thought about it all was difficult to say.

These seven escorts, blurred and softened by the snow, kept their screening stations all day—the frigate and minesweeper ahead, the destroyers at the sides, and the corvette astern. The eight escort, a fast, modern ‘S' class destroyer, under the command of the Captain (Destroyers), Commander Orr, prowled restlessly around the fleet. Every ship commander in the squadron envied Orr his roving commission, a duty which Tyndall had assigned him in self-defence against Orr's continual pestering. But no one objected, no one grudged him his privilege: the
Sirrus
had an uncanny nose for trouble, an almost magnetic affinity for U-boats lying in ambush.

From the warmth of the
Ulysses
's wardroom—long, incongruously comfortable, running fifty feet along the starboard side of the fo'c'sle deck—Johnny Nicholls gazed out through the troubled grey and white of the sky. Even the kindly snow, he reflected, blanketing a thousand sins, could do little for these queer craft, so angular, so graceless, so obviously out-dated.

He supposed he ought to feel bitter at My Lords of the Admiralty, with their limousines and armchairs and elevenses, with their big wall-maps and pretty little flags, sending out this raggle-taggle of squadron to cope with the pick of the U-boat packs, while they sat comfortably, luxuriously at home. But the thought died at birth: it was he knew, grotesquely unjust. The Admiralty would have given them a dozen brand-new destroyers—if they had them. Things, he knew were pretty bad, and the demands of the Atlantic and the Mediterranean had first priority.

He supposed, too, he ought to feel cynical, ironic, at the sight of these old and worn-out ships. Strangely, he couldn't. He knew what they could do, what they had done. If he felt anything at all towards them, it was something uncommonly close to admiration—perhaps even pride. Nicholls stirred uncomfortably and turned away from the porthole. His gaze fell on the somnolent form of the Kapok Kid, flat on his back in an arm-chair, an enormous pair of fur-lined flying-boots perched above the electric fire.

The Kapok Kid, Lieutenant the Honourable Andrew Carpenter, RN, Navigator of the
Ulysses
and his best friend—he was the one to feel proud, Nicholls thought wryly. The most glorious extrovert Nicholls had ever known, the Kapok Kid was equally at home anywhere—on a dance floor or in the cockpit of a racing yacht at Cowes, at a garden party, on a tennis court or at the wheel of his big crimson Bugatti, windscreen down and the loose ends of a seven-foot scarf streaming out behind him. But appearances were never more deceptive. For the Kapok Kid, the Royal Navy was his whole life, and he lived for that alone. Behind that slightly inane façade lay, besides a first-class brain, a deeply romantic streak, an almost Elizabethan love for sea and ships which he sought, successfully, he imagined, to conceal from all his fellow-officers. It was so patently obvious that no one ever thought it worth the mentioning.