The Ulysses was round again, heading for the Vectra. It should have been growing lighter now, but the Blue Ranger, her squadron fuel tanks on fire, a gigantic torch against the eastern horizon, had the curious effect of throwing the surrounding sea into heavy darkness. She lay almost athwart of the flagship’s course for the Vectra, looming larger every minute. Tyndall had his night glasses to his eyes, kept on muttering: ‘The poor bastards, the poor bastards!’
The Blue Ranger was almost gone. She lay dead in the water, heeled far over to starboard, ammunition and petrol tanks going up in a constant series of crackling reports. Suddenly, a succession of dull, heavy explosions rumbled over the sea: the entire bridge island structure lurched crazily sideways, held, then slowly, ponderously, deliberately, the whole massive body of it toppled majestically into the glacial darkness of the sea. God only knew how many men perished with it, deep down in the Arctic, trapped in its iron walls. They were the lucky ones.
The Vectra, barely two miles ahead now, was pulling round south in a tight circle. Vallery saw her, altered course to intercept. He heard Bentley shouting something unintelligible from the fore corner of the compass platform. Vallery shook his head, heard him shouting again, his voice desperate with some nameless urgency, his arm pointing frantically over the windscreen, and leapt up beside him.
The sea was on fire. Flat, calm, burdened with hundreds of tons of fuel oil, it was a vast carpet of licking, twisting flames. That much, for a second, and that only, Vallery saw: then with heartstopping shock, with physically sickening abruptness, he saw something else again: the burning sea was alive with swimming, struggling men. Not a handful, not even dozens, but literally hundreds, soundlessly screaming, agonizingly dying in the barbarous contrariety of drowning and cremation.
‘Signal from Vectra, sir.’ It was Bentley speaking, his voice abnormally matter-of-fact. ‘“Depth-charging. 3, repeat 3 contacts. Request immediate assistance.”’
Tyndall was at Vallery’s side now. He heard Bentley, looked a long second at Vallery, following his sick, fascinated gaze into the sea ahead.
For a man in the sea, oil is an evil thing. It clogs his movements, burns his eyes, sears his lungs and tears away his stomach in uncontrollable paroxysms of retching; but oil on fire is a hellish thing, death by torture, a slow, shrieking death by drowning, by burning, by asphyxiation—for the flames devour all the life-giving oxygen on the surface of the sea. And not even in the bitter Arctic is there the merciful extinction by cold, for the insulation of an oil-soaked body stretches a dying man on the rack for eternity, carefully preserves him for the last excruciating refinement of agony. All this Vallery knew.
He knew, too, that for the Ulysses to stop, starkly outlined against the burning carrier, would have been suicide. And to come sharply round to starboard, even had there been time and room to clear the struggling, dying men in the sea ahead, would have wasted invaluable minutes, time and to spare for the U-boats ahead to line up firing-tracks on the convoy; and the Ulysses’s first responsibility was to the convoy. Again all this Vallery knew. But at that moment, what weighed most heavily with him was common humanity. Fine off the port bow, close in to the Blue Ranger, the oil was heaviest, the flames fiercest, the swimmers thickest: Vallery looked back over his shoulder at the Officer of the Watch.
‘Port 10!’
‘Port 10, sir.’
‘Midships!’
‘Midships, sir.’
‘Steady as she goes!’
For ten, fifteen seconds the Ulysses held her course, arrowing through the burning sea to the spot where some gregariously atavistic instinct for self-preservation held two hundred men knotted together in a writhing, seething mass, gasping out their lives in hideous agony. For a second a great gout of flame leapt up in the centre of the group, like a giant, incandescent magnesium flare, a flame that burnt the picture into the hearts and minds of the men on the bridge with a permanence and searing clarity that no photographic plate could ever have reproduced: men on fire, human torches beating insanely at the flames that licked, scorched and then incinerated clothes, hair and skin: men flinging themselves almost out of the water, backs arched like tautened bows, grotesque in convulsive crucifixion: men lying dead in the water, insignificant, featureless little oil-stained mounds in an oil-soaked plain: and a handful of fear-maddened men, faces inhumanly contorted, who saw the Ulysses and knew what was coming, as they frantically thrashed their way to a safety that offered only a few more brief seconds of unspeakable agony before they gladly died.
‘Starboard 30!’ Vallery’s voice was low, barely a murmur, but it carried clearly through the shocked silence on the bridge.
‘Starboard 30, sir.’
For the third time in ten minutes, the Ulysses slewed crazily round in a racing turn. Turning thus, a ship does not follow through the line of the bows cutting the water; there is a pronounced sideways or lateral motion, and the faster and sharper the turn, the more violent the broadside skidding motion, like a car on ice. The side of the Ulysses, still at an acute angle, caught the edge of the group on the port bow: almost on the instant, the entire length of the swinging hull smashed into the heart of the fire, into the thickest press of dying men.
For most of them, it was just extinction, swift and glad and merciful. The tremendous concussion and pressure waves crushed the life out of them, thrust them deep down into the blessed oblivion of drowning, thrust them down and sucked them back into the thrashing vortex of the four great screws . . .
On board the Ulysses, men for whom death and destruction had become the stuff of existence, to be accepted with the callousness and jesting indifference that alone kept them sane—these men clenched impotent fists, mouthed meaningless, useless curses over and over again and wept heedlessly like little children. They wept as pitiful, charred faces, turned up towards the Ulysses and alight with joy and hope, petrified into incredulous staring horror, as realization dawned and the water closed over them; as hate-filled men screamed insane invective, both arms raised aloft, shaking fists white-knuckled through the dripping oil as the Ulysses trampled them under: as a couple of young boys were sucked into the maelstrom of the propellers, still giving the thumbs-up sign: as a particularly shocking case, who looked as if he had been barbecued on a spit and had no right to be alive, lifted a scorified hand to the blackened hole that had been his mouth, flung to the bridge a kiss in token of endless gratitude; and wept, oddly, most of all, at the inevitable humorist who lifted his fur cap high above his head and bowed gravely and deeply, his face into the water as he died.
Suddenly, mercifully, the sea was empty. The air was strangely still and quiet, heavy with the sickening stench of charred flesh and burning Diesel, and the Ulysses’s stern was swinging wildly almost under the black pall overhanging the Blue Ranger amidships, when the shells struck her.
The shells—three 3.7s—came from the Blue Ranger. Certainly, no living gun-crews manned these 3.7s—the heat must have ignited the bridge fuses in the cartridge cases. The first shell exploded harmlessly against the armour-plating: the second wrecked the bosun’s store, fortunately empty: the third penetrated No 3 Low Power Room via the deck. There were nine men in there—an officer, seven ratings and Chief-Torpedo Gunner’s Mate Noyes. In that confined space, death was instantaneous.
Only seconds later a heavy rumbling explosion blew out a great hole along the waterline of the Blue Ranger and she fell slowly, wearily right over on her starboard side, her flight-deck vertical to the water, as if content to die now that, dying, she had lashed out at the ship that had destroyed her crew.
On the bridge, Vallery still stood on the yeoman’s platform, leaning over the starred, opaque windscreen. His head hung down, his eyes were shut and he was retching desperately, the gushing blood—arterial blood—ominously bright and scarlet in the erubescent glare of the sinking carrier. Tyndall stood there helplessly beside him, not knowing what to do, his mind numbed and sick. Suddenly, he was brushed unceremoniously aside by the
Surgeon-Commander, who pushed a white towel to Vallery’s mouth and led him gently below. Old Brooks, everyone knew, should have been at his Action Stations position in the Sick Bay: no one dared say anything.
Carrington straightened the Ulysses out on course, while he waited for Turner to move up from the after Director tower to take over the bridge. In three minutes the cruiser was up with the Vectra, methodically quartering for a lost contact. Twice the ships regained contact, twice they dropped heavy patterns. A heavy oil slick rose to the surface: possibly a kill, probably a ruse, but in any event, neither ship could remain to investigate further. The convoy was two miles ahead now, and only the Stirling and Viking were there for its protection—a wholly inadequate cover and powerless to save the convoy from any determined attack.
It was the Blue Ranger that saved FR77. In these high latitudes, dawn comes slowly, interminably: even so, it was more than half-light, and the merchant ships, line ahead through that very gentle swell, lifted clear and sharp against a cloudless horizon, a U-boat Commander’s dream—or would have been, had he been able to see them. But, by this time, the convoy was completely obscured from the wolf-pack lying to the south: the light westerly wind carried the heavy black smoke from the blazing carrier along the southern flank of the convoy, at sea level, the perfect smoke-screen, dense, impenetrable. Why the U-boats had departed from their almost invariable practice of launching dawn attacks from the north, so as to have their targets between themselves and the sunrise, could only be guessed. Tactical surprise, probably, but whatever the reason it was the saving of the convoy. Within an hour, the thrashing screws of the convoy had left the wolf-pack far behind—and FR77, having slipped the pack, was far too fast to be overtaken again.
Aboard the flagship, the WT transmitter was chattering out a coded signal to London. There was little point, Tyndall had decided, in maintaining radio silence now; the enemy knew their position to a mile. Tyndall smiled grimly as he thought of the rejoicing in the German Naval High Command at the news that FR77 was without any air cover whatsoever; as a starter, they could expect Charlie within the hour.
The signal read: ‘Admiral, 14 ACS: To DNC, London. Rendezvoused FR77 1030 yesterday. Weather conditions extreme. Severe damage to Carriers: Defender, Wrestler unserviceable, returning base under escort: Blue Ranger torpedoed 0702, sunk 0730 today: Convoy Escorts now Ulysses, Stirling, Sirrus, Vectra, Viking: no minesweepers—Eager to base, minesweeper from Hvalfjord failed rendezvous: Urgently require air support: Can you detach carrier battle squadron: Alternatively, permission return base. Please advise immediately.’
The wording of the message, Tyndall pondered, could have been improved. Especially the bit at the end—probably sounded sufficiently like a threat to infuriate old Starr, who would only see in it pusillanimous confirmation of his conviction of the Ulysses’s—and Tyndall’s—unfitness for the job . . . Besides, for almost two years now—since long before the sinking of the Hood by the Bismarck—it had been Admiralty policy not to break up the Home Fleet squadrons by detaching capital ships or carriers. Old battleships too slow for modern inter-naval surface action—vessels such as the Ramillies and the Malaya—were used for selected Arctic convoys: with that exception, the official strategy was based on keeping the Home Fleet intact, containing the German Grand Fleet—and risking the convoys . . . Tyndall took a last look round the convoy, sighed warily and eased himself down to the duckboards. What the hell, he thought, let it go. If it wasted his time sending it, it would also waste old Starr’s time reading it.
He clumped his way heavily down the bridge ladders, eased his bulk through the door of the Captain’s cabin, hard by the FDR. Vallery, partly undressed, was lying in his bunk, between very clean, very white sheets: their knife-edged ironing crease-marks contrasted oddly with the spreading crimson stain. Vallery himself, gaunt-cheeked and cadaverous beneath dark stubble of beard, red eyes sunk deep in great hollow sockets, looked corpse-like, already dead. From one corner of his mouth blood trickled down a parchment cheek. As Tyndall shut the door, Vallery lifted a wasted hand, all ivory knuckles and blue veins, in feeble greeting.
Tyndall closed the door carefully, quietly. He took his time, time and to spare to allow the shock to drain out of his face. When he turned round, his face was composed, but he made no attempt to disguise his concern.
‘Thank God for old Socrates!’ he said feelingly. ‘Only man in the ship who can make you see even a modicum of sense.’ He parked himself on the edge of the bed. ‘How do you feel, Dick?’
Vallery grinned crookedly. There was no humour in his smile.
‘All depends what you mean, sir. Physically or mentally? I feel a bit worn out—not really ill, you know. Doc says he can fix me up—temporarily anyway. He’s going to give me a plasma transfusion—says I’ve lost too much blood.’
‘Plasma?’
‘Plasma. Whole blood would be a better coagulant. But he thinks it may prevent—or minimize—future attacks . . .’ He paused, wiped some froth off his lips, and smiled again, as mirthlessly as before. ‘It’s not really a doctor and medicine I need, John—it’s a padre—and forgiveness.’ His voice trailed off into silence. The cabin was very quiet.
Tyndall shifted uncomfortably and cleared his throat noisily. Rarely had he been so conscious that he was, first and last, a man of action.
‘Forgiveness? What on earth do you mean, Dick?’ He hadn’t meant to speak so loudly, so harshly.
‘You know damn well what I mean,’ Vallery said mildly. He was a man who was rarely heard to swear, to use the most innocuous oath. ‘You were with me on the bridge this morning.’
For perhaps two minutes neither man said a word. Then Vallery broke into a fresh paroxysm of coughing. The towel in his hand grew dark, sodden, and when he leaned back on his pillow Tyndall felt a quick stab of fear. He bent quickly over the sick man, sighed in soundless relief as he heard the quick, shallow breathing.
Vallery spoke again, his eyes still closed.
‘It’s not so much the men who were killed in the Low Power Room.’ He seemed to be talking to himself, his voice a drifting murmur. ‘My fault, I suppose—I took the Ulysses too near the Ranger. Foolish to go near a sinking ship, especially if she’s burning . . . But just one of these things, just one of the risks . . . they happen . . . ’ The rest was a blurred, dying whisper. Tyndall couldn’t catch it.
He rose abruptly to his feet, pulling his gloves on.
‘Sorry, Dick,’ he apologized. ‘Shouldn’t have come—shouldn’t have stayed so long. Old Socrates will give me hell.’
‘It’s the others—the boys in the water.’ Vallery might never have heard him. ‘I hadn’t the right—I mean, perhaps some of them would . . . ’ Again his voice was lost for a moment, then he went on strongly: ‘Captain Richard Vallery, DSO—judge, jury and executioner. Tell me, John, what am I going to say when my turn comes?’
Tyndall hesitated, heard the authoritative rap on the door and jerked round, his breath escaping in a long, inaudible sigh of thankfulness.
‘Come in,’ he called.
The door opened and Brooks walked in. He stopped short at the sight of the Admiral, turned to the white-coated assistant behind him, a figure weighed down with stands, bottles, tubing and various paraphernalia.
‘Remain outside, Johnson, will you?’ he asked. ‘I’ll call you when I want you.’
He closed the door, crossed the cabin and pulled a chair up to the Captain’s bunk. Vallery’s wrist between his fingers, he looked coldly across at Tyndall. Nicholls, Brooks remembered, was insistent that the Admiral was far from well. He looked tired, certainly, but more unhappy than tired . . . The pulse was very fast, irregular.
‘You’ve been upsetting him,’ Brooks accused.
‘Me? Good God, no!’ Tyndall was injured. ‘So help me, Doc, I never said—’
‘Not guilty, Doc.’ It was Vallery who spoke, his voice stronger now. ‘He never said a word. I’m the guilty man—guilty as hell.’
Brooks looked at him for a long moment. Then he smiled, smiled in understanding and compassion.
‘Forgiveness, sir. That’s it, isn’t it?’ Tyndall started in surprise, looked at him in wonder.
Vallery opened his eyes. ‘Socrates!’ he murmured. ‘You would know.’
‘Forgiveness,’ Brooks mused. ‘Forgiveness. From whom—the living, the dead—or the Judge?’
Again Tyndall started. ‘Have you—have you been listening outside? How can you—?’
‘From all three, Doc. A tall order, I’m afraid.’
‘From the dead, sir, you are quite right. There would be no forgiveness: only their blessing, for there is nothing to forgive. I’m a doctor, don’t forget—I saw those boys in the water . . . you sent them home the easy way. As for the Judge—you know, “The Lord giveth, the Lord taketh away. Blessed be the name of the Lord”—the Old Testament conception of the Lord who takes away in His own time and His own way, and to hell with mercy and charity.’ He smiled at Tyndall. ‘Don’t look so shocked, sir. I’m not being blasphemous. If that were the Judge, Captain, neither you nor I—nor the Admiral— would ever want any part of him. But you know, it isn’t so . . . ’
Vallery smiled faintly, propped himself up on his pillow. ‘You make good medicine, Doctor. It’s a pity you can’t speak for the living also.’
‘Oh, can’t I?’ Brooks smacked his hand on his thigh, guffawed in sudden recollection. ‘Oh, my word, it was magnificent!’ He laughed again in genuine amusement. Tyndall looked at Vallery in mock despair.
‘Sorry,’ Brooks apologized. ‘Just fifteen minutes ago a bunch of sympathetic stokers deposited on the deck of the Sick Bay the prone and extremely unconscious form of one of their shipmates. Guess who? None other than our resident nihilist, our old friend Riley. Slight concussion and assorted facial injuries, but he should be restored to the bosom of his mess-deck by nightfall. Anyway, he insists on it—claims his kittens need him.’
H. M. S. Ulysses Page 13