H. M. S. Ulysses

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H. M. S. Ulysses Page 30

by Alistair MacLean


  Dodson set down the Thermos with a thump.

  ‘Are you deaf?’ he asked harshly. ‘Why are you here? Who sent you? Your station’s in “B” boiler-room!’

  ‘Grierson sent me,’ Riley said roughly. His dark face was impassive. ‘Said he couldn’t spare his engine-room men—too bloody valuable . . . Too much?’ The oil, thick, viscous, was pouring slowly on to the overheated bearing.

  ‘Lieutenant Grierson!’ Dodson was almost vicious, his voice a whip-lash of icy correction. ‘And that’s a damned lie, Riley! Lieutenant Grierson never sent you: I suppose you told him that somebody else had sent you?’

  ‘Drink your coffee,’ Riley advised sourly. ‘You’re wanted in the engine-room.’

  The Engineer-Commander clenched his fist, restrained himself with difficulty.

  ‘You damned insolent bastard!’ he burst out. Abruptly, control came back and he said evenly: ‘Commander’s Defaulters in the morning. You’ll pay for this, Riley!’

  ‘No, I won’t.’ Confound him, Dodson thought furiously, he’s actually grinning, the insolent . . .

  He checked his thought.

  ‘Why not?’ he demanded dangerously.

  ‘Because you won’t report me.’ Riley seemed to be enjoying himself hugely.

  ‘Oh, so that’s it!’ Dodson glanced swiftly round the darkened tunnel, and his lips tightened as he realized for the first time how completely alone they were: in sudden certainty he looked back at Riley, big and hunched and menacing. Smiling yet, but no smile, Dodson thought, could ever transform that ugly brutal face. The smile on the face of the tiger . . . Fear, exhaustion, never-ending strain—they did terrible things to a man and you couldn’t blame him for what he had become, or for what he was born . . . But his, Dodson’s, first responsibility was to himself. Grimly, he remembered how Turner had berated him, called him all sorts of a fool for refusing to have Riley sent to prison.

  ‘So that’s it, eh?’ he repeated softly. He turned himself, feet thrusting solidly against the block. ‘Don’t be so sure, Riley. I can give you twenty-five years, but—’

  ‘Oh, for Christ’s sake!’ Riley burst out impatiently. ‘What are you talking about, sir? Drink your coffee—please. You’re wanted in the engineroom, I tell you!’ he repeated impatiently.

  Uncertainly, Dodson relaxed, unscrewed the cap of the Thermos. He had a sudden, peculiar feeling of unreality, as if he were a spectator, some bystander in no way involved in this scene, this fantastic scene. His head, he realized, still hurt like hell.

  ‘Tell me, Riley,’ he asked softly, ‘what makes you so sure I won’t report you?’

  ‘Oh, you can report me all right.’ Riley was suddenly cheerful again. ‘But I won’t be at the Commander’s table tomorrow morning.’

  ‘No?’ It was half-challenge, half-question.

  ‘No,’ Riley grinned. ‘‘Cos there’ll be no Commander and no table tomorrow morning.’ He clasped his hands luxuriously behind his head. ‘In fact, there’ll be no nothin’.’

  Something in the voice, rather than in the words, caught and held Dodson’s attention. He knew, with instant conviction, that though Riley might be smiling, he wasn’t joking. Dodson looked at him curiously, but said nothing.

  ‘Commander’s just finished broadcastin’,’ Riley continued. ‘The Tirpitz is out—we have four hours left.’

  The bald, flat statement, the complete lack of histrionics, of playing for effect, left no possible room for doubt. The Tirpitz—out. The Tirpitz—out. Dodson repeated the phrase to himself, over and over again. Four hours, just four hours to go . . . He was surprised at his own reaction, his apparent lack of concern.

  ‘Well?’ Riley was anxious now, restive. ‘Are you goin’ or aren’t you? I’m not kiddin’, sir—you’re wanted—urgent!’

  ‘You’re a liar,’ Dodson said pleasantly. ‘Why did you bring the coffee?’

  ‘For myself.’ The smile was gone, the face set and sullen. ‘But I thought you needed it—you don’t look so good to me . . . They’ll fix you up back in the engine-room.’

  ‘And that’s just where you’re going, right now!’ Dodson said evenly.

  Riley gave no sign that he had heard.

  ‘On your way, Riley,’ Dodson said curtly. ‘That’s an order!’

  ‘—off!’ Riley growled. ‘I’m stayin’. You don’t require to have three—great gold stripes on your sleeve to handle a bloody oil can,’ he finished derisively.

  ‘Possibly not.’ Dodson braced against a sudden, violent pitch, but too late to prevent himself lurching into Riley. ‘Sorry, Riley. Weather’s worsening, I’m afraid. Well, we—ah—appear to have reached an impasse.’

  ‘What’s that?’ Riley asked suspiciously.

  ‘A dead-end. A no-decision fight . . . Tell me, Riley,’ he asked quietly. ‘What brought you here?’

  ‘I told you!’ Riley was aggrieved. ‘Grierson—Lieutenant Grierson sent me.’

  ‘What brought you here?’ Dodson persisted. It was as if Riley had not spoken.

  ‘That’s my—business!’ Riley answered savagely.

  ‘What brought you here?’

  ‘Oh, for Christ’s sake leave me alone!’ Riley shouted. His voice echoed loudly along the dark tunnel. Suddenly he turned round full-face, his mouth twisted bitterly. ‘You know bloody well why I came.’

  ‘To do me in, perhaps?’

  Riley looked at him a long second, then turned away. His shoulders were hunched, his head held low.

  ‘You’re the only bastard in this ship that ever gave me a break,’ he muttered. ‘The only bastard I’ve ever known who ever gave me a chance,’ he amended slowly. ‘Bastard’ Dodson supposed, was Riley’s accolade of friendship, and he felt suddenly shamed of his last remark. ‘If it wasn’t for you,’ Riley went on softly, ‘I’d ’a’ been in cells the first time, in a civvy jail the second. Remember, sir?’

  Dodson nodded. ‘You were rather foolish, Riley,’ he admitted.

  ‘Why did you do it?’ The big stoker was intense, worried. ‘God, everyone knows what I’m like—’

  ‘Do they? I wonder . . . I thought you had the makings of a better man than you—’

  ‘Don’t give me that bull!’ Riley scoffed. ‘I know what I’m like. I know what I am. I’m no—good! Everybody says I’m no—good! And they’re right . . . ’ He leaned forward. ‘Do you know somethin’? I’m a Catholic. Four hours from now . . . ’ He broke off. ‘I should be on my knees, shouldn’t I?’ he sneered. ‘Repentance, lookin’ for—what do they call it?’

  ‘Absolution?’

  ‘Aye. That’s it. Absolution. And do you know what?’ He spoke slowly, emphatically. ‘I don’t give a single, solitary damn!’

  ‘Maybe you don’t have to,’ Dodson murmured. ‘For the last time, get back to that engine-room!’

  ‘No!’

  The Engineer-Commander sighed, picked up the Thermos.

  ‘In that case, perhaps you would care to join me in a cup of coffee?’

  Riley looked up, grinned, and when he spoke it was in a very creditable imitation of Colonel Chinstrap of the famous ITMA radio programme.

  ‘Ectually, I don’t mind if I do!’

  Vallery rolled over on his side, his legs doubled up, his hand automatically reaching for the towel. His emaciated body shook violently, and the sound of the harsh, retching cough beat back at him from the iron walls of his shelter. God, he thought, oh, God, it’s never been as bad as this before. Funny, he thought, it doesn’t hurt any more, not even a little bit. The attack eased. He looked at the crimson, sodden towel, flung it in sudden disgust and with what little feeble strength was left him into the darkest corner of the shelter.

  ‘You carry this damned ship on your back!’ Unbidden, old Socrates’s phrase came into his mind and he smiled faintly. Well, if ever they needed him, it was now. And if he waited any longer, he knew he could never be able to go.

  He sat up, sweating with the effort, swung his legs carefully over the side. As his f
eet touched the deck, the Ulysses pitched suddenly, steeply, and he fell forward against a chair, sliding helplessly to the floor. It took an eternity of time, an infinite effort to drag himself to his feet again: another effort like that, he knew, would surely kill him.

  And then there was the door—that heavy, steel door. Somehow he had to open it, and he knew he couldn’t. But he laid hold of the handle and the door opened, and suddenly, miraculously, he was outside, gasping as the cruel, sub-zero wind seared down through his throat and wasted lungs.

  He looked fore and aft. The fires were dying, he saw, the fires on the Stirling and on his own poop-deck. Thank God for that at least. Beside him, two men had just finished levering the door off the Asdic cabinet, were flashing a torch inside. But he couldn’t bear to look: he averted his head, staggered with outstretched hands for the gate of the compass platform.

  Turner saw him coming, hurried to meet him, helped him slowly to his chair.

  ‘You’ve no right to be here,’ he said quietly. He looked at Vallery for a long moment. ‘How are you feeling, sir?’

  ‘I’m a good deal better, now, thanks,’ Vallery replied. He smiled and went on: ‘We Rear-Admirals have our responsibilities, you know, Commander: it’s time I began to earn my princely salary.’

  ‘Stand back, there!’ Carrington ordered curtly. ‘Into the wheelhouse or up on the ladder—all of you. Let’s have a look at this.’

  He looked down at the great, steel hatch-cover. Looking at it, he realized he’d never before appreciated just how solid, how massive that cover was. The hatch-cover, open no more than an inch, was resting on a tommy-bar. He noticed the broken, stranded pulley, the heavy counter-weight lying against the sill of the wheelhouse. So that’s off, he thought: thank the Lord for that, anyway.

  ‘Have you tried a block and tackle?’ he asked abruptly.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ the man nearest him replied. He pointed to a tangled heap in a corner. ‘No use, sir. The ladder takes the strain all right, but we can’t get the hook under the hatch, except sideways—and then it slips off all the time.’ He gestured to the hatch. ‘And every clip’s either bent—they were opened by sledges—or at the wrong angle . . . I think I know how to use a block and tackle, sir.’

  ‘I’m sure you do,’ Carrington said absently. ‘Here, give me a hand, will you?’

  He hooked his fingers under the hatch, took a deep breath. The seaman at one side of the cover—the other side was hard against the after bulkhead—did the same. Together they strained, thighs and backs quivering under the strain. Carrington felt his face turning crimson with effort, heard the blood pounding in his ears, and relaxed. They were only killing themselves and that damned cover hadn’t shifted a fraction—someone had done remarkably well to open it even that far. But even though they were tired and anything but fit, Carrington thought, two men should have been able to raise an edge of that hatch. He suspected that the hinges were jammed—or the deck buckled. If that were so, he mused, even if they could hook on a tackle, it would be of little help. A tackle was of no use when a sudden, immediate application of force was required; it always yielded that fraction before tightening up.

  He sank to his knees, put his mouth to the edge of the hatch.

  ‘Below there!’ he called. ‘Can you hear me?’

  ‘We can hear you.’ The voice was weak, muffled. ‘For God’s sake get us out of here. We’re trapped like rats!’

  ‘Is that you, Brierley? Don’t worry—we’ll get you out. How’s the water down there?’

  ‘Water? More bloody oil than water! There must be a fracture right through the port oil tank. I think the ring main passage must be flooded, too.’

  ‘How deep is it?’

  ‘Three-quarters way up already! We’re standing on generators, hanging on to switchboards. One of our boys is gone already—we couldn’t hold him.’ Even muffled by the hatch, the strain, the near-desperation in the voice was all too obvious. ‘For pity’s sake, hurry up!’

  ‘I said we’d get you out!’ Carrington’s voice was sharp, authoritative. The confidence was in his voice only, but he knew how quickly panic could spread down there. ‘Can you push from below at all?’

  ‘There’s room for only one on the ladder,’ Brierley shouted. ‘It’s impossible to get any pressure, any leverage upwards.’ There was a sudden silence, then a series of muffled oaths.

  ‘What’s up?’ Carrington called sharply.

  ‘It’s difficult to hang on,’ Brierley shouted. ‘There are waves two feet high down there. One of the men was washed off there . . . I think he’s back again. It’s pitch dark down here.’

  Carrington heard the clatter of heavy footsteps above him, and straightened up. It was Petersen. In that narrow space, the blond Norwegian stoker looked gigantic. Carrington looked at him, looked at the immense span of shoulder, the great depth of chest, one enormous hand hanging loosely by his side, the other negligently holding three heavy crowbars and a sledge as if they were so many lengths of cane. Carrington looked at him, looked at the still, grave eyes so startlingly blue under the flaxen hair, and all at once he felt oddly confident, reassured.

  ‘We can’t open this, Petersen,’ Carrington said baldly. ‘Can you?’

  ‘I will try, sir.’ He laid down his tools, stooped, caught the end of the tommy-bar projecting beneath the corner of the cover. He straightened quickly, easily: the hatch lifted a fraction, then the bar, putty-like in its apparent malleability, bent over almost to a right angle.

  ‘I think the hatch is jammed.’ Petersen wasn’t even breathing heavily. ‘It will be the hinges, sir.’

  He walked round the hatch, peered closely at the hinges, then grunted in satisfaction. Three times the heavy sledge, swung with accuracy and all the power of these great shoulders behind them, smashed squarely into the face of the outer hinge. On the third stroke the sledge snapped. Petersen threw away the broken shaft in disgust, picked up another, much heavier crowbar.

  Again the bar bent, but again the hatch-cover lifted—an inch this time. Petersen picked up the two smaller sledges that had been used to open clips, hammered at the hinges till these sledges, too, were broken and useless.

  This time he used the last two crowbars together, thrust under the same corner of the hatch. For five, ten seconds he remained bent over them, motionless. He was breathing deeply, quickly, now, then suddenly the breathing stopped. The sweat began to pour off his face, his whole body to quiver under the titanic strain: then slowly, incredibly, both crowbars began to bend.

  Carrington watched, fascinated. He had never seen anything remotely like this before: he was sure no one else had either. Neither of these bars, he would have sworn, would have bent under less than half a ton of pressure. It was fantastic, but it was happening: and as the giant straightened, they were bending more and more. Then suddenly, so unexpectedly that everyone jumped, the hatch sprang open five or six inches and Petersen crashed backwards against the bulkhead, the bars falling from his hand and splashing into the water below.

  Petersen flung himself back at the hatch, tigerish in his ferocity. His fingers hooked under the edge, the great muscles of his arms and shoulders lifted and locked as he tugged and pulled at that massive hatch-cover. Three times he heaved, four times, then on the fifth the hatch almost literally leapt up with a screech of tortured metal and smashed shudderingly home into the retaining latch of the vertical stand behind. The hatch was open. Petersen just stood there smiling—no one had seen Petersen smile for a long time—his face bathed in sweat, his great chest rising and falling rapidly as his starved lungs sucked in great draughts of air.

  The water level in the Low Power Room was within two feet of the hatch: sometimes, when the Ulysses plunged into a heavy sea, the dark, oily liquid splashed over the hatch coaming into the flat above. Quickly, the trapped men were hauled to safety. Soaked in oil from head to foot, their eyes gummed and blinded, they were men overcome by reaction, utterly spent and on the verge of collapse, so far gone tha
t even their fear could not overcome their exhaustion. Three, in particular, could do no more than cling helplessly to the ladder, would almost certainly have slipped back into the surging blackness below; but Petersen bent over and plucked them clean out of the Low Power Room as if they had been little children.

  ‘Take these men to the Sick Bay at once!’ Carrington ordered. He watched the dripping, shivering men being helped up the ladder, then turned to the giant stoker with a smile. ‘We’ll all thank you later, Petersen. We’re not finished yet. This hatch must be closed and battened down.’

  ‘It will be difficult, sir,’ Petersen said gravely.

  ‘Difficult or not, it must be done.’ Carrington was emphatic. Regularly, now, the water was spilling over the coaming, was lapping the sill of the wheelhouse. ‘The emergency steering position is gone: if the wheelhouse is flooded, we’re finished.’

  Petersen said nothing. He lifted the retaining latch, pulled the protesting hatch-cover down a foot. Then he braced his shoulder against the latter, planted his feet on the cover and straightened his back convulsively: the cover screeched down to 45°. He paused, bent his back like a bow, his hands taking his weight on the ladder, then pounded his feet again and again on the edge of the cover. Fifteen inches to go.

  ‘We need heavy hammers, sir,’ Petersen said urgently.

  ‘No time!’ Carrington shook his head quickly. ‘Two more minutes and it’ll be impossible to shut the hatch-cover against the water pressure. Hell!’ he said bitterly. ‘If it were only the other way round—closing from below. Even I could lever it shut!’

  Again Petersen said nothing. He squatted down by the side of the hatch, gazed into the darkness beneath his feet.

  ‘I have an idea, sir,’ he said quickly. ‘If two of you would stand on the hatch, push against the ladder. Yes, sir, that way—but you could push harder if you turned your back to me.’

  Carrington laid the heels of his hands against the iron steps of the ladder, heaved with all his strength. Suddenly he heard a splash, then a metallic clatter, whirled round just in time to see a crowbar clutched in an enormous hand disappear below the edge of the hatch. There was no sign of Petersen. Like many big, powerful men, he was lithe and cat-like in his movements: he’d gone down over the edge of that hatch without a sound.

 

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