‘Petersen!’ Carrington was on his knees by the hatch. ‘What the devil do you think you’re doing? Come out of there, you bloody fool! Do you want to drown?’
There was no reply. Complete silence below, a silence deepened by the gentle susurration of the water. Suddenly the quiet was broken by the sound of metal striking against metal, then by a jarring screech as the hatch dropped six inches. Before Carrington had time to think, the hatch-cover dropped farther still. Desperately, the First Lieutenant seized a crowbar, thrust it under the hatch-cover: a split second later the great steel cover thudded down on top of it. Carrington had his mouth to the gap now.
‘In the name of God, Petersen,’ he shouted, ‘are you sane? Open up, open up at once, do you hear?’
‘I can’t.’ The voice came and went as the water surged over the stoker’s head. ‘I won’t. You said yourself . . . there is no time . . . this was the only way.’
‘But I never meant—’
‘I know. It does not matter . . . it is better this way.’ It was almost impossible to make out what he was saying. ‘Tell Captain Vallery that Petersen says he is very sorry . . . I tried to tell the Captain yesterday.’
‘Sorry! Sorry for what?’ Madly Carrington flung all his strength against the iron bar: the hatchcover did not even quiver.
‘The dead marine in Scapa Flow . . . I did not mean to kill him, I could never kill any man . . . But he angered me,’ the big Norwegian said simply. ‘He killed my friend.’
For a second, Carrington stopped straining at the bar. Petersen! Of course—who but Petersen could have snapped a man’s neck like that. Petersen, the big, laughing Scandinavian, who had so suddenly changed overnight into a grave unsmiling giant, who stalked the deck, the mess-decks and alleyways by day and by night, who was never seen to smile or sleep. With a sudden flash of insight, Carrington saw clear through into the tortured mind of that kind and simple man.
‘Listen, Petersen,’ he begged. ‘I don’t give a damn about that. Nobody shall ever know, I promise you. Please Petersen, just—’
‘It is better this way.’ The muffled voice was strangely content. ‘It is not good to kill a man . . . it is not good to go on living . . . I know . . . Please, it is important—you will tell my Captain—Petersen is sorry and filled with shame . . . I do this for my Captain.’ Without warning, the crowbar was plucked from Carrington’s hand. The cover clanged down in position. For a minute the wheelhouse flat rang to a succession of muffled, metallic blows. Suddenly the clamour ceased and there was only the rippling surge of the water outside the wheelhouse and the creak of the wheel inside as the Ulysses steadied on course.
The clear sweet voice soared high and true above the subdued roar of the engine-room fans, above the whine of a hundred electric motors and the sound of the rushing of the waters. Not even the metallic impersonality of the loudspeakers could detract from the beauty of that singing voice . . . It was a favourite device of Vallery’s when the need for silence was not paramount, to pass the long, dark hours by coupling up the record-player to the broadcast system.
Almost invariably, the musical repertoire was strictly classical— or what is more often referred to, foolishly and disparagingly, as the popular classics. Bach, Beethoven, Tchaikovski, Lehar, Verdi, Delius—these were the favourites. ‘No. I in B flat minor’, ‘Air on a G string’, ‘Moonlight on the Alster’, ‘Claire de Lune’, ‘The Skater’s Waltz’—the crew of the Ulysses could never have enough of these. ‘Ridiculous’, ‘impossible’—it is all too easy to imagine the comments of those who equate the matelot’s taste in music with the popular conception of his ethics and morals; but those same people have never heard the hushed, cathedral silence in the crowded hangar of a great aircraft carrier in Scapa Flow as Yehudi Menuhin’s magic bow sang across the strings of the violin, swept a thousand men away from the harsh urgencies of reality, from the bitter memories of the last patrol or convoy, into the golden land of music.
But now a girl was singing. It was Deanna Durbin, and she was singing ‘Beneath the Lights of Home’, that most heartbreakingly nostalgic of all songs. Below decks and above, bent over the great engines or huddled by their guns, men listened to the lovely voice as it drifted through the darkened ship and the falling snow, and turned their minds inwards and thought of home, thought of the bitter contrast and the morning that would not come. Suddenly, halfway through, the song stopped.
‘Do you hear there?’ the speakers boomed. ‘Do you hear there? This—this is the Commander speaking.’ The voice was deep and grave and hesitant: it caught and held the attention of every man in the ship.
‘I have bad news for you.’ Turner spoke slowly, quietly. ‘I am sorry—I . . . ’ He broke off, then went on more slowly still. ‘Captain Vallery died five minutes ago.’ For a moment the speaker was silent, then crackled again. ‘He died on the bridge, in his chair. He knew he was dying and I don’t think he suffered at all . . . He insisted—he insisted that I thank you for the way you all stood by him. “Tell em”—these were his words, as far as I remember—“tell em,” he said, “that I couldn’t have carried on without them, that they are the best crew that God ever gave a Captain.” Then he said—it was the last thing he said: “Give them my apologies. After all they’ve done for me—well, well, tell them I’m terribly sorry to let them down like this.” That was all he said—just “Tell them I’m sorry.”
And then he died.’
SIXTEEN
Saturday Night
Richard Vallery was dead. He died grieving, stricken at the thought that he was abandoning the crew of the Ulysses, leaving them behind, leaderless. But it was only for a short time, and he did not have to wait long. Before the dawn, hundreds more, men in the cruisers, the destroyers and the merchantmen, had died also. And they did not die as he had feared under the guns of the Tirpitz—another grim parallel with PQ17, for the Tirpitz had not left Alta Fjord. They died, primarily, because the weather had changed.
Richard Vallery was dead, and with his death a great change had come over the men of the Ulysses. When Vallery died, other things died also, for he took these things with him. He took with him the courage, the kindliness, the gentleness, the unshakable faith, the infinitely patient and understanding endurance, all these things which had been so peculiarly his own. And now these things were gone and the Ulysses was left without them and it did not matter. The men of the Ulysses no longer needed courage and all the adjuncts of courage, for they were no longer afraid. Vallery was dead and they did not know how much they respected and loved that gentle man until he was gone. But then they knew. They knew that something wonderful, something that had become an enduring part of their minds and memories, something infinitely fine and good, was gone and they would never know it again, and they were mad with grief. And, in war, a grief-stricken man is the most terrible enemy there is. Prudence, caution, fear, pain—for the grief-stricken man these no longer exist. He lives only to lash out blindly at the enemy, to destroy, if he can, the author of his grief. Rightly or wrongly, the Ulysses never thought to blame the Captain’s death on any but the enemy. There was only, for them, the sorrow and the blind hate. Zombies, Nicholls had called them once, and the Ulysses was more than ever a ship manned by living zombies, zombies who prowled restlessly, incessantly, across the snow and ice of the heaving decks, automatons living only for revenge.
The weather changed just before the end of the middle watch. The seas did not change—FR77 was still butting into the heavy, rolling swell from the north, still piling up fresh sheets of glistening ice on their labouring fo’c’sles. But the wind dropped, and almost at once the snowstorm blew itself out, the last banks of dark, heavy cloud drifting away to the south. By four o’clock the sky was completely clear.
There was no moon that night, but the stars were out, keen and sharp and frosty as the icy breeze that blew steadily out of the north.
Then, gradually, the sky began to change. At first there was only a barely perceptible lightening
on the northern rim then, slowly, a pulsating flickering band of light began to broaden and deepen and climb steadily above the horizon, climbing higher to the south with the passing of every minute. Soon that pulsating ribbon of light was paralleled by others, streamers in the most delicate pastel shades of blue and green and violet, but always and predominantly white. And always, too, these lanes of multi-coloured light grew higher and stronger and brighter: at the climax, a great band of white stretched high above the convoy, extending from horizon to horizon . . . These were the Northern Lights, at any time a spectacle of beauty and wonder, and this night surpassing lovely: down below, in ships clearly illumined against the dark and rolling seas, the men of FR77 looked up and hated them.
On the bridge of the Ulysses, Chrysler—Chrysler of the uncanny eyesight and super-sensitive hearing, was the first to hear it. Soon everyone else heard it too, the distant roar, throbbing and intermittent, of a Condor approaching from the south. After a time they became aware that the Condor was no longer approaching, but sudden hope died almost as it was born. There was no mistaking it now—the deeper, heavier note of a Focke-Wulf in maximum climb. The Commander turned wearily to Carrington.
‘It’s Charlie, all right,’ he said grimly. ‘The bastard’s spotted us. He’ll already have radioed Alta Fjord and a hundred to one in anything you like that he’s going to drop a market flare at 10,000 feet or so. It’ll be seen fifty miles away.’
‘Your money’s safe.’ The First Lieutenant was withering. ‘I never bet against dead certs . . . And then, by and by, maybe a few flares at a couple of thousand?’
‘Exactly!’ Turner nodded. ‘Pilot, how far do you reckon we’re from Alta Fjord—in flying time, I mean?’
‘For a 200-knot plane, just over an hour,’ the Kapok Kid said quietly. His ebullience was gone: he had been silent and dejected since Vallery had died two hours previously.
‘An hour!’ Carrington exclaimed. ‘And they’ll be here. My God, sir,’ he went on wonderingly, ‘they’re really out to get us. We’ve never been bombed nor torpedoed at night before. We’ve never had the Tirpitz after us before. We never—’
‘The Tirpitz,’ Turner interrupted. ‘Just where the hell is that ship? She’s had time to come up with us. Oh, I know it’s dark and we’ve changed course,’ he added, as Carrington made to object, ‘but a fast destroyer screen would have picked us—Preston!’ He broke off, spoke sharply to the Signal Petty Officer. ‘Look alive, man! That ship’s flashing us.’
‘Sorry, sir.’ The signalman, swaying on his feet with exhaustion, raised his Aldis, clacked out an acknowledgement. Again the light on the merchantman began to wink furiously.
‘“Transverse fracture engine bedplate,”’ Preston read out. ‘“Damage serious: shall have to moderate speed.”’
‘Acknowledge,’ said Turner curtly. ‘What ship is that, Preston?’
‘The Ohio Freighter, sir.’
‘The one that stopped a tin fish a couple of days back?’
‘That’s her, sir.’
‘Make a signal. “Essential maintain speed and position.”’ Turner swore. ‘What a time to choose for an engine breakdown . . . Pilot, when do we rendezvous with the Fleet?’
‘Six hours’ time, sir: exactly.’
‘Six hours.’ Turner compressed his lips. ‘Just six hours—perehaps!’ he added bitterly.
‘Perhaps?’ Carrington murmured.
‘Perhaps,’ Turner affirmed. ‘Depends entirely on the weather. C-in-C won’t risk capital ships so near the coast unless he can fly off fighter cover against air attack. And, if you ask me, that’s why the Tirpitz hasn’t turned up yet—some wandering U-boat’s tipped him off that our Fleet Carriers are steaming south. He’ll be waiting on the weather . . . What’s he saying now, Preston?’ The Ohio’s signal lamp had flashed briefly, then died.
‘“Imperative slow down,”’ Preston repeated. ‘“Damage severe. Am slowing down.”’
‘He is, too,’ Carrington said quietly. He looked up at Turner, at the set face and dark eyes, and knew the same thought was in the Commander’s mind as was in his own. ‘He’s a goner, sir, a dead duck. He hasn’t a chance. Not unless—’
‘Unless what?’ Turner asked harshly. ‘Unless we leave him an escort? Leave what escort, Number One? The Viking—the only effective unit we’ve left?’ He shook his head in slow decision. ‘The greatest good of the greatest number: that’s how it has to be. They’ll know that. Preston, send “Regret cannot leave you standby. How long to effect repairs?”’
The flare burst even before Preston’s hand could close on the trigger. It burst directly over FR77. It was difficult to estimate the height—probably six to eight thousand feet—but at that altitude it was no more than an incandescent pinpoint against the great band of the Northern Lights arching majestically above. But it was falling quickly, glowing more brightly by the sound: the parachute, if any, could have been only a steadying drogue.
The crackling of the WT speaker broke through the stuttering chatter of the Aldis.
‘WT—bridge. WT—bridge. Message from Sirrus: “Three survivors dead. Many dying or seriously wounded. Medical assistance urgent, repeat urgent.”’ The speaker died, just as the Ohio started flickering her reply.
‘Send for Lieutenant Nicholls,’ Turner ordered briefly. ‘Ask him to come up to the bridge at once.’
Carrington stared down at the dark broad seas, seas flecked with milky foam: the bows of the Ulysses were crashing down heavily, continuously.
‘You’re going to risk it, sir?’
‘I must. You’d do the same, Number One . . . What does the Ohio say, Preston?’
‘“I understand. Too busy to look after the Royal Navy anyway. We will make up on you. Au revoir!”’
‘We will make up on you. Au revoir.’ Turner repeated softly. ‘He lies in his teeth, and he knows it. By God!’ he burst out. ‘If anyone ever tells me the Yankee sailors have no guts—I’ll push his perishing face in. Preston, send: “Au revoir. Good luck.” . . . Number One, I feel like a murderer.’ He rubbed his hand across his forehead, nodded towards the shelter where Vallery lay stretched out, and strapped to his settee. ‘Month in, month out, he’s been taking these decisions. It’s no wonder . . .’ He broke off as the gate creaked open.
‘Is that you, Nicholls? There is work for you, my boy. Can’t have you medical types idling around uselessly all day long.’ He raised his hand. ‘All right, all right,’ he chuckled. ‘I know . . . How are things on the surgical front?’ he went on seriously.
‘We’ve done all we can, sir. There was very little left for us to do,’ Nicholls said quietly. His face was deeply lined, haggard to the point of emaciation. ‘But we’re in a bad way for supplies. Hardly a single dressing left. And no anæsthetics at all—except what’s left in the emergency kit. The Surgeon-Commander refused to touch those.’
‘Good, good,’ Turner murmured. ‘How do you feel, laddie?’
‘Awful.’
‘You look it,’ Turner said candidly. ‘Nicholls—I’m terribly sorry, boy—I want you to go over to the Sirrus.’
‘Yes, sir.’ There was no surprise in the voice: it hadn’t been difficult to guess why the Commander had sent for him. ‘Now?’
Turner nodded without speaking. His face, the lean strong features, the heavy brows and sunken eyes were quite visible now in the strengthening light of the plunging flare. A face to remember, Nicholls thought.
‘How much kit can I take with me, sir?’
‘Just your medical gear. No more. You’re not travelling by Pullman, laddie!’
‘Can I take my camera, my films?’
‘All right.’ Turner smiled briefly. ‘Looking forward keenly to photographing the last seconds of the Ulysses, I suppose . . . Don’t forget that the Sirrus is leaking like a sieve, Pilot—get through to the WT. Tell the Sirrus to come alongside, prepare to receive medical officer by breeches buoy.’
The gate creaked again. Turner looked at the bulky
figure stumbling wearily on to the compass platform. Brooks, like every man in the crew was dead on his feet; but the blue eyes burned as brightly as ever.
‘My spies are everywhere,’ he announced. ‘What’s this about the Sirrus shanghaiing young Johnny here?’
‘Sorry, old man,’ Turner apologized. ‘It seems things are pretty bad on the Sirrus.’
‘I see.’ Brooks shivered. It might have been the thin threnody of the wind in the shattered rigging, or just the iceladen wind itself. He shivered again, looked upwards at the sinking flare. ‘Pretty, very pretty,’ he murmured. ‘What are the illuminations in aid of?’
‘We are expecting company,’ Turner smiled crookedly. ‘An old world custom, O Socrates—the light in the window and what have you.’ He stiffened abruptly, then relaxed, his face graven in granitic immobility. ‘My mistake,’ he murmured. ‘The company has already arrived.’
The last words were caught up and drowned in the rumbling of a heavy explosion. Turner had known it was coming—he’d seen the thin stiletto of flame stabbing skywards just for’ard of the Ohio Freighter’s bridge. The sound had taken five or six seconds to reach them—the Ohio was already over a mile distant on the starboard quarter, but clearly visible still under the luminance of the Northern Lights—the Northern Lights that had betrayed her, almost stopped in the water, to a wandering U-boat.
The Ohio Freighter did not remain visible for long. Except for the moment of impact, there was neither smoke, nor flame, nor sound. But her back must have been broken, her bottom torn out—and she was carrying a full cargo of nothing but tanks and ammunition. There was a curious dignity about her end—she sank quickly, quietly, without any fuss. She was gone in three minutes.
H. M. S. Ulysses Page 31