Then suddenly, of their own volition almost, his eyelids flickered and were open. Barely a foot above him were the lean, piratical features of the Commander, who was kneeling anxiously at his side.
“Turner? Turner?” A questioning hand reached out in tentative hope, clutched gratefully, oblivious to the pain, at the reassuring solidity of the Commander’s arm. “Turner! It is you! I thought—–”
“The After Tower, eh?” Turner smiled briefly. “No, sir, I wasn’t within a mile of it. I was coming here, just climbing up to the fo’c’sle deck, when that first hit threw me back down to the main deck… How are you, sir?”
“Thank God! Thank God! I don’t know how I am. My legs… What in the name of heaven is that?”
His eyes focusing normally again, widened in baffled disbelief. Just above Turner’s head, angling for’ard and upward to port, a great white tree trunk stretched as far as he could see in either direction.
Reaching up, he could just touch the massive bole with his hand.
“The foremast, sir,” Turner explained. “It was sheared clean off by that last shell, just above the lower yardarm. The back blast flung it on to the bridge. Took most of the A.A. tower with it, I’m afraid-and caved in the Main Tower. I don’t think young Courtney could have had much chance… Davies saw it coming, I was just below him at the time. He was very quick—–”
“Davies!” Tyndall’s dazed mind had forgotten all about him. “Of course!
Davies!” It must be Davies who was pinioning his legs. He craned his neck forward, saw the huddled figure at his feet, the great weight of the mast lying across his back. “For God’s sake, Commander, get him out of that!”
“Just lie down, sir, till Brooks gets here. Davies is all right.”
“All right? All right!” Tyndall was almost screaming, oblivious to the silent figures who were gathering around him. “Are you mad, Turner? The poor bastard must be in agony!” He struggled frantically to rise, but several pairs of hands held him down, firmly, carefully.
“He’s all right, sir.” Turner’s voice was surprisingly gentle. “Really he is, sir. He’s all right. Davies doesn’t feel a thing. Not any more.”
And all at once the Admiral knew and he fell back limply to the deck, his eyes closed in shocked understanding.
His eyes were still shut when Brooks appeared, doubly welcome in his confidence and competence. Within seconds, almost, the Admiral was on his feet, shocked, badly bruised, but otherwise unharmed. Doggedly, and in open defiance of Brooks, Tyndall demanded that he be assisted back to the bridge. His eyes lit up momentarily as he saw Vallery standing shakily on his feet, a white towel to his mouth. But fie said nothing.
His head bowed, he hoisted himself painfully into his chair.
“W.T.-bridge. W.T.-bridge. Please acknowledge signal.” “Is that bloody idiot still there?” Tyndall demanded querulously. “Why doesn’t someone—–?”
“You’ve only been gone a couple of minutes, sir,” the Kapok Kid ventured.
“Two minutes!” Tyndall stared at him, lapsed into silence. He glanced down at Brooks, busy bandaging his right hand. “Have you nothing better to do, Brooks?” he asked harshly. “No, I haven’t,” Brooks replied truculently. “When shells explode inside four walls, there isn’t much work left for a doctor… except signing death certificates,” he added brutally. Vallery and Turner exchanged glances. Vallery wondered if Brooks had any idea how far through Tyndall was. “W.T.-bridge. W.T.-bridge. Vectra repeats request for instruction. Urgent. Urgent.”
“The Vectra!” Vallery glanced at the Admiral, silent now and motionless, and turned to the bridge messenger. “Chrysler! Get through to W.T. Any way you can. Ask them to repeat the first message.”
He looked again at Turner, following the Admiral’s sick gaze over the side. He looked down, recoiled in horror, fighting down the instant nausea. The gunner in the spon-son below-just another boy like Chrysler-must have seen the falling mast, must have made a panic-stricken attempt to escape. He had barely cleared his cockpit when the radar screen, a hundred square feet of meshed steel carrying the crushing weight of the mast as it had snapped over the edge of the bridge, had caught him fairly and squarely. He lay still now, mangled, broken, something less than human, spreadeagled in outflung crucifixion across the twin barrels of his Oerlikon.
Vallery turned away, sick in body and mind. God, the craziness, the futile insanity of war. Damn that German cruiser, damn those German gunners, damn them, damn them! … But why should he? They, too, were only doing a job-and doing it terribly well. He gazed sightlessly at the wrecked shambles of his bridge. What damnably accurate gunnery! He wondered, vaguely, if the Ulysses had registered any hits. Probably not, and now, of course, it was impossible. It was impossible now because the Ulysses, still racing south-east through the fog, was completely blind, both radar eyes gone, victims to the weather and the German guns. Worse still, all the Fire Control towers were damaged beyond repair. If this goes on, he thought wryly, all we’ll need is a set of grappling irons and a supply of cutlasses. In terms of modern naval gunnery, even although her main armament was intact, the Ulysses was hopelessly crippled. She just didn’t have a chance. What was it that Stoker Riley was supposed to have said-” being thrown to the wolves “? Yes, that was it-” thrown to the wolves.” But only a Nero, he reflected wearily, would have blinded a gladiator before throwing him into the arena.
All firing had ceased. The bridge was deadly quiet. Silence, complete silence, except for the sound of rushing water, the muffled roar of the great engine-room intake fans, the monotonous, nerve-drilling pinging of the Asdic-and these, oddly enough, only served to deepen the great silence.
Every eye, Vallery saw, was on Admiral Tyndall. Old Giles was mumbling something to himself, too faint to catch. His face, shockingly grey, haggard and blotched, still peered over the side. He seemed fascinated by the sight of the dead boy. Or was it the smashed Radar screen? Had the full significance of the broken scanner and wrecked Director Towers dawned on him yet? Vallery looked at him for a long moment, then turned away: he knew that it had.
“W.T.-bridge. W.T.-bridge.” Everyone on the bridge jumped, swung round in nerve-jangled startlement. Everyone except Tyndall. He had frozen into a graven immobility.
“Signal from Vectra. First Signal. Received 0952.” Vallery glanced at his watch. Only six minutes ago! Impossible!
“Signal reads: Contacts, contacts, 3, repeat 3. Amend to 5. Heavy concentration of U-boats, ahead and abeam. Am engaging.'”
Every eye on the bridge swung back to Tyndall. His, they knew, the responsibility, his the decision-taken alone, against the advice of his senior officer, to leave the convoy almost unguarded. Impersonally, Vallery admired the baiting, the timing, the springing of the trap. How would old Giles react to this, the culmination of a series of disastrous miscalculations, miscalculations for which, in all fairness, he could not justly be blamed… But he would be held accountable. The iron voice of the loudspeaker broke in on his thoughts.
“Second signal reads: ‘In close contact. Depth-charging. Depth-charging. One vessel torpedoed, sinking. Tanker torpedoed, damaged, still afloat, under command. Please advise. Please assist. Urgent. Urgent!'”
The speaker clicked off. Again that hushed silence, strained, unnatural. Five seconds it lasted, ten, twenty, then everyone stiffened, looked carefully away.
Tyndall was climbing down from his chair. His movements were stiff, slow with the careful faltering shuffle of the very old. He limped heavily.
His right hand, startling white in its snowy sheath of bandage, cradled his broken wrist. There was about him a queer, twisted sort of dignity, and if his face held any expression at all, it was the far-off echo of a smile. When he spoke, he spoke as a man might talk to himself, aloud.
“I am not well,” he said. “I am going below.” Chrysler, not too young to have an inkling of the tragedy, held open the gate, caught Tyndall as he stumbled on the step. He glanced back over his shoulder, a quick, pleading look, caught and understood Vallery’s compassionate nod.
Side by side, the old and the young, they moved slowly aft. Gradually, the shuffling died away and they were gone.
The shattered bridge was curiously empty now, the men felt strangely alone. Giles, the cheerful, buoyant, indestructible Giles was gone. The speed, the extent of the collapse was not for immediate comprehension: the only sensation at the moment was that of being unprotected and defenceless and alone.
“Out of the mouths of babes and sucklings…” Inevitably, the first to break the silence was Brooks. “Nicholls always maintained that…”
He stopped short, his head shaking in slow incredulity. “I must see what I can do,” he finished abruptly, and hurried off the bridge.
Vallery watched him go, then turned to Bentley. The Captain’s face, haggard, shadowed with grizzled beard, the colour of death in the weird half-light of the fog, was quite expressionless.