The T.S., fighting heart of the ship, lined like the Low Power Room though it was by banks of fuses, was completely dominated by the two huge electronic computing tables occupying almost half the floor space.
These, the vital links between the Fire Control Towers and the turrets, were generally the scene of intense, controlled activity: but the almost total destruction of the towers that morning had made them all but useless, and the undermanned T.S. was strangely quiet. Altogether, there were only eight ratings and an officer manning the tables.
The air in the T.S., a T.S. prominently behung with “No Smoking” notices, was blue with tobacco smoke hanging in a flat, lazily drifting cloud near the deckhead, a cloud which spiralled thinly down to smouldering cigarette ends. For Nicholls there was something oddly reassuring in these burning cigarettes: in the unnatural bow-taut stillness, in the inhuman immobility of the men, it was the only guarantee of life.
He looked, in a kind of detached curiosity, at the rating nearest him. A thin, dark-haired man, he was sitting hunched forward, his elbow on the table, the cigarette clipped between his fingers a bare inch from his half-open mouth. The smoke was curling up, lacing its smarting path across vacant, sightless eyes oblivious to the irritation, the ash on the cigarette, itself almost two inches in length, drooping slightly.
Vaguely, Nicholls wondered how long he had been sitting there motionless, utterly motionless … and why?
Expectancy, of course. That was it-expectancy. It was too obvious. Waiting, just waiting. Waiting for what? For the first time it struck Nicholls, struck him with blinding clarity, what it was to wait, to wait with the bowstring of the nerves strung down at inhuman tension, strung down far beyond quivering to the tautened immobility of snapping point, to wait for the torpedo that would send them crashing into oblivion. For the first time he realised why it was that men who could, invariably it seemd, find something com-plainingly humorous in any place and every place never joked about the T.S. A death trap is not funny. The T.S. was twenty feet below water level: for’ard of it was ‘B’ magazine, aft of it ‘A’ boiler-room, on either side of it were fuel tanks, and below it was the unprotected bottom, prime target for acoustic mines and torpedoes. They were ringed, surrounded, by the elements, the threat of death, and it needed only a flash, a wandering spark, to trigger off the annihilating reality… And above them, in the one in a thousand chance of survival, was a series of hatches which could all too easily warp and lock solid under the metal-twisting shock of an explosion. Besides, the primary idea was that the hatches, deliberately heavy in construction, should stay shut in the event of damage, to seal off the flooded compartments below. The men in the T.S. knew this.
“Good-evening. Everything all right down here?” Vallery’s voice, quiet and calm as ever, sounded unnaturally loud. Startled faces, white and strained, twisted round, eyes opening in astonishment: the depth-charging, Nicholls realised, had masked their approach.
“Wouldn’t worry too much about the racket outside,” Vallery went on reassuringly. “A wandering U-boat, and the Sirrus is after him. You can thank your stars you’re here and not in that sub.”
No one else had spoken. Nicholls, watching them, saw their eyes flickering back from Vallery’s face to the forbidden cigarettes, understood their discomfort, their embarrassment at being caught red-handed by the Captain.
“Any reports from the main tower, Brierley?” he asked the officer in charge. He seemed unaware of the strain.
“No, sir. Nothing at all. All quiet above.”
“Fine!” Vallery sounded positively cheerful. “No news is good news.” He brought his hand out from his pocket, proffered his cigarette case to Brierley. “Smoke? And you, Nicholls?” He took one himself, replaced the case, absently picked up a box of matches lying in front of the nearest gunner and if he noticed the gunner’s startled disbelief, the slow beginnings of a smile, the tired shoulders slumping fractionally in a long, soundless sigh of relief, he gave no sign.
The thunderous clanging of more depth-charges drowned the rasping of the hatch, drowned Vallery’s harsh, convulsive coughing as the smoke reached his lungs. Only the reddening of the sodden hand-towel betrayed him. As the last vibration died away, he looked up, concern in his eyes.
“Good God! Does it always sound like that down here?”
Brierley smiled faintly. “More or less, sir. Usually more.”
Vallery looked slowly round the men in the T.S., nodded for’ard. ‘B’ magazine there, isn’t it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And nice big fuel tanks all around you?”
Brierley nodded. Every eye was on the captain.
“I see. Frankly, I’d rather have my own job-wouldn’t have yours for a pension… Nicholls, I think we’ll spend a few minutes down here, have our smoke in peace. Besides,”, he grinned, “think of the increased fervour with which we’ll count our blessings when we get out of here!”
He stayed five minutes, talking quietly to Brierley and his men.
Finally, he stubbed out his cigarette, took his leave and started for the door.
“Sir.” The voice stopped him on the threshold, the voice of the thin dark gunner whose matches he had borrowed.
“Yes, what is it?”
“I thought you might like this.” He held out a clean, white towel.
“That one you’ve got is, well, sir, I mean “Thank you.” Vallery took the towel without any hesitation. “Thank you very much.”
Despite Petersen’s assistance, the long climb up to the upper deck left Vallery very weak. His feet were dragging heavily.
“Look, sir, this is madness!” Nicholls was desperately anxious. “Sorry, sir, I didn’t mean that, but-wdl, come and see Commander Brooks. Please!”
“Certainly.” The reply was a husky whisper. “Our next port of call anyway.”
Half a dozen paces took them to the door of the Sick Bay. Vallery insisted on seeing Brooks alone. When he came out of the surgery after some time, he seemed curiously refreshed, his step lighter. He was smiling, and so was Brooks. Nicholls lagged behind as the Captain left.
“Give him anything, sir?” he asked. “Honest to God, he’s killing himself!”
“He took something, not much.” Brooks smiled softly. “I know he’s killing himself, so does he. But he knows why, and I know why, and he knows I know why. Anyway, he feels better. Not to worry, Johnny I”
Nicholls waited at the top of the ladder outside the Sick Bay, waited for the Captain and others to come up from the telephone exchange and No. 1 Low Power Room. He stood aside as they climbed the coaming, but Vallery took his arm, walked him slowly for’ard past the Torpedo Office, nodding curtly to Carslake, in nominal charge of a Damage Control party.
Carslake, face still swathed in white, looked back with eyes wild and staring and strange, his gaze almost devoid of recognition. Vallery hesitated, shook his head, then turned to Nicholls, smiling.
“B.M.A. in secret session, eh?” he queried. “Never mind, Nicholls, and don’t worry. I’m the one who should be worrying.”
“Indeed, sir? Why?”
Vallery shook his head again. “Rum in the gun turrets, cigarettes in the T.S., and now a fine old whisky in a ‘Lysol’ bottle. Thought Commander Brooks was going to poison me, and what a glorious death! Excellent stuff, and the Surgeon Commander’s apologies to you for broaching your private supplies.”
Nicholls flushed darkly, began to stammer an apology but Vallery cut him off.
“Forget it, boy, forget it. What does it matter? But it makes me wonder what we’re going to find next. An opium den in the Capstan Flat, perhaps, or dancing girls in ‘B’ turret?”
But they found nothing in these or any other places, except cold, misery and hunger-haunted exhaustion. As ever, Nicholls saw, they-or rather, Vallery-left the men the better of their coming. But they themselves were now in a pretty bad state, Nicholls realised. His own legs were made of rubber, he was exhausted by continuous shivering: where Vallery found the strength to carry on, he couldn’t even begin to imagine. Even Petersen’s great strength was flagging, not so much from half-carrying Vallery as from the ceaseless hammering of clips frozen solid on doors and hatches.
Leaning against a bulkhead, breathing heavily after the ascent from ‘A’magazine, Nicholls looked hopefully at the Captain. Vallery saw the look, interpreted it correctly, and shook his head, smiling.
“Might as well finish it, boy. Only the Capstan Flat. Nobody there anyway, I expect, but we might as well have a look.”
They walked slowly round the heavy machinery in the middle of the Capstan Flat, for’ard past the Battery Room and Sailmaker’s Shop, past the Electrical Workshop and cells to the locked door of the Painter’s Shop, the most for’ard compartment in the ship.
Vallery reached his hand forward, touched the door symbolically, smiled tiredly and turned away. Passing the cell door, he casually flicked open the inspection port, glanced in perfunctorily and moved on. Then he stopped dead, wheeled round and flung open the inspection port again.