And then she toppled slowly over on her side: masts and smokestack lay along the surface of the sea, dipped and vanished: the straight-back of bottom and keel gleamed fractionally, blackly, against the grey of sea and sky, and was gone. For a minute, great gouts of air rushed turbulently to the surface. By and by the bubbles grew smaller and smaller and then there were no more.
The Sirrus steadied on course, crowded decks throbbing as she began to pick up speed, to overtake the convoy. Convoy No. FR77. The convoy the Royal Navy would always want to forget. Thirty-six ships had left Scapa and St. John’s. Now there were twelve, only twelve. And still almost thirty-two hours to the Kola Inlet…
Moodily, even his tremendous vitality and zest temporarily subdued, Turner watched the Sirrus rolling up astern. Abruptly he turned away, looked furtively, pityingly at Captain Vallery, no more now than a living skeleton driven by God only knew what mysterious force to wrest hour after impossible hour from death. And for Vallery now, death, even the hope of it, Turner suddenly realised, must be infinitely sweet. He looked, and saw the shock and sorrow in that grey mask, and he cursed, bitterly, silently. And then these tired, dull eyes were on him and Turner hurriedly cleared his throat.
“How many survivors does that make in the Sirrus now?” he asked.
Vallery lifted weary shoulders in the ghost of a shrug.
“No idea, Commander. A hundred, possibly more. Why?”
“A hundred,” Turner mused. “And no-survivors-will-be-picked-up. I’m just wondering what old Orr’s going to say when he dumps that little lot in Admiral Starr’s lap when we get back to Scapa Flow!”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
SATURDAY AFTERNOON
THE Sirrus was still a mile astern when her Aldis started flickering.
Bentley took the message, turned to Vallery.
“Signal, sir.’ Have 25-30 injured men aboard. Three very serious cases, perhaps dying. Urgently require doctor.'”
“Acknowledge,” Vallery said. He hesitated a moment, then: “My compliments to Surgeon-Lieutenant Nicholls. Ask him to come to the bridge.” He turned to the Commander, grinned faintly. “I somehow don’t see Brooks at his athletic best in a breeches buoy on a day like this. It’s going to be quite a crossing.”
Turner looked again at the Sirrus, occasionally swinging through a 40° arc as she rolled and crashed her way up from the west.
“It’ll be no picnic,” he agreed. “Besides, breeches buoys aren’t made to accommodate the likes of our venerable chief surgeon.” Funny, Turner thought, how matter-of-fact and offhand everyone was: nobody had as much as mentioned the Vectra since she’d rammed the U-boat.
The gate creaked. Vallery turned round slowly, acknowledged Nicholls’s sketchy salute.
“The Sirrus needs a doctor,” he said without preamble. “How do you fancy it?”
Nicholls steadied himself against the canted bridge and the rolling of the cruiser. Leave the Ulysses-suddenly, he hated the thought, was amazed at himself for his reaction. He, Johnny Nicholls, unique, among the officers anyway, in his thorough-going detestation and intolerance of all things naval-to feel like that! Must be going soft in the head.
And just as suddenly he knew that his mind wasn’t slipping, knew why he wanted to stay. It was not a matter of pride or principle or sentiment:
it was just that-well, just that he belonged. The feeling of belonging-even to himself he couldn’t put it more accurately, more clearly than that, but it affected him strangely, powerfully. Suddenly he became aware that curious eyes were on him, looked out in confusion over the rolling sea.
“Well?” Vallery’s voice was edged with impatience.
“I don’t fancy it at all,” Nicholls said frankly. “But of course I’ll go, sir. Right now?”
“As soon as you can get your stuff together,” Vallery nodded.
“That’s now. We have an emergency kit packed all the time.” He cast a jaundiced eye over the heavy sea again. “What am I supposed to do, sir-jump?”
“Perish the thought!” Turner clapped him on the back with a large and jovial hand. “You haven’t a thing to worry about,” he boomed cheerfully, “you positively won’t feel a thing, these, if I recall rightly, were your exact words to me when you extracted that old molar of mine two-three weeks back.” He winced in painful recollection. “Breeches buoy, laddie, breeches buoy!”
“Breeches buoy!” Nicholls protested. “Haven’t noticed the weather, have you? I’ll be going up and down like a blasted yo-yo!”
“The ignorance of youth.” Turner shook his head sadly. “We’ll be turning into the sea, of course. It’ll be like a ride in a Rolls, my boy! We’re going to rig it now.” He turned away. “Chrysler-get on to Chief Petty Officer Hartley. Ask him to come up to the bridge.”
Chrysler gave no sign of having heard. He was in his usual favourite position these days-gloved hands on the steam pipes, the top half of his face crushed into the rubber eyepiece of the powerful binoculars on the starboard searchlight control. Every few seconds a hand would drop, revolve the milled training rack a fraction. Then again the complete immobility.
“Chrysler!” Turner roared. “Are you deaf?”
Three, four, five more seconds passed in silence. Every eye was on Chrysler when he suddenly jerked back, glanced down at the bearing indicator, then swung round. His face was alive with excitement.
“Green one-double-oh!” he shouted. “Green one-double oh! Aircraft. Just on the horizon!” He fairly flung himself back at his binoculars.
“Four, seven-no, ten! Ten aircraft!” he yelled.
“Green one-double-oh?” Turner had his glasses to his eyes. “Can’t see a thing! Are you sure, boy?” he called anxiously.
“Still the same, sir.” There was no mistaking the agitated conviction in the young voice.
Turner was through the gate and beside him in four swift steps. “Let me have a look,” he ordered. He gazed through the glasses, twisted the training rack once or twice, then stepped back slowly, heavy eyebrows lowering in anger.
“There’s something bloody funny here, young man!” he growled. “Either your eyesight or your imagination? And if you ask me—–”
“He’s right,” Carrington interrupted calmly. “I’ve got ’em, too.”
“So have I, sir!” Bentley shouted.
Turner wheeled back to the mounted glasses, looked through them briefly, stiffened, looked round at Chrysler.
“Remind me to apologise some day!” he smiled, and was back on the compass platform before he had finished speaking.
“Signal to convoy,” Vallery was saying rapidly. “Code H. Full ahead, Number One. Bosun’s mate? Broadcaster: stand by all guns. Commander?”
“Sir?”
“Independent targets, independent fire all AA. guns? Agreed? And the turrets?”
“Couldn’t say yet… Chrysler, can you make out——”
“Condors, sir,” Chrysler anticipated him.
“Condors!” Turner stared in disbelief. “A dozen Condors! Are you sure that … Oh, all right, all right!” he broke off hastily. “Condors they are.” He shook his head in wonderment, turned to Vallery. “Where’s my bloody tin hat? Condors, he says!”
“So Condors they are,” Vallery repeated, smiling. Turner marvelled at the repose, the unruffled calm.
“Bridge targets, independent fire control for all turrets?” Vallery went on.
“I think so, sir.” Turner looked at the two communication ratings just aft of the compass platform-one each on the group phones to the for’ard and after turrets. “Ears pinned back, you two. And hop to it when you get the word.”
Vallery beckoned to Nicholls.
“Better get below, young man,” he advised. “Sorry your little trip’s been postponed.”
“I’m not,” Nicholls said bluntly.
“No?” Vallery was smiling. “Scared?”
“No, sir,” Nicholls smiled back. “Not scared. And you know I wasn’t.”
“I know you weren’t,” Vallery agreed quietly. “I know, and thank you.”
He watched Nicholls walk off the bridge, beckoned to the W.T. messenger, then turned to the Kapok Kid.
“When was our last signal to the Admiralty, Pilot? Have a squint at the log.”
“Noon yesterday,” said the Kapok Kid readily.
“Don’t know what I’ll do without you,” Vallery murmured. “Present position?”
“72.20 north, 13.40 east.”
“Thank you.” He looked at Turner. “No point in radio silence now, Commander?”
Turner shook his head.
“Take this message,” Vallery said quickly. “To D.N.O., London… How are our friends doing, Commander?”
“Circling well to the west, sir. Usual high altitude, gambit from the stern, I suppose,” he added morosely. “Still,” he brightened, “cloud level’s barely a thousand feet.”
Vallery nodded. “‘FR77. 1600. 72.20,13.40. Steady on 090. Force 9, north, heavy swell: Situation desperate. Deeply regret Admiral Tyndall died 1200 today. Tanker Vytura torpedoed last night, sunk by self. Washington State sunk 0145 today. Vectra sunk 1515, collision U-boat. Electro sunk 1530. Am being heavily attacked by twelve, minimum twelve, Focke-Wulf 200s.’ A reasonable assumption, I think, Commander,” he said wryly, “and it’ll shake their Lordships. They’re of the opinion there aren’t so many Condors in the whole of Norway. ‘Imperative send help. Air cover essential. Advise immediately.’ Get that off at once, will you?”
“Your nose, sir!” Turner said sharply.
“Thank you.” Vallery rubbed the frostbite, dead white in the haggard grey and blue of his face, gave up after a few seconds: the effort was more trouble than it was worth, drained away too much of his tiny reserves of strength. “My God, it’s bitter, Commander!” he murmured quietly.