“Get Brooks up here, Pilot,” he said swiftly. “It’s urgent!”
Unsteadily, the Kapok Kid crossed over the bridge. The communication rating was leaning over the gate, telephone in his hand.
“The Sick Bay, quickly!” the Kapok Kid ordered. “Tell the Surgeon Commander …” He stopped suddenly, guessed that the man was still too dazed to understand. “Here, give me that phone!” Impatiently, he stretched out his hand and grabbed the telephone, then stiffened in horror as the man slipped gradually backwards, extended arms trailing stiffly over the top of the gate until they disappeared. Carpenter opened the gate, stared down at the dead man at his feet: there was a hole the size of his gloved fist between the shoulder-blades.
He lay alongside the Asdic cabinet, a cabinet, the Kapok Kid now saw for the first time, riddled and shattered with machine-gun bullets and shells. His first thought was the numbing appreciation that the set must be smashed beyond recovery, that their last defence against the U-boats was gone. Hard on the heels of that came the sickening realisation that there had been an Asdic operator inside there… His eyes wandered away, caught sight of Chrysler rising to his feet by the torpedo control. He, too, was staring at the Asdic cabinet, his face drained of expression. Before the Kapok Kid could speak, Chrysler lurched forward, fists battering frantically, blindly at the jammed door of the cabinet. Like a man in a dream, the Kapok Kid heard him sobbing…. And then he remembered. The Asdic operator-his name was Chrysler too. Sick to his heart, the Kapok Kid lifted the phone again. …
Turner pillowed the Captain’s head, moved across to the starboard corner of the compass platform. Bentley, quiet, unobtrusive as always, was sitting on the deck, his back wedged between two pipes, his head pillowed peacefully on his chest. His hand under Bentley’s chin, Turner gazed down into the sightless eyes, the only recognisable feature of what had once been a human face. Turner swore in savage quiet, tried to prise the dead fingers locked round the hand-grip of the Aldis, then gave up. The barred beam shone eerily across the darkening bridge.
Methodically, Turner searched the bridge-deck for further casualties. He found three others and it was no consolation at all that they must have died unknowing. Five dead men for a three-second burst-a very fair return, he thought bitterly. Standing on the after ladder, his face stilled in unbelief as he realised that he was staring down into the heart of the shattered for’ard funnel. More he could not see: the boat deck was already blurred into featureless anonymity in the dying glare of the last of the flares. He swung on his heel, returned to the compass platform.
At least, he thought grimly, there was no difficulty in seeing the Stirling. What was it that he had said-said less than ten minutes ago?
“I wish they’d have a go at the Stirling once in a while.” Something like that. His mouth twisted. They’d had a go, all right. The Stirling, a mile ahead, was slewing away to starboard, to the south-east, her for’ard superstructure enveloped in a writhing cocoon of white flame. He stared through his night glasses, tried to assess the damage; but a solid wall of flame masked the superstructure, from the fo’c’sle deck clear abaft the bridge. He could see nothing there, just nothing-but he could see, even in that heavy swell, that the Stirling was listing to starboard. It was learned later that the Stirling had been struck twice: she had been torpedoed in the for’ard boiler-room, and seconds later a bomber had crashed into the side of her bridge, her torpedo still slung beneath the belly of her fuselage: almost certainly, in the light of the similar occurrence on the Ulysses, severe icing had jammed the release mechanism. Death must have been instantaneous for every man on the bridge and the decks below; among the dead were Captain Jeffries, the First Lieutenant and the Navigator.
The last bomber was hardly lost in the darkness when Carrington replaced the poop phone, turned to Hartley.
“Think you can manage now, Chief? I’m wanted on the bridge.”
“I think so, sir.” Hartley, blackened and stained with smoke and extinguisher foam, passed his sleeve wearily across his face. “The worst is over… Where’s Lieutenant Carslake? Shouldn’t he——?”
“Forget him,” Carrington interrupted brusquely. “I don’t know where he is, nor do I care. There’s no need for us to beat about the bush, Chief we’re better without him. If he returns, you’re still in charge.
Look after things.”
He turned away, walked quickly for’ard along the port alley. On the packed snow and ice, the pad of his rubber seaboots was completely soundless.
He was passing the shattered canteen when he saw a tall, shadowy figure standing in the gap between the snow covered lip of the outer torpedo tube and the end stanchion of the guard rails, trying to open a jammed extinguisher valve by striking it against the stanchion. A second later, he saw another blurred form detach itself stealthily from the shadows, creep up stealthily behind the man with the extinguisher, a heavy bludgeon of wood or metal held high above his head.
“Look out!” Carrington shouted. “Behind you!”
It was all over in two seconds, the sudden, flailing rush of the attacker, the crash as the victim, lightning fast in his reactions, dropped his extinguisher and fell crouched to his knees, the thin piercing scream of anger and terror as the attacker catapulted over the stooping body and through the gap between tubes and rails, the splash and then the silence.
Carrington ran up to the man on the deck, helped him to his feet. The last flare had not yet died, and it was still light enough for him to see who it was Ralston, the L.T.O. Carrington gripped his arms, looked at him anxiously.
“Are you all right? Did he get you? Good God, who on earth——?”
“Thank you, sir.” Ralston was breathing quickly, but his face was almost expressionless again. “That was too close I Thank you very much, sir.”
“But who on earth——?” Carrington repeated in wonder.
“Never saw him, sir.” Ralston was grim. “But I know who it was-Sub-Lieutenant Carslake. He’s been following me around all night, never let me out of his sight, not once. Now I know why.”
It took much to disturb the First Lieutenant’s iron equanimity, but now he shook his head in slow disbelief.
“I knew there was bad blood!” he murmured. “But that it should come to this! What the Captain will say to this I just——”
“Why tell him?” Ralston said indifferently. “Why tell anyone? Perhaps Carslake had relations. What good will it do to hurt them, to hurt anyone. Let anyone think what they like.” He laughed shortly. “Let them think he died a hero’s death fire-fighting, fell over the side, anything.” He looked down into the dark, rushing water, then shivered suddenly. ‘• Let him go, sir, please. He’s paid.”
For a long second Carrington, too, stared down over the side, looked back at the tall boy before him. Then he clapped his arm, nodded slowly and turned away.
Turner heard the clanging of the gate, lowered the binoculars to find Carrington standing by his side, gazing wordlessly at the burning cruiser. Just then Vallery moaned softly, and Carrington looked down quickly at the prone figure at his feet.
“My God! The Old Man! Is he hurt badly, sir?”
“I don’t know, Number One. If not, it’s a bloody miracle,” he added bitterly. He stooped down, raised the dazed Captain to a sitting position.
“Are you all right, sir?” he asked anxiously. “Do you? have you been hit?”
Vallery shuddered in a long, exhausting paroxysm of coughing, then shook his head feebly.
“I’m all right,” he whispered weakly. He tried to grin, a pitiful, ghastly travesty of a smile in the reflected light from the burning Aldis. “I dived for the deck, but I think the binnacle got in my way.”
He rubbed his forehead, already bruised and discoloured. “How’s the ship, Commander?”
“To hell with the ship!” Turner said roughly. He passed an arm round Vallery, raised him carefully to his feet. “How are things aft, Number One?”
“Under control. Still burning, but under control. I left Hartley in charge.” He made no mention of Carslake.
“Good! Take over. Radio Stirling, Sirrus, see how they are. Come on, sir. Shelter for you!”
Vallery protested feebly, a token protest only, for he was too weak to stand. He checked involuntarily as he saw the snow falling whitely through the barred beam of the Aldis, slowly followed the beam back to its source.
“Bentley?” he whispered. “Don’t tell me …” He barely caught the Commander’s wordless nod, turned heavily away. They passed by the dead man stretched outside the gate, then stopped at the Asdic cabinet. A sobbing figure was crouched into the angle between the shelter and the jammed and shattered door of the hut, head pillowed on the forearm resting high against the door. Vallery laid a hand on the shaking shoulder, peered into the averted face.