“What is it? Oh, it’s you, boy.” The white face had been lifted towards him. “What’s the matter, Chrysler?”
“The door, sir!” Chrysler’s voice was muffled, quivering. “The door, I can’t open it.”
For the first time, Vallery looked at the cabinet, at the gashed and torn metal. His mind was still dazed, exhausted, and it was almost by a process of association that he suddenly, horrifyingly thought of the gashed and mangled operator that must lie behind that locked door.
“Yes,” he said quietly. “The door’s buckled… There’s nothing anyone can do, Chrysler.” He looked more closely at the grief dulled eyes. “Come on, my boy, there’s no need—–”
“My brother’s in there, sir.” The words, the hopeless despair, struck Vallery like a blow. Dear God! He had forgotten… Of course Leading Asdic Operator Chrysler… He stared down at the dead man at his feet, already covered with a thin layer of snow.
“Have that Aldis unplugged, Commander, will you?” he asked absently.
“And Chrysler?”
“Yes, sir.” A flat monotone.
“Go below and bring up some coffee, please.”
“Coffee, sir!” He was bewildered, uncomprehending. “Coffee! But, but-my-my brother——”
“I know,” Vallery said gently. “I know. Bring some coffee, will you?”
Chrysler stumbled off. When the shelter door closed behind them, clicking on the light, Vallery turned to the Commander.
“Cue for moralising on the glories of war,” he murmured quietly.
“Dulce et decorum, and the proud privilege of being the sons of Nelson and Drake. It’s not twenty-four hours since Ralston watched his father die… And now this boy. Perhaps——”
“I’ll take care of things,” Turner nodded. He hadn’t yet forgiven himself for what he had said and done to Ralston last night, in spite of Ralston’s quick friendliness, the ready acceptance of his apologies.
“I’ll keep him busy out of the way till we open up the cabinet. … Sit down, sir. Have a swig of this.” He smiled faintly. “Friend Williams having betrayed my guilty secret…. Hallo! Company.”
The light clicked off and a burly figure bulked momentarily against the grey oblong of the doorway. The door shut, and Brooks stood blinking in the sudden light, red of face and gasping for breath. His eyes focused on the bottle in Turner’s hand.
“Ha!” he said at length. “Having a bottle party, are we? All contributions gratefully received, I have no doubt.” He opened his case on a convenient table, was rummaging inside when someone rapped sharply on the door.
“Come in,” Vallery called.
A signalman entered, handed a note to Vallery. “From London, sir. Chief says there may be some reply.”
“Thank you. I’ll phone down.”
The door opened and closed again. Vallery looked up at an empty handed Turner.
“Thanks for removing the guilty evidence so quickly,” he smiled. Then he shook his head. “My eyes, they don’t seem so good. Perhaps you would read the signal, Commander?”
“And perhaps you would like some decent medicine,” Brooks boomed, “instead of that filthy muck of Turner’s.” He fished in his bag, produced a bottle of amber liquid. “With all the resources of modern medicine, well, practically all, anyway, at my disposal, I can find nothing to equal this.”
“Have you told Nicholls?” Vallery was stretched out on the settee now, eyes closed, the shadow of a smile on his bloodless lips.
“Well, no,” Brooks confessed. “But plenty of time. Have some?”
“Thanks. Let’s have the good news, Turner.”
“Good news!” The sudden deadly quiet of the Commander’s voice fell chilly over the waiting men. “No, sir, it’s not good news.
“‘Rear-Admiral Vallery, Commanding 14 A.C.S., FR77.’ “The voice was drained of all tone and expression. “‘Tirpitz, escorting cruisers, destroyers, reported moving out Alta Fjord sunset. Intense activity Alta Fjord airfield. Fear sortie under air cover. All measures avoid useless sacrifice Merchant, Naval ships. D.N.O., London.'” With deliberate care Turner folded the paper, laid it on the table. “Isn’t that just wonderful,” he murmured. “Whatever next?”
Vallery was sitting bolt upright on the settee, blind to the blood trickling down crookedly from one corner of his mouth. His face was calm, unworried.
“I think I’ll have that glass, now, Brooks, if you don’t mind,” he said quietly. The Tirpitz. The Tirpitz. He shook his head tiredly, like a man in a dream. The Tirpitz the name that no man mentioned without a far off echo of awe and fear, the name that had completely dominated North Atlantic naval strategy during the past two years. Moving out at last, an armoured Colossus, sister ship to that other Titan that had destroyed the Hood with one single, savage blow, the Hood, the darling of the Royal Navy, the most powerful ship in the world, or so men had thought. What chance had their tiny cockle-shell cruiser… Again he shook his head, angrily this time, forced himself to think of the present.
“Well, gentlemen, I suppose time bringeth all things, even the Tirpitz. It had to come some day. Just our ill luck the bait was too close, too tempting.”
“My young colleague is going to be just delighted,” Brooks said grimly.
“A real battleship at long, long last.”
“Sunset,” Turner mused. “Sunset. My God!” he said sharply, “even allowing for negotiating the fjord they’ll be on us in four hours on this course!”
“Exactly,” Vallery nodded. “And it’s no good running north. They’d overtake us before we’re within a hundred miles of them.”
“Them? Our big boys up north?” Turner scoffed. “I hate to sound like a gramophone record, but you’ll recall my earlier statement about them too —–, late as usual!” He paused, swore again. “I hope that old bastard Starr’s satisfied at last!” he finished bitterly.
“Why all the gloom?” Vallery looked up quizzically, went on softly.
“We can still be back, safe and sound in Scapa in forty-eight hours. ‘Avoid useless sacrifice Merchant, Naval ships,’ he said. The Ulysses is probably the fastest ship in the world today. It’s simple, gentlemen.”
“No, no!” Brooks moaned. “Too much of an anti-climax. I couldn’t stand it!”
“Do another PQ17?” [PQ17, a large mixed convoy it included over 30 British, American and Panamanian ships left Iceland for Russia under the escort of half a dozen destroyers and perhaps a dozen smaller craft, with a mixed Anglo-American cruiser and destroyer squadron in immediate support. A shadow covering force-again Anglo-American-comprising one aircraft carrier, two battleships, three cruisers and a flotilla of destroyers, lay to the north. As with FR77, they formed the spring of the trap that closed too late. The time was midsummer, 1942, a suicidal season for the attempt, for in June and July, in these high latitudes, there is no night. About longitude 20° east, the convoy was heavily attacked by U-boats and aircraft. On the same day as the attack began, 4th July, the covering cruiser squadron was radioed that the Tirpitz had just sailed from Alta Fjord.
(This was not the case: The Tirpitz did make a brief, abortive sortie on the afternoon of the 5th, but turned back the same evening: rumour had it that she had been damaged by torpedoes from a Russian submarine.) The support squadron and convoy escorts immediately withdrew to the west at high speed, leaving PQ17 to their fate, leaving them to scatter and make then, unescorted way to Russia as best they could. The feelings of the crews of the merchant ships at this save-their-own-skins desertion and betrayal by the Royal Navy can be readily imagined. Their fears, too, can be readily imagined, but even their darkest forebodings never conceived the dreadful reality: 23 merchant ships were sent to the bottom by U-boats and aircraft. The Tirpitz was not seen, never came anywhere near the convoy; but even the threat had driven the naval squadrons to flight.
The author does not know all the facts concerning PQ17, nor does he seek to interpret those he does know: still less does he seek to assign blame. Curiously enough, the only definite conclusion is that no blame can be attached to the commander of the squadron, Admiral Hamilton. He had no part of the decision to withdraw, the order came from the Admiralty, and was imperative. But one does not envy him.
It was a melancholy and bitter incident, all the more unpalatable in that it ran so directly counter to the traditions of a great Service; one wonders what Sir Philip Sydney would have thought, or, in more modern times, Kennedy of the Rawalpindi or Fegen of the Jervis Bay.
But there was no doubt what the Merchant Navy thought What they still think. From most of the few survivors, there can be no hope of forgiveness. They will, probably, always remember: the Royal Navy would desperately like to forget. It is difficult to blame either.]
Turner smiled, but the smile never touched his eyes. “The Royal Navy could never stand it: Captain, Rear-Admiral Vallery would never permit it; and speaking for myself and, I’m fairly certain, this bunch of cut-throat mutineers of ours, well, I don’t think we’d ever sleep so sound o’ nights again.”