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The conference was held in a Nissen hut and the merchant captains filed in, many of them wearing civilian clothes. They all had weathered faces and the faraway eyes of seamen, most of them carried brief cases or small attaché cases, and they all looked slightly bewildered and shy. As they took their seats and filled in the slips of papers to give the number of officers, ratings and DEMS gunners in their ships, they were issued with a copy of convoy orders.

The American cruiser captains, present for the experience, looked strange in their unfamiliar uniforms but they were attentive, intelligent and more than willing to conform. There had been a lot of bad feeling when Convoy PQI7 had been lost and a lot of sneers about ‘What price the Italian Navy?’ but everybody knew the truth now, and though there were still occasional bar-room brawls, for the most part the Americans had accepted that it was a case of interference from above and that there was nothing wrong with the British sailors themselves.

There was still a strange feeling of doubt, however, that was a hangover from the disaster and Kelly tried to be brief and to the point. His cruisers, he said, would provide cover near Bear Island, the danger point nearest to the German bases, and he finished by introducing the convoy commodores and the commanders of the distant escorts, and Verschoyle made clear their chances.

‘Darkness will be our greatest ally,’ he said. ‘And there won’t be much else at this time of the year. Attacks by the Luftwaffe should be unlikely and U-boats should have difficulty finding us. What we have to fear are surface ships, but it’s hoped that bad weather will help.’

It was a little like a lecture in a village hall, and Verschoyle was curiously subdued as they left.

‘It amazes me,’ he said, ‘that the poor buggers trust us as much as they do.’

As he waited for Chichester’s boat, Kelly saw Hugh nearby, holding an armful of woollen clothing. His face was thin and drawn but he managed a grin.

‘Stocking up with warmth,’ he said. ‘I’m with James Verschoyle’s group.’

‘Does Paddy know what you’re up to, Hugh?’ Kelly asked.

‘No, sir.’ Hugh looked stubborn, as though what he was facing was only too clear to him. ‘I haven’t told her. But I expect she’ll find out pretty soon.

Kelly had no doubt. Paddy had a high intelligence and her naval background left little question but that she would know where to ask. As the boy climbed into Parsifal’s boat, Kelly remained staring after him, thinking of Paddy’s anxious eyes. Aboard Chichester, he rang for Rumbelo.

‘I just met Hugh,’ he said. ‘He’s in Parsifal.’

Rumbelo’s face was blank. ‘Yes, sir,’ he said. ‘I know. I had a letter from Paddy. She knows, too.’

The following day they left Loch Ewe for Seidisfjord, picking up Marlow, Meteor and Morris off Cape Wrath. It was known that the Germans had reinforced their heavy ships and, although darkness would reduce the danger from air reconnaissance, U-boats across the path of the convoys would report their position, while polar ice would force them south of Bear Island so that if the German heavies came out they wouldn’t have a very large area to search.

As they arrived off Iceland, there was a thick fog and it was impossible to find the entrance to Seidisfjord. There was no question of the cruisers going in to top up tanks and Kelly could only order the destroyers to wait until the fog cleared, top up and then join Convoy JW5OC to help the escorts. It had raised a problem. Chichester had to steam almost two thousand miles and, though she carried nearly two thousand tons of fuel, she burned eight tons an hour at seventeen knots and thirty at thirty knots, while the German ships, operating close to their bases, had no such worry. Somewhere just behind him Verschoyle’s convoy, JW5OD, was still assembling, with its escort of three Hunt-class destroyers, four corvettes, two trawlers and a minesweeper, and would pick up Verschoyle’s fleet destroyers as the Hunts turned back at the limit of their range.

To the south of Bear Island they ran into severe gales built up by winds roaring across the Atlantic and funnelled into the gap between Scotland and Iceland. As the seas mounted, they had to reduce to ten knots, climbing the huge waves to crash over the crest into the next trough with tons of water streaming off the foredeck.

Round North Cape, the water swirling across the ship began to freeze until it lay in a thick carapace over the decks and super-structure. Turrets, torpedo tubes and radar aerials were kept constantly moving to prevent them becoming solid and, in the worst weather, the forward turrets were trained to starboard to avoid damage. Tompions, the metal caps which screwed on the mouths of the gun barrels, couldn’t be used in case they froze solid, and the ends of thick cardboard cartridge cases plastered with grease were used instead. Feet and fingers ached with cold and the north-easterly wind brought flurries of sleet and snow that reduced visibility and periodically obscured Sarawak following on their starboard quarter.

Clothing was the special Arctic issue of heavy woollen underwear under two, three or four jerseys, mittens, sheepskin-lined boots and thick woollen stockings – far from enough when it was impossible to eat regularly or obtain hot drinks, and when the wearers had to sleep at night action stations. They weren’t much better off on the open bridge, where the cold insinuated itself beyond scarves, gloves and boots, and Kelly’s exposed face felt frozen. The men had only just cleared the ice on the decks and upperworks when Pardoe had them out again, working with brooms, paint chippers, hammers, salt and sand, working the capstans and deck winches, rotating the guns, raising and lowering them continuously, using steam-hoses to clear boat-hoists, ladders and doors. There was no labour saving way of clearing the ice. It could only be done with aching hands and frozen feet. Below, conditions were equally appalling, with all hatches battened down, and scuttles and deadlights secured. With nowhere for fresh air to enter, the atmosphere was stale and unappetising, and life was reduced simply to keeping watch, eating and sleeping.

With Convoy JW5OC safely beyond the danger area, Force T dropped anchor in Varenga Bay in Kola Inlet, but Murmansk was a dreary place with a scything wind full of ice particles. In addition to a marked surliness and lack of hospitality among the Russians, the place was less than ninety miles from German air bases so that a permanent aircraft watch had to be kept, and on the only occasion when a German aircraft appeared the shooting was more fitting to a fireworks display. Kelly said so in no uncertain language and his gunnery officers made a point of passing it on.

Because of the bitter weather, liberty men were permitted to go ashore in duffel coats and seaboots but, because there was nothing to buy, nobody bothered with Russian currency. They had to stick to recognised thoroughfares and Russian sentries were posted everywhere. There was no fraternisation because nobody felt like fraternising, no booze, no bars and no shops, and they took ashore their own cigarettes, which they were firmly forbidden to offer to the Russians.

The first convoy, JW5OC, arrived the following day, with its load of tanks, lorries, guns and aircraft. Probably in celebration, the Russians provided an unexpected concert with a naval male voice choir, who sang until they were exhausted. Since it had been laid on by the Soviet naval commander-in-chief, Kelly had to attend, but he bolted as soon as it was over to his operations room.

The chart wasn’t very helpful. About that time Convoy JW5OD would be passing the vicinity of Jan Mayen Island where the Hunt-class destroyers would have turned for home at the limit of their range and the escort duties would devolve on Verschoyle’s bigger ships. Meanwhile, in the Kola Inlet, the British SNO was assembling the vessels of Convoy RA5OC due to leave for home.

Kelly stared at the outline of the land and the bleak north coast of Russia. Somewhere to the west, thirty-odd merchant ships, carrying enough armaments to equip a division, were plodding slowly towards them. They had a long way to go and he was not deluded that the Germans weren’t aware of them.

As Chichester and Sarawak left the following day, it was well below freezing and the land lay under a thick layer of snow and ice. Turning about at a point sixty miles south-west of where Verschoyle’s convoy would be, they swept across the danger zone where the German ships, if they came, would appear. There was no sun and they could see very little horizon; with a continuous blanket of low cloud, periods of snow and even elusive and inexplicable patches of mist. The navigator was working on pure dead reckoning, keeping the plot up-to-date with unknown rates of drift and the unsteady compasses of the high latitudes as the ship battled against the heavy seas that made steering difficult.

Deciding that the convoy would probably have been blown off its course by the gale, Kelly made up his mind to head southwards.

‘We don’t want to be spotted by some Hun pilot out for a blow after lunch,’ he said. ‘Ask the destroyers what fuel they have left.’

The destroyers reported they were very low and he had just ordered them back to Varenga to oil when Latimer appeared. ‘Admiralty signal, sir. “Suspect convoy JW5OD detected by U-boat while passing Bear Island.”’

Kelly read the signal and handed it back. He was in position. There was nothing he could do but wait.

Sleet and rain were driving in sheets across the bridge structure and the funnel smoke was whipped away to nothing even as it emerged. The wind numbed bare flesh, explored every aperture in clothing and made bloodshot the eyes of the men who had to stare into it.

Gazing over the bridge screen, his gloved hands round a mug of scalding cocoa, thick as liquid mud, Kelly tried to balance the odds. A signal had been picked up from Lotus, one of Verschoyle’s ships, to Langdale, his flotilla leader, indicating that she’d depth-charged a submarine contact, and following this, there had been intense enemy radio activity. In his heart he knew it was the Germans preparing to leave harbour. They must have picked up the convoy on their radar and would know its approximate route.

He was not an emotional man and had never suffered from self-doubt, but he knew that a naval commander, like his counterparts on land and in the air, could make or break himself in a second by a wrong decision. Success would be applauded but failure was never allowed. The men in London who had so conspicuously failed to provide the services with the weapons they needed would not hesitate to demand the removal of anyone who failed to use the little they had to the best advantage. Responsibility was a fine thing to have, he decided, with the rank and power that went with it, but when it included the lives of hundreds of men it could also be a heavy load.

‘What’s the met situation?’ he asked.

‘Untidy, sir.’

‘Where’s London?’

‘Turned back, sir. They were south of the convoy until two days ago.’

Kelly nodded. He had a feeling that this would be the day when things would happen if they were going to happen at all. He was heading now towards where he thought the convoy was and he intended to cover it by steaming ten miles north of its planned route and fifty miles astern of it. Orders clearly stated that cruisers were not to approach nearer unless the enemy were spotted.

‘Oh-four-five, please. Revolutions for seventeen knots.’

He intended to steam across the convoy’s wake before turning astern of it so that he would have the advantage of light during the short hours of visibility, and might even avoid air reconnaissance; while, if the German heavies were coming out, he ought to be able to intercept them either from ahead or astern. He just hoped his guess at the convoy’s position and the navigator’s workings were correct.

With the ship iced up, steam hoses were playing on the foredeck to get rid of the ice when Latimer appeared alongside him once more. ‘Signal, sir. From SBNO, North Russia: “German destroyer detected off North Cape. U-boats ahead and south of JW5OD.”’

‘It seems to be brewing up, William,’ Kelly said.

They continued on their course under darkening skies. It was freezing cold and the heavy cloud and lack of daylight made a depressing scene. Already the ice was beginning to form again on the ship. Soon afterwards, Latimer produced another signal.

‘PHOTOGRAPHS OF TRONDHEIM AT 1400/3 SHOW THAT CRUISERS ZIETHEN AND MÜFFLING AND FOUR DESTROYERS HAVE LEFT.’

Kelly studied the signal for a moment. Both Zeithen and Müffling were bigger than his own ships.

‘Well, that’s that, Henry,’ he said to Pardoe. ‘I think I’ll go and get something to eat. It might be a good idea to let the watches get something hot inside them, too. We don’t know when we might meet these gentry.’

Rumbelo was waiting below to take his layers of bridge clothing.

‘I hear the Germans are out, sir,’ he said.

His mind busy, Kelly grunted an affirmative and Rumbelo was silent for a while before he spoke again, slowly and soberly. ‘This is no place to be flying, sir,’ he said.

Kelly had no sooner returned to the bridge when another signal arrived. ‘Admiralty to C.-in-C., Home Fleet, sir,’ Latimer said. ‘“Further A2 report states warships are expected to attack FW5OD between fifteen degrees and –” It ends with corrupt groups due to interference.’

Kelly found himself wondering. East or west? He was still debating it when a signal arrived from the Admiralty to the Home Fleet and the escorts of JW5OD. ‘ENEMY UNITS APPROACHING CONVOY. SUBMARINE REPORTS LOSING THEM IN FOG. EXACT POSITION UNKNOWN. ADVISE AIR RECONNAISSANCE.’

Kelly stood in silence, his face taut and grim against the lash of spray as he thought of Paddy’s small anxious face. This is it, he felt, and soon afterwards, Chichester’s operators intercepted a signal from Langdale to Parsifal – ‘FLY OFF. SEARCH SOUTH.’

He wondered what it had cost Verschoyle.

He noticed Latimer looking at him and he hitched his heavy scarf closer about his neck. They both knew what it meant. CAM-ship aircraft were never catapulted off until things were desperate and, when they were, it usually meant the end for the pilot.

‘You might pass the word to the WIT room to keep it to themselves, William,’ Kelly said.