H. M. S. Ulysses (17 page)

He was worried, too, about his crew—they were in no fit state to do the lightest work, to survive that killing cold, far less sail the ship and fight her through to Russia. He was depressed, also, over the series of misfortunes that had befallen the squadron since leaving Scapa: it augured ill for the future, and he had no illusions as to what lay ahead for the crippled squadron. And always, a gnawing torment at the back of his mind, he worried about Ralston.

Ralston—that tall throwback to his Scandinavian ancestors, with his flaxen hair and still blue eyes. Ralston, whom nobody understood, with whom nobody on the ship had an intimate friendship, who went his own unsmiling, self-possessed way. Ralston, who had nothing left to fight for, except memories, who was one of the most reliable men in the
Ulysses
, extraordinarily decisive, competent and resourceful in any emergency—and who again found himself under lock and key. And for nothing that any reasonable and just man could call fault of his own.

Under lock and key—that was what hurt. Last night, Vallery had gladly seized the excuse of bad weather to release him, had intended to forget the matter, to let sleeping dogs lie. But Hastings, the Master-At-Arms, had exceeded his duty and returned him to cells during the forenoon watch. Masters-At-Arms—disciplinary Warrant Officers, in effect—had never been particularly noted for a humane, tolerant and ultra-kindly attitude to life in general or the lower deck in particular— they couldn't afford to be. But even amongst such men, Hastings was an exception—a machinelike, seemingly emotionless creature, expressionless, unbending, strict, fair according to his lights, but utterly devoid of heart and sympathy. If Hastings were not careful, Vallery mused, he might very well go the same way as Lister, until recently the highly unpopular Master-At-Arms of the
Blue Ranger
. Not, when he came to think of it, that anyone knew what had happened to Lister, except that he had been so misguided as to take a walk on the flight-deck on a dark and starless night . . .

Vallery sighed. As he had explained to Foster, his hands were tied. Foster, the Captain of Marines, with an aggrieved and incensed Colour-Sergeant Evans standing behind him, had complained bitterly at having his marines withdrawn for guard duty, men who needed every minute of sleep they could snatch. Privately, Vallery had sympathized with Foster, but he couldn't afford to countermand his original order—not, at least, until he had held a Captain's Defaulters and placed Ralston under open arrest . . . He sighed again, sent for Turner and asked him to break out grass lines, a manila and a five-inch wire on the poop. He suspected that they would be needed shortly, and, as it turned out, his preparations were justified.

Darkness had fallen when they moved up to the Vejle bank, but locating the
Wrestler
was easy—her identification challenge ten minutes ago had given her approximate position, and now her squat bulk loomed high before them, a knife-edged silhouette against the pale afterglow of sunset. Ominously, her flight-deck raked perceptibly towards the stern, where the
Eager
lay, apparently at anchor. The sea was almost calm here—there was only a gentle swell running.

Aboard the
Ulysses
, a hooded pin-hole Aldis started to chatter.

‘Congratulations! How are you fast?'

From the
Wrestler
, a tiny light flickered in answer. Bentley read aloud as the message came.

‘Bows aft 100 feet.'

‘Wonderful,' said Tyndall bitterly. ‘Just wonderful! Ask him, “How is steering-gear?”'

Back came the answer: ‘Diver down: transverse fracture of post: dockyard job.'

‘My God!' Tyndall groaned. ‘A dockyard job! That's handy. Ask him, “What steps have you taken?”'

‘All fuel and water pumped aft. Kedge anchor.
Eager
towing. Full astern, 1200-1230.'

The turn of the high tide, Tyndall knew. ‘Very successful, very successful indeed,' he growled. ‘No, you bloody fool, don't send that. Tell him to prepare to receive towing wire, bring own towing chain aft.'

‘Message understood,' Bentley read.

‘Ask him, “How much excess squadron fuel have you?”'

‘800 tons.'

‘Get rid of it.'

Bentley read, ‘Please confirm.'

‘Tell him to empty the bloody stuff over the side!' Tyndall roared.

The light on the
Wrestler
flickered and died in hurt silence.

At midnight the
Eager
steamed slowly ahead of the
Ulysses
, taking up the wire that led back to the cruiser's fo'c'sle capstan: two minutes later, the
Ulysses
began to shudder as the four great engines boiled up the shallow water into a seething mudstained cauldron. The chain from the poop-deck to the
Wrestler
's stern was a bare fifteen fathoms in length, angling up at 30°. This would force the carrier's stern down—only a fraction, but in this situation every ounce counted—and give more positive buoyancy to the grounded bows. And much more important—for the racing screws were now aerating the water, developing only a fraction of their potential thrust— the proximity of the two ships helped the
Ulysses
's screws reinforce the action of the
Wrestler
's in scouring out a channel in the sand and mud beneath the carrier's keel.

Twenty minutes before high tide, easily, steadily, the
Wrestler
slid off. At once the blacksmith on the
Ulysses
's bows knocked off the shackle securing the
Eager
's towing wire, and the
Ulysses
pulled the carrier, her engines shut down, in a big half-circle to the east.

By one o'clock the
Wrestler
was gone, the
Eager
in attendance and ready to pass a head rope for bad weather steering. On the bridge of the
Ulysses
, Tyndall watched the carrier vanish into the night, zig-zagging as the captain tried to balance the steering on the two screws.

‘No doubt they'll get the hang of it before they get to Scapa,' he growled. He felt cold, exhausted and only the way an Admiral can feel when he has lost three-quarters of his carrier force. He sighed wearily and turned to Vallery.

‘When do you reckon we'll overtake the convoy?'

Vallery hesitated: not so the Kapok Kid.

‘0805,' he answered readily and precisely. ‘At twenty-seven knots, on the intersection course I've just pencilled out.'

‘Oh, my God!' Tyndall groaned. ‘That stripling again. What did I ever do to deserve him. As it happens, young man, it's imperative that we overtake before dawn.'

‘Yes, sir.' The Kapok Kid was imperturbable. ‘I thought so myself. On my alternative course, 33 knots, thirty minutes before dawn.'

‘I thought so myself! Take him away!' Tyndall raved. ‘Take him away or I'll wrap his damned dividers round . . . ' He broke off, climbed stiffly out of his chair, took Vallery by the arm. ‘Come on, Captain. Let's go below. What the hell's the use of a couple of ancient has-beens like us getting in the way of youth?' He passed out the gate behind the Captain, grinning tiredly to himself.

The
Ulysses
was at dawn Action Stations as the shadowy shapes of the convoy, a bare mile ahead, lifted out of the greying gloom. The great bulk of the
Blue Ranger
, on the starboard quarter of the convoy, was unmistakable. There was a moderate swell running, but not enough to be uncomfortable: the breeze was light, from the west, the temperature just below zero, the sky chill and cloudless. The time was exactly 0700.

At 0702, the
Blue Ranger
was torpedoed. The
Ulysses
was two cable-lengths away, on her starboard quarter: those on the bridge felt the physical shock of the twin explosions, heard them shattering the stillness of the dawn as they saw two searing columns of flame fingering skywards, high above the
Blue Ranger
's bridge and well aft of it. A second later they heard a signalman shouting something unintelligible, saw him pointing forwards and downwards. It was another torpedo, running astern of the carrier, trailing its evil phosphorescent wake across the heels of the convoy, before spending itself in the darkness of the Arctic.

Vallery was shouting down the voice-pipe, pulling round the
Ulysses
, still doing upwards of twenty knots, in a madly heeling, skidding turn, to avoid collision with the slewing carrier. Three sets of Aldis lamps and the fighting lights were already stuttering out the ‘Maintain Position' code signal to ships in the convoy. Marshall, on the phone, was giving the stand-by order to the depth-charge LTO: gun barrels were already depressing, peering hungrily into the treacherous sea. The signal to the
Sirrus
stopped short, unneeded: the destroyer, a half-seen blue in the darkness, was already knifing its way through the convoy, white water piled high at its bows, headed for the estimated position of the U-boat.

The
Ulysses
sheered by parallel to the burning carrier, less than 150 feet away; travelling so fast, heeling so heavily and at such close range, it was impossible to gather more than a blurred impression, a tangled, confused memory of heavy black smoke laced with roaring columns of flame, appalling in that near-darkness, of a drunkenly listing flight-deck, of Grummans and Corsairs cartwheeling grotesquely over the edge to splash icy clouds of spray in shocked faces, as the cruiser slewed away; and then the
Ulysses
was round, heading back south for the kill.

Within a minute, the signal-lamp of the
Vectra
, up front with the convoy, started winking: ‘Contact, Green 70, closing: Contact, Green 70, closing.'

‘Acknowledge,' Tyndall ordered briefly.

The Aldis had barely begun to clack when the
Vectra
cut through the signal.

‘Contacts, repeat contacts. Green 90, Green 90. Closing. Very close. Repeat contacts, contacts.'

Tyndall cursed softly.

‘Acknowledge. Investigate.' He turned to Vallery. ‘Let's join him, Captain. This is it. Wolf-pack Number One—and in force. No bloody right to be here,' he added bitterly. ‘So much for Admiralty Intelligence!'

The
Ulysses
was round again, heading for the
Vectra
. It should have been growing lighter now, but the
Blue Ranger
, her squadron fuel tanks on fire, a gigantic torch against the eastern horizon, had the curious effect of throwing the surrounding sea into heavy darkness. She lay almost athwart of the flagship's course for the
Vectra
, looming larger every minute. Tyndall had his night glasses to his eyes, kept on muttering: ‘The poor bastards, the poor bastards!'

The
Blue Ranger
was almost gone. She lay dead in the water, heeled far over to starboard, ammunition and petrol tanks going up in a constant series of crackling reports. Suddenly, a succession of dull, heavy explosions rumbled over the sea: the entire bridge island structure lurched crazily sideways, held, then slowly, ponderously, deliberately, the whole massive body of it toppled majestically into the glacial darkness of the sea. God only knew how many men perished with it, deep down in the Arctic, trapped in its iron walls. They were the lucky ones.

The
Vectra
, barely two miles ahead now, was pulling round south in a tight circle. Vallery saw her, altered course to intercept. He heard Bentley shouting something unintelligible from the fore corner of the compass platform. Vallery shook his head, heard him shouting again, his voice desperate with some nameless urgency, his arm pointing frantically over the windscreen, and leapt up beside him.

The sea was on fire. Flat, calm, burdened with hundreds of tons of fuel oil, it was a vast carpet of licking, twisting flames. That much, for a second, and that only, Vallery saw: then with heartstopping shock, with physically sickening abruptness, he saw something else again: the burning sea was alive with swimming, struggling men. Not a handful, not even dozens, but literally hundreds, soundlessly screaming, agonizingly dying in the barbarous contrariety of drowning and cremation.

‘Signal from
Vectra
, sir.' It was Bentley speaking, his voice abnormally matter-of-fact. ‘“Depth-charging. 3, repeat 3 contacts. Request immediate assistance.”'

Tyndall was at Vallery's side now. He heard Bentley, looked a long second at Vallery, following his sick, fascinated gaze into the sea ahead.

For a man in the sea, oil is an evil thing. It clogs his movements, burns his eyes, sears his lungs and tears away his stomach in uncontrollable paroxysms of retching; but oil on fire is a hellish thing, death by torture, a slow, shrieking death by drowning, by burning, by asphyxiation—for the flames devour all the life-giving oxygen on the surface of the sea. And not even in the bitter Arctic is there the merciful extinction by cold, for the insulation of an oil-soaked body stretches a dying man on the rack for eternity, carefully preserves him for the last excruciating refinement of agony. All this Vallery knew.

He knew, too, that for the
Ulysses
to stop, starkly outlined against the burning carrier, would have been suicide. And to come sharply round to starboard, even had there been time and room to clear the struggling, dying men in the sea ahead, would have wasted invaluable minutes, time and to spare for the U-boats ahead to line up firing-tracks on the convoy; and the
Ulysses
's first responsibility was to the convoy. Again all this Vallery knew. But at that moment, what weighed most heavily with him was common humanity. Fine off the port bow, close in to the
Blue Ranger
, the oil was heaviest, the flames fiercest, the swimmers thickest: Vallery looked back over his shoulder at the Officer of the Watch.