H. M. S. Ulysses (33 page)

Suddenly he felt Turner's hand on his arm.

‘Can you hear 'em?' Turner asked.

‘Hear what?' Vallery demanded.

‘Lord only knows. It's the
Vectra
. Look!'

Vallery followed the pointing finger. At first, he could see nothing, then all at once he saw little geysers of water leaping up in the
Vectra
's wake, geysers swiftly extinguished by the heavy seas. Then, faintly, his straining ear caught the faraway murmur of underwater explosions, all but inaudible against the wind.

‘What the devil's the
Vectra
doing?' Vallery demanded. ‘And what's she using?'

‘Looks like fireworks to me,' Turner grunted. ‘What do you think, Number One?'

‘Scuttling charges—25-pounders,' Carrington said briefly.

‘He's right, sir,' Turner admitted. ‘Of course that's what they are. Mind you, he might as well be using fireworks,' he added disparagingly.

But the Commander was wrong. A scuttling charge has less than a tenth part of the disruptive power of a depth-charge—but one lodged snugly in the conning-tower or exploding alongside a steering plane could be almost as lethal. Turner had hardly finished speaking when a U-boat—the first the
Ulysses
had seen above water for almost six months—porpoised high above the surface of the sea, hung there for two or three seconds, then crashed down on even keel, wallowing wickedly in the troughs between the waves.

The dramatic abruptness of her appearance—one moment the empty sea, the next a U-boat rolling in full view of the entire convoy—took every ship by surprise—including the
Vectra
. She was caught on the wrong foot, moving away on the outer leg of a figure-of-eight turn. Her pom-pom opened up immediately, but the pompom, a notoriously inaccurate gun in the best of circumstances, is a hopeless proposition on the rolling, heeling deck of a destroyer making a fast turn in heavy weather: the Oerlikons registered a couple of hits on the conning-tower, twin Lewises peppered the hull with as much effect as a horde of angry hornets; but by the time the
Vectra
was round, her main armament coming to bear, the U-boat had disappeared slowly under the surface.

In spite of this, the
Vectra
's 4.7s opened up, firing into the sea where the U-boat had submerged, but stopping almost immediately when two shells in succession had ricocheted off the water and whistled dangerously through the convoy. She steadied on course, raced over the position of the submerged U-boat: watchers on the
Ulysses
, binoculars to their eyes, could just distinguish duffel-coated figures on the
Vectra
's poop-deck hurling more scuttling charges over the side. Almost at once, the
Vectra
's helm went hard over and she clawed her way back south again, guns at maximum depression pointing down over her starboard side.

The U-boat must have been damaged, more severely this time, by either the shells or the last charges. Again she surfaced, even more violently than before, in a seething welter of foam, and again the Vectra was caught on the wrong foot, for the submarine had surfaced off her port bow, three cable-lengths away.

And this time, the U-boat was up to stay. Whatever Captain and crew lacked, it wasn't courage. The hatch was open, and men were swarming over the side of the conning-tower to man the gun, in a token gesture of defiance against crushing odds.

The first two men over the side never reached the gun—breaking, sweeping waves, waves that towered high above the submarine's deck, washed them over the side and they were gone. But others flung themselves forward to take their place, frantically training their gun through a 90° arc to bear on the onrushing bows of the
Vectra
. Incredibly—for the seas were washing over the decks, seas which kept tearing the men from their posts, and the submarine was rolling with impossible speed and violence—their first shell, fired over open sights, smashed squarely into the bridge of the
Vectra
. The first shell and the last shell, for the crew suddenly crumpled and died, sinking down by the gun or pitching convulsively over the side.

It was a massacre. The
Vectra
had two Bolton-Paul Defiant night-fighter turrets, quadruple hydraulic turrets complete with astrodome, bolted to her fo'c'sle, and these had opened up simultaneously, firing, between them, something like a fantastic total of 300 shells every ten seconds. That often misused cliché ‘hail of lead' was completely accurate here. It was impossible for a man to live two seconds on the exposed deck of that U-boat, to hope to escape that lethal storm. Man after man kept flinging himself over the coaming in suicidal gallantry, but none reached the gun.

Afterwards, no one aboard the
Ulysses
could say when they first realized that the
Vectra
, pitching steeply through the heavy seas, was going to ram the U-boat. Perhaps her Captain had never intended to do so. Perhaps he had expected the U-boat to submerge, had intended to carry away conning-tower and periscope standard, to make sure that she could not escape again. Perhaps he had been killed when that shell struck the bridge. Or perhaps he had changed his mind at the last second, for the
Vectra
, which had been arrowing in on the conning-tower, suddenly slewed sharply to starboard.

For an instant, it seemed that she might just clear the U-boat's bows, but the hope died the second it was born. Plunging heavily down the sheering side of a gaping trough, the
Vectra
's forefoot smashed down and through the hull of the submarine, some thirty feet aft of the bows, slicing through the toughened steel of the pressure hull as if it were cardboard. She was still plunging, still driving down, when two shattering explosions, so close together as to be blurred into one giant blast, completely buried both vessels under a skyrocketing mushroom of boiling water and twisted steel. The why of the explosion was pure conjecture; but what had happened was plain enough. Some freak of chance must have triggered off the TNT—normally an extremely stable and inert disruptive—in a warhead in one of the U-boat's tubes: and then the torpedoes in the storage racks behind and possibly, probably even, the for'ard magazine of the
Vectra
had gone up in sympathetic detonation.

Slowly, deliberately almost, the great clouds of water fell back into the sea, and the
Vectra
and the U-boat—or what little was left of them—came abruptly into view. To the watchers on the
Ulysses
, it was inconceivable that either of them should still be afloat. The U-boat was very deep in the water, seemed to end abruptly just for'ards of the gun platform: the
Vectra
looked as if some great knife had sheared her athwartships, just for'ard of the bridge. The rest was gone, utterly gone. And throughout the convoy unbelieving minds were still wildly rejecting the evidence of their eyes when the shattered hull of the
Vectra
lurched into the same trough as the U-boat, rolled heavily, wearily, over on top of her, bridge and mast cradling the conning-tower of the submarine. And then the water closed over them and they were gone, locked together to the bottom of the sea.

The last ships in the convoy were two miles away now, and in the broken seas, at that distance, it was impossible to see whether there were any survivors. It did not seem likely. And if there were, if there were men over there, struggling, swimming, shouting for help in the murderous cold of that glacial sea, they would be dying already. And they would have been dead long before any rescue ship could even have turned round. The convoy streamed on, beating steadily east. All but two, that is—the
Electra
and the
Sirrus
.

The
Electra
lay beam on to the seas, rolling slowly, sluggishly, dead in the water. She had now a list of almost 15° to port. Her decks, fore and aft of the bridge, were lined with waiting men. They had given up their attempt to abandon ship by lifeboat when they had seen the
Sirrus
rolling up behind them, fine on the port quarter. A boat had been swung out on its davits, and with the listing of the
Electra
and the rolling of the sea it had proved impossible to recover it. It hung now far out from the ship's side, swinging wildly at the end of its davits about twenty feet above the sea. On his approach, Orr had twice sent angry signals, asking the falls to be cut. But the lifeboat remained there, a menacing pendulum in the track of the
Sirrus
: panic, possibly, but more likely winch brakes jammed solid with ice. In either event, there was no time to be lost: another ten minutes and the
Electra
would be gone.

The
Sirrus
made two runs past in all—Orr had no intention of stopping alongside, of being trampled under by the 15,000-ton deadweight of a toppling freighter. On his first run he steamed slowly by at five knots, at a distance of twenty feet—the nearest he dared go with the set of the sea rolling both ships towards each other at the same instant.

As the
Sirrus
's swinging bows slid up past the bridge of the
Electra
, the waiting men began to jump. They jumped as the
Sirrus
's fo'c'sle reared up level with their deck, they jumped as it plunged down fifteen, twenty feet below. One man carrying a suitcase and Burberry stepped nonchalantly across both sets of guard-rails during the split second that they were relatively motionless to each other: others crashed sickeningly onto the ice-coated steel deck far below, twisting ankles, fracturing legs and thighs, dislocating hip-joints. And two men jumped and missed; above the bedlam of noise, men heard the blood-chilling, bubbling scream of one as the swinging hulls crushed the life out of him, the desperate, terror-stricken cries of the other as the great, iron wall of the
Electra
guided him into the screws of the
Sirrus
.

It was just then that it happened and there could be no possible reflection on Commander Orr's seamanship: he had handled the
Sirrus
brilliantly. But even his skill was helpless against these two successive freak waves, twice the size of the others. The first flung the
Sirrus
close in to the
Electra
, then passing under the
Electra
, lurched her steeply to port as the second wave heeled the
Sirrus
far over to starboard. There was a grinding, screeching crash. The
Sirrus
's guard-rails and upper side plates buckled and tore along a 150-foot length: simultaneously, the lifeboat smashed endwise into the front of the bridge, shattering into a thousand pieces. Immediately, the telegraphs jangled, the water boiled whitely at the
Sirrus
's stern— shocked realization of its imminence and death itself must have been only a merciful hair's-breadth apart for the unfortunate man in the water—and then the destroyer was clear, sheering sharply away from the
Electra
.

In five minutes the
Sirrus
was round again. It was typical of Orr's ice-cold, calculating nerve and of the luck that never deserted him that he should this time choose to rub the
Sirrus
's shattered starboard side along the length of the
Electra
—she was too low in the water now to fall on him—and that he should do so in a momentary spell of slack water. Willing hands caught men as they jumped, cushioned their fall. Thirty seconds and the destroyer was gone again and the decks of the
Electra
were deserted. Two minutes later and a muffled roar shook the sinking ship—her boilers going. 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 only 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 realized, 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!'

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.'