H. M. S. Ulysses (35 page)

The bombs missed. They missed by about thirty feet, exploding on contact with the water just abaft the bridge. For the men in the TS, engine- and boiler-rooms, the crash and concussion must have been frightful—literally ear-shattering. Waterspouts, twenty feet in diameter at their turbulent bases, streaked up whitely into the twilight, high above the truncated masts, hung there momentarily, then collapsed in drenching cascades on the bridge and boat-deck aft, soaking, saturating, every gunner on the pom-pom and in the open Oerlikon cockpits. The temperature stood at 2° above zero— 30° of frost.

More dangerously, the blinding sheets of water completely unsighted the gunners. Apart from a lone Oerlikon on a sponson below the starboard side of the bridge, the next Condor pressed home its attack against a minimum of resistance. The approach was perfect, dead fore-and-aft on the centre line; but the pilot overshot, probably in his anxiety to hold course. Three bombs this time: for a second, it seemed that they must miss, but the first smashed into the fo'c'sle between the breakwater and the capstan, exploding in the flat below, heaving up the deck in a tangled wreckage of broken steel. Even as the explosion died, the men on the bridge could hear a curious clanking rattle: the explosion must have shattered the fo'c'sle capstan and Blake stopper simultaneously, and sheared the retaining shackle on the anchor cable, and the starboard anchor, completely out of control, was plummeting down to the depths of the Arctic.

The other bombs fell into the sea directly ahead, and from the
Stirling
, a mile ahead, it seemed that the
Ulysses
disappeared under the great column of water. But the water subsided, and the
Ulysses
steamed on, apparently unharmed. From dead ahead, the sweeping lift of the bows hid all damage, and there was neither flame nor smoke—hundreds of gallons of water, falling from the sky and pouring in through the great jagged holes in the deck, had killed any fire there was. The
Ulysses
was still a lucky ship . . . And then, at last, after twenty months of the fantastic escapes, the fabulous good fortune that had made her a legend, a byword for immunity throughout all the north, the luck of the
Ulysses
ran out.

Ironically, the
Ulysses
brought disaster on herself. The main armament, the 5.25s aft, had opened up now, was pumping its 100-lb shells at the diving bombers, at point-blank range and over equivalent of open sights. The very first shell from ‘X' turret sheared away the starboard wing of the third Condor between the engines, tore it completely away to spin slowly like a fluttering leaf into the darkly-rolling sea. For a fraction of a second the Folke-Wulf held on course, then abruptly the nose tipped over and the giant plane screamed down in an almost vertical dive, her remaining engines inexplicably accelerating to a deafening crescendo as she hurtled arrowstraight for the deck of the
Ulysses
.

There was no time to take any avoiding action, no time to think, no time even to hope. A cluster of jettisoned bombs crashed in to the boiling wake—the
Ulysses
was already doing upwards of thirty knots—and two more crashed through the poop-deck, the first exploding in the after seamen's mess-deck, the other in the marines' mess-deck. One second later, with a tremendous roar and in a blinding sheet of gasoline flame, the Condor itself, at a speed of upwards of three hundred mph, crashed squarely into the front of ‘Y' turret.

Incredibly, that was the last attack on the
Ulysses
—incredibly, because the
Ulysses
was defenceless now, wide open to any air attack from astern. ‘Y' turret was gone, ‘X' turret, still magically undamaged, was half-buried under the splintered wreckage of the Condor, blinded by the smoke and leaping flame. The boat-deck Oerlikons, too, had fallen silent. The gunners, half-drowned under the deluge of less than a minute ago, were being frantically dragged from their cockpits: a difficult enough task at any time, it was almost impossible with their clothes already frozen solid, their duffels cracking and crackling like splintering matchwood as the men were dragged over the side of their cockpits. With all speed, they were rushed below, thrust into the galley passage to thaw, literally to thaw: agony, excruciating agony, but the only alternative to the quick and certain death which would have come to them in their ice-bound cockpits.

The remaining Condors had pulled away in a slow climbing turn to starboard. They were surrounded, bracketed fore and aft and on either side, by scores of woolly, expanding puffs of exploding AA shells, but they flew straight through these, charmed, unhurt. Already, they were beginning to disappear into the clouds, to settle down on a south-east course for home. Strange, Vallery thought vaguely, one would have expected them to hammer home their initial advantage of surprise, to concentrate on the crippled
Ulysses
: certainly, thus far the Condor crews had shown no lack of courage . . . He gave it up, turned his attention to more immediate worries. And there was plenty to worry about.

The
Ulysses
was heavily on fire aft—a deck and mess-deck fire, admittedly, but potentially fatal for all that—‘X' and ‘Y' magazines were directly below. Already, dozens of men from the damage control parties were running aft, stumbling and falling on the rolling ice-covered deck, unwinding the hose drums behind them, occasionally falling flat on their faces as two ice-bound coils locked together, the abruptly tightening hose jerking them off their feet. Others stumbled past them, carrying the big, red foam-extinguishers on their shoulders or under their arms. One unfortunate seaman—A.B. Ferry who had left the Sick Bay in defiance of strict orders—running down the port alley past the shattered Canteen, slipped and fell abreast ‘X' turret: the port wing of the Condor, even as it had sheared off and plunged into the sea, had torn away the guard-rails here, and Ferry, hands and feet scrabbling frantically at the smooth ice of the deck, his broken arm clawing uselessly at one of the remaining stanchions, slid slowly, inevitably over the side and was gone. For a second, the high-pitched, fear-stricken shriek rose thin and clear above the roaring of the flames, died abruptly as the water closed over him. The propellers were almost immediately below.

The men with the extinguishers were the first into action, as, indeed, they had to be when fighting a petrol fire—water would only have made matters worse, have increased the area of the fire by washing the petrol in all directions, and the petrol, being lighter than water, immiscible and so floating to the top, would have burned as furiously as ever. But the foam-extinguishers were of only limited efficiency, not so much because several release valves had jammed solid in the intense cold as because of the intense white heat which made close approach almost impossible, while the smaller carbon-tet extinguishers, directed against electrical fires below, were shockingly ineffective: these extinguishers had never been in action before and the crew of the
Ulysses
had known for a long time of the almost magical properties of the extinguisher liquid for removing the most obstinate stains and marks in clothes. You may convince a WT rating of the lethal nature of 2,000 volts: you may convince a gunner of the madness of matches in a magazine: you may convince a torpedoman of the insanity of juggling with fulminate of mercury: but you will never convince any of them of the criminal folly of draining off just a few drops of carbon-tetrachloride . . . Despite stringent periodical checks, most of the extinguishers were only half-full. Some were completely empty.

The hoses were little more effective. Two were coupled up to the starboard mains and the valves turned: the hoses remained lifeless, empty. The starboard salt-water line had frozen solid—common enough with fresh-water systems, this, but not with salt. A third hose on the port side was coupled up, but the release valve refused to turn: attacked with hammers and crowbars, it sheered off at the base—at extremely low temperatures, molecular changes occur in metals, cut tensile strength to a fraction—the high-pressure water drenching everyone in the vicinity. Spicer, the dead Admiral's pantry-boy, a stricken-eyed shadow of his former cheerful self, flung away his hammer and wept in anger and frustration. The other port valve worked, but it took an eternity for the water to force its way through the flattened frozen hose.

Gradually, the deck fire was brought under control—less through the efforts of the firefighters than the fact that there was little inflammable material left after the petrol had burnt off. Hoses and extinguishers were then directed through the great jagged rents on the poop to the figures roaring in the mess-deck below, while two asbestos-suited figures clambered over and struggled through the red-hot, jangled mass of smoking wreckage on the poop. Nicholls had one of the suits, Leading Telegraphist Brown, a specialist in rescue work, the other.

Brown was the first on the scene. Picking his way gingerly, he climbed up to the entrance of ‘Y' turret. Watchers in the port and starboard alleyways saw him pause there, fighting to tie back the heavy steel door—it had been crashing monotonously backwards and forwards with the rolling of the cruiser. Then they saw him step inside. Less than ten seconds later they saw him appear at the door again, on his knees and clutching desperately at the side for support. His entire body was arching convulsively and he was being violently sick into his oxygen mask.

Nicholls saw this, wasted time neither on ‘Y' turret nor on the charred skeletons still trapped in the incinerated fuselage of the Condor. He climbed quickly up the vertical steel ladders to ‘X' gun-deck, moved round to the back and tried to open the door. The clips were jammed, immovable—whether from cold or metal distortion he did not know. He looked round for some lever, stepped aside as he saw Doyle, duffel coat smouldering, haggard face set and purposeful under the beard, approaching with a sledge in his hand. A dozen heavy, well-directed blows—the clanging, Nicholls thought, must be almost intolerable inside the hollow amplifier of the turret—and the door was open. Doyle secured it, stepped aside to let Nicholls enter.

Nicholls climbed inside. There had been no need to worry about that racket outside, he thought wryly. Every man in the turret was stone dead. Colour-Sergeant Evans was sitting bolt upright in his seat, rigid and alert in death as he had been in life: beside him lay Foster, the dashing, fiery Captain of Marines, whom death became so ill. The rest were all sitting or lying quietly at their stations, apparently unharmed and quite unmarked except for an occasional tiny trickle of blood from ear and mouth, trickles already coagulated in the intense cold—the speed of the
Ulysses
had carried the flames aft, away from the turret. The concussion must have been tremendous, death instantaneous. Heavily, Nicholls bent over the communications number, gently detached his headset, and called the bridge.

Vallery himself took the message, turned back to Turner. He looked old, defeated.

‘That was Nicholls,' he said. Despite all he could do, the shock and sorrow showed clearly in every deeply-etched line in that pitiably wasted face. ‘“Y” turret is gone—no survivors. “X” turret seems intact—but everyone inside is dead. Concussion, he says. Fires in the after mess-deck still not under control . . . Yes, boy, what is it?'

‘“Y” magazine, sir,' the seaman said uncertainly. ‘They want to speak to the gunnery officer.'

‘Tell them he's not available,' Vallery said shortly. ‘We haven't time . . . ' He broke off, looked up sharply. ‘Did you say “Y” magazine? Here, let me have that phone.'

He took the receiver, pushed back the hood of his duffel coat.

‘Captain speaking, “Y” magazine. What is it? . . . What? Speak up man, I can't hear you . . . Oh, damn!' He swung round on the bridge LTO ‘Can you switch this receiver on to the relay amplifier? I can't hear a . . . Ah, that's better.'

The amplifier above the chart-house crackled into life—a pecularily throaty, husky life, doubly difficult to understand under the heavy overlay of a slurred Glasgow accent.

‘Can ye hear me now?' the speaker boomed.

‘I can hear you.' Vallery's own voice echoed loudly over the amplifier. ‘McQuater, isn't it?'

‘Aye, it's me, sir. How did ye ken?' Even through the speaker the surprise was unmistakable. Shocked and exhausted though he was, Vallery found himself smiling.

‘Never mind that now, McQuater. Who's in charge down there— Gardiner, isn't it?'

‘Yes, sir. Gardiner.'

‘Put him on, will you?' There was a pause.

‘Ah canna, sir. Gardiner's deid.'

‘Dead!' Vallery was incredulous. ‘Did you say “dead”, McQuater?'

‘Aye, and he's no' the only one.' The voice was almost truculent, but Vallery's ear caught the faint tremor below. ‘Ah was knocked oot masel', but Ah'm fine now.'

Vallery paused, waited for the boy's bout of hoarse, harsh coughing to pass.

‘But—but—what happened?'

‘How should Ah know—Ah mean, Ah dinna ken—Ah don't know, sir. A helluva bang and then—ach, Ah'm no' sure whit happened . . . Gardiner's mooth's all blood.'

‘How—how many of you are left?'

‘Just Barker, Williamson and masel', sir. Naebody else—just us.'

‘And—and they're all right, McQuater?'

‘Ach, they're fine. But Barker thinks he's deein'. He's in a gey bad wey. Ah think he's gone clean aff his trolley, sir.'