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She had four twin gun-turrets, two for’ard, two aft, 5.25 quick-firing and dual-purpose—equally effective against surface targets and aircraft. These were controlled from the Director Towers, the main one for’ard, just above and abaft of the bridge, the auxiliary aft. From these towers, all essential data about bearing, wind-speed, drift, range, own speed, enemy speed, respective angles of course were fed to the giant electronic computing tables in the Transmitting Station, the fighting heart of the ship, situated, curiously enough, in the very bowels of the Ulysses, deep below the water-line, and thence automatically to the turrets as two simple factors—elevation and training. The turrets, of course, could also fight independently.
These were the main armament. The remaining guns were purely AA—the batteries of multiple pompoms, firing two-pounders in rapid succession, not particularly accurate but producing a blanket curtain sufficient to daunt any enemy pilot, and isolated clusters of twin Oerlikons, high-precision, high-velocity weapons, vicious and deadly in trained hands.
Finally, the Ulysses carried her depth-charges and torpedoes—36 charges only, a negligible number compared to that carried by many corvettes and destroyers, and the maximum number that could be dropped in one pattern was six. But one depth-charge carries 450 lethal pounds of Amatol, and the Ulysses had destroyed two U-boats during the preceding winter. The 21-inch torpedoes, each with its 750-pound warhead of TNT, lay sleek and menacing, in the triple tubes on the main deck, one set on either side of the after funnel. These had not yet been blooded.
This, then, was the Ulysses. The complete, the perfect fighting machine, man’s ultimate, so far, in his attempt to weld science and savagery into an instrument of destruction. The perfect fighting machine—but only so long as it was manned and serviced by a perfectly-integrating, smoothly functioning team. A ship—any ship—can never be better than its crew. And the crew of the Ulysses was disintegrating, breaking up: the lid was clamped on the volcano, but the rumblings never ceased.
The first signs of further trouble came within three hours of clearing harbour. As always, mine-sweepers swept the channel ahead of them, but, as always, Vallery left nothing to chance. It was one of the reasons why he—and the Ulysses—had survived thus far. At 0620 he streamed paravanes—the slender, torpedo-shaped bodies which angled out from the bows, one on either side, on special paravane wire. In theory the wires connecting mines to their moorings on the floor of the sea were deflected away from the ship, guided out to the paravanes themselves and severed by cutters: the mines would then float to the top to be exploded or sunk by small arms.
At 0900, Vallery ordered the paravanes to be recovered. The Ulysses slowed down. The First Lieutenant, Lieutenant Commander Carrington, went to the fo’c’sle to supervise operations: seamen, winch drivers, and the Subs in charge of either side closed up to their respective stations.
Quickly the recovery booms were freed from their angled crutches, just abaft the port and starboard lights, swung out and rigged with recovery wires. Immediately, the three ton winches on ‘B’ gun-deck took the strain, smoothly, powerfully; the paravanes cleared the water.
Then it happened. It was A.B. Ferry’s fault that it happened. And it was just ill-luck that the port winch was suspect, operating on a power circuit with a defective breaker, just ill-luck that Ralston was the winch-driver, a taciturn, bitter-mouthed Ralston to whom, just then, nothing mattered a damn, least of all what he said and did. But it was Carslake’s responsibility that the affair developed into what it did.
Sub-Lieutenant Carslake’s presence there, on top of the Carley floats, directing the handling of the port wire, represented the culmination of a series of mistakes. A mistake on the part of his father, Rear-Admiral, Rtd, who had seen in his son a man of his own calibre, had dragged him out of Cambridge in 1939 at the advanced age of twenty-six and practically forced him into the Navy: a weakness on the part of his first CO, a corvette captain who had known his father and recommended him as a candidate for a commission: a rare error of judgment on the part of the selection board of the King Alfred, who had granted him his commission; and a temporary lapse on the part of the Commander, who had assigned him to this duty, in spite of Carslake’s known incompetence and inability to handle men.
He had the face of an overbred racehorse, long, lean and narrow, with prominent pale-blue eyes and protruding upper teeth. Below his scanty fair hair, his eyebrows were arched in a perpetual question mark: beneath the long, pointed nose, the supercilious curl of the upper lip formed the perfect complement to the eyebrows. His speech was a shocking caricature of the King’s English: his short vowels were long, his long ones interminable: his grammar was frequently execrable. He resented the Navy, he resented his long overdue promotion to Lieutenant, he resented the way the men resented him. In brief, Sub-Lieutenant Carslake was the quintessence of the worst by-product of the English public-school system. Vain, superior, uncouth and ill-educated, he was a complete ass.
He was making an ass of himself now. Striving to maintain balance on the rafts, feet dramatically braced at a wide angle, he shouted unceasing, unnecessary commands at his men. CPO Hartley groaned aloud, but kept otherwise silent in the interests of discipline. But AB Ferry felt himself under no such restraints.
‘’Ark at his Lordship,’ he murmured to Ralston. ‘All for the Skipper’s benefit.’ He nodded at where Vallery was leaning over the bridge, twenty feet above Carslake’s head. ‘Impresses him no end, so his nibs reckons.’
‘Just you forget about Carslake and keep your eyes on that wire,’ Ralston advised. ‘And take these damned great gloves off. One of these days—’
‘Yes, yes, I know,’ Ferry jeered. ‘The wire’s going to snag ‘em and wrap me round the drum.’ He fed in the hawser expertly. ‘Don’t you worry, chum, it’s never going to happen to me.’
But it did. It happened just then. Ralston, watching the swinging paravane closely, flicked a glance inboard. He saw the broken strand inches from Ferry, saw it hook viciously into the gloved hand and drag him towards the spinning drum before Ferry had a chance to cry out.
Ralston’s reaction was immediate. The footbrake was only six inches away—but that was too far. Savagely he spun the control wheel, full ahead to full reverse in a split second. Simultaneoulsy with Ferry’s cry of pain as his forearm crushed against the lip of the drum came a muffled explosion and clouds of acrid smoke from the winch as £500-worth of electric motor burnt out in a searing flash.
Immediately the wire began to run out again, accelerating momentarily under the dead weight of the lunging paravane. Ferry went with it. Twenty feet from the winch the wire passed through a snatch-block on the deck: if Ferry was lucky, he might lose only his hand.
He was less than four feet away when Ralston’s foot stamped viciously on the brake. The racing drum screamed to a shuddering stop, the paravane crashed down into the sea and the wire, weightless now, swung idly to the rolling of the ship.
Carslake scrambled down off the Carley, his sallow face suffused with anger. He strode up to Ralston.
‘You bloody fool!’ he mouthed furiously. ‘You’ve lost us that paravane. By God, LTO, you’d better explain yourself! Who the hell gave you orders to do anything?’
Ralston’s mouth tightened, but he spoke civilly enough.
‘Sorry, sir. Couldn’t help it—it had to be done. Ferry’s arm—’
‘To hell with Ferry’s arm!’ Carslake was almost screaming with rage. ‘I’m in charge here—and I give the orders. Look! Look!’ He pointed to the swinging wire. ‘Your work, Ralston, you—you blundering idiot! It’s gone, gone, do you understand, gone?’
Ralston looked over the side with an air of large surprise.
‘Well, now, so it is.’ The eyes were bleak, the tone provocative, as he looked back at Carslake and patted the winch. ‘And don’t forget this—it’s gone too, and it costs a ruddy sight more than any paravane.’
‘I don’t want any of your damned impertinence!’ Carslake shouted. His mouth was working, his voice shaking with passion. ‘What you need is to have some discipline knocked into you and, by God, I’m going to see you get it, you insolent young bastard!’
Ralston flushed darkly. He took one quick step forward, his fist balled, then relaxed heavily as the powerful hands of CPO Hartley caught his swinging arm. But the damage was done now. There was nothing for it but the bridge.
Vallery listened calmly, patiently, as Carslake made his outraged report. He felt far from patient. God only knew, he thought wearily, he had more than enough to cope with already. But the unruffled professional mask of detachment gave no hint of his feelings.
‘Is this true, Ralston?’ he asked quietly, as Carslake finished his tirade. ‘You disobeyed orders, swore at the Lieutenant and insulted him?’
‘No, sir.’ Ralston sounded as weary as the Captain felt. ‘It’s not true.’ He looked at Carslake, his face expressionless, then turned back to the Captain. ‘I didn’t disobey orders—there were none. Chief Petty Officer Hartley knows that.’ He nodded at the burly impassive figure who had accompanied them to the bridge. ‘I didn’t swear at him. I hate to sound like a sea-lawyer, sir, but there are plenty of witnesses that Sub-Lieutenant Carslake swore at me—several times. And if I insulted him’—he smiled faintly—‘it was pure self-defence.’
‘This is no place for levity, Ralston.’ Vallery’s voice was cold. He was puzzled—the boy baffled him. The bitterness, the brittle composure—he could understand these; but not the flickering humour. ‘As it happens, I saw the entire incident. Your promptness, your resource, saved the rating’s arm, possibly even his life—and against that a lost paravane and wrecked winch are nothing.’ Carslake whitened at the implied rebuke. ‘I’m grateful for that—thank you. As for the rest, Commander’s Defaulters tomorrow morning. Carry on, Ralston.’
Ralston compressed his lips, looked at Vallery for a long moment, then saluted abruptly and left the bridge.
Carslake turned round appealingly.
‘Captain, sir…’ He stopped at the sight of Vallery’s upraised hand.
‘Not now, Carslake. We’ll discuss it later.’ He made no attempt to conceal the dislike in his voice. ‘You may carry on, Lieutenant. Hartley—a word with you.’
Hartley stepped forward. Forty-four years old, CPO Hartley was the Royal Navy at its best. Very tough, very kindly and very competent, he enjoyed the admiration of all, ranging from the vast awe of the youngest Ordinary Seaman to the warm respect of the Captain himself. They had been together from the beginning.
‘Well, Chief, let’s have it. Between ourselves.’
‘Nothing to it really, sir.’ Hartley shrugged. ‘Ralston did a fine job. Sub-Lieutenant Carslake lost his head. Maybe Ralston was a bit sassy, but he was provoked. He’s only a kid, but he’s a professional—and he doesn’t like being pushed around by amateurs.’ Hartley paused and looked up at the sky. ‘Especially bungling amateurs.’
Vallery smothered a smile.
‘Could that be interpreted as—er—a criticism, Chief?’
‘I suppose so, sir.’ He nodded forward. ‘A few ruffled feathers down there, sir. Men are pretty sore about this. Shall I—?’
‘Thanks, Chief. Play it down as much as possible.’
When Hartley had gone, Vallery turned to Tyndall.
‘Well, you heard it, sir? Another straw in the wind.’
‘A straw?’ Tyndall was acid. ‘Hundreds of straws. More like a bloody great cornstack…Find out who was outside my door last night?’
During the middle watch, Tyndall had heard an unusual scraping noise outside the wardroom entry to his day cabin, had gone to investigate himself: in his hurry to reach the door, he’d knocked a chair over, and seconds later he had heard a clatter and the patter of running feet in the passage outside; but, when he had thrown the door open, the passage had been empty. Nothing there, nothing at all—except a file on the deck, below the case of Navy Colt .445s; the chain on the trigger guards was almost through.
Vallery shook his head.
‘No idea at all, sir.’ His face was heavy with worry. ‘Bad, really bad.’
Tyndall shivered in an ice flurry. He grinned crookedly.
‘Real Captain Teach stuff, eh? Pistols and cutlasses and black eye-patches, storming the bridge…’
Vallery shook his head impatiently.
‘No, not that. You know it, sir. Defiance, maybe, but—well, no more. The point is, a marine is on guard at the keyboard—just round the corner of that passage. Night and day. Bound to have seen him. He denies—’
‘The rot has gone that far?’ Tyndall whistled softly. ‘A black day, Captain. What does our fire-eating young Captain of Marines say to that?’
‘Foster? Pooh-poohs the very idea—and just about twists the ends of his moustache off. Worried to hell. So’s Evans, his Colour-Seargeant.’
‘So am I!’ said Tyndall feelingly. He glared into space. The Officer of the Watch, who happened to be in his direct line of vision, shifted uncomfortably. ‘Wonder what old Socrates thinks of it all, now? Maybe only a pill-roller, but the wisest head we’ve got…Well, speak of the devil!’
The gate had just swung open, and a burly, unhappy-looking figure, duffel-coated, oilskinned and wearing a Russian beaverskin helmet—the total effect was of an elderly grizzly bear caught in a thunderstorm—shuffled across the duckboards of the bridge. He brought up facing the Kent screen—an inset, circular sheet of glass which revolved at high speed and offered a clear view in all weather conditions—rain, hail, snow. For half a minute he peered miserably through this and obviously didn’t like what he saw.
He sniffed loudly and turned away, beating his arms against the cold.
‘Ha! A deck officer on the bridge of HM Cruisers. The romance, the glamour! Ha!’ He hunched his oilskinned shoulders, and looked more miserable than ever. ‘No place this for a civilized man like myself. But you know how it is, gentlemen—the clarion call of duty…’
Tyndall chuckled.
‘Give him plenty of time, Captain. Slow starters, these medics, you know, but—’
Brooks cut in, voice and face suddenly serious.
‘Some more trouble, Captain. Couldn’t tell it over the phone. Don’t know how much it’s worth.’
‘Trouble?’ Vallery broke off, coughed harshly into his handkerchief. ‘Sorry,’ he apologized. ‘Trouble? There’s nothing else, old chap. Just had some ourselves.’
‘That bumptious young fool, Carslake? Oh, I know all right. My spies are everywhere. Bloke’s a bloody menace…However, my story.
‘Young Nicholls was doing some path. work late last night in the dispensary—on TB specimens. Two, three hours in there. Lights out in the bay, and the patients either didn’t know or had forgotten he was there. Heard Stoker Riley—a real trouble-maker, that Riley—and the others planning a locked-door, sit-down strike in the boiler-room when they return to duty. A sit-down strike in a boiler-room. Good lord, it’s fantastic! Anyway, Nicholls let it slide—pretended he hadn’t heard.’
‘What!’ Vallery’s voice was sharp, edged with anger. ‘And Nicholls ignored it, didn’t report it to me! Happened last night, you say. Why wasn’t I told—immediately? Get Nicholls up here—now. No, never mind.’ He reached out to pick up the bridge phone. ‘I’ll get him myself.’
Brooks laid a gauntleted hand on Vallery’s arm.
‘I wouldn’t do that, sir. Nicholls is a smart boy—very smart indeed. He knew that if he let the men know they had been overheard, they would know that he must report it to you. And then you’d have been bound to take action—and open provocation of trouble is the last thing you want. You said so yourself in the wardroom last night.’
Vallery hesitated. ‘Yes, yes, of course I said that, but—well, Doc, this is different. It could be a focal point for spreading the idea to—’
‘I told you, sir,’ Brooks interrupted softly. ‘Johnny Nicholls is a very smart boy. He’s got a big notice, in huge red letters, outside the Sick Bay door: “Keep clear: Suspected scarlet fever infection.” Kills me to watch ‘em. Everybody avoids the place like the plague. Not a hope of communicating with their pals in the Stokers’ Mess.’
Tyndall guffawed at him, and even Vallery smiled slightly.
‘Sounds fine, Doc. Still, I should have been told last night.’
‘Why should you be woken up and told every little thing in the middle of the night?’ Brooks’s voice was brusque. ‘Sheer selfishness on my part, but what of it? When things get bad, you damn well carry this ship on your back—and when we’ve all got to depend on you, we can’t afford to have you anything less than as fit as possible. Agreed, Admiral?’
Tyndall nodded solemnly. ‘Agreed, O Socrates. A very complicated way of saying that you wish the Captain to have a good night’s sleep. But agreed.’
Brooks grinned amiably. ‘Well, that’s all, gentlemen. See you all at the court-martial—I hope.’ He cocked a jaundiced eye over a shoulder, into the thickening snow. ‘Won’t the Med be wonderful, gentlemen?’ He sighed and slid effortlessly into his native Galway brogue. ‘Malta in the spring. The beach at Sliema—with the white houses behind—where we picnicked, a hundred years ago. The soft winds, me darlin’ boys, the warm winds, the blue skies and Chianti under a striped umbrealla—’
‘Off!’ Tyndall roared. ‘Get off this bridge, Brooks, or I’ll—’
‘I’m gone already,’ said Brooks. ‘A sit-down strike in the boiler-room! Ha! First thing you know, there’ll be a rash of male suffragettes chaining themselves to the guardrails!’ The gate clanged shut behind him.
Vallery turned to the Admiral, his face grave.
‘Looks as if you were right about that cornstack, sir.’
Tyndall grunted, non-commitally.
‘Maybe. Trouble is, the men have nothing to do right now except brood and curse and feel bitter about everything. Later on it’ll be all right—perhaps.’
‘When we get—ah—busier, you mean?’
‘Mmm. When you’re fighting for your life, to keep the ship afloat—well, you haven’t much time for plots and pondering over the injustices of fate. Self-preservation is still the first law of nature…Speaking to the men tonight. Captain?’
‘Usual routine broadcast, yes. In the first dog, when we’re all closed up to dusk action stations.’ Vallery smiled briefly. ‘Make sure that they’re all awake.’
‘Good. Lay it on thick and heavy. Give ’em plenty to think about—and, if I’m any judge of Vincent Starr’s hints, we’re going to have plenty to think about this trip. It’ll keep ’em occupied.’
Vallery laughed. The laugh transformed his thin sensitive face. He seemed genuinely amused.
Tyndall lifted an interrogatory eyebrow. Vallery smiled back at him.
‘Just passing thoughts, sir. As Spencer Faggot would have said, things have come to a pretty pass…Things are bad indeed, when only the enemy can save us.’
THREE Monday Afternoon (#ulink_3ad32147-6c68-5900-8064-42480dd19acc)
All day long the wind blew steadily out of the nor’nor’-west. A strong wind, and blowing stronger. A cold wind, a sharp wind full of little knives, it carried with it snow and ice and the strange dead smell born of the forgotten ice-caps that lie beyond the Barrier. It wasn’t a gusty, blowy wind. It was a settled, steady kind of wind, and it stayed fine on the starboard bow from dawn to dusk. Slowly, stealthily, it was lifting a swell. Men like Carrington, who knew every sea and port in the world, like Vallery and Hartley, looked at it and were troubled and said nothing.
The mercury crept down and the snow lay where it fell. The tripods and yardarms were great, glistening Xmas trees, festooned with woolly stays and halliards. On the main mast, a brown smear appeared now and then, daubed on by a wisp of smoke from the after funnel, felt rather than seen: in a moment, it would vanish. The snow lay on the deck and drifted. It softened the anchor-cables on the fo’c’sle deck into great, fluffy ropes of cottonwool, and drifted high against the breakwater before ‘A’ turret. It piled up against the turrets and superstructure, swished silently into the bridge and lay there slushily underfoot. It blocked the great eyes of the Director’s range-finder, it crept unseen along passages, it sifted soundlessly down hatches. It sought out the tiniest unprotected chink in metal and wood, and made the mess-decks dank and clammy and uncomfortable: it defied gravity and slid effortlessly up trouser legs, up under the skirts of coats and oilskins, up under duffel hoods, and made men thoroughly miserable. A miserable world, a wet world, but always and predominately a white world of softness and beauty and strangely muffled sound. All day long it fell, this snow, fell steadily and persistently, and the Ulysses slid on silently through the swell, a ghost ship in a ghost world.
But not alone in her world. She never was, these days. She had companionship, a welcome, reassuring companionship, the company of the 14th Aircraft Squadron, a tough, experienced and battle-hardened escort group, almost as legendary now as that fabulous Force 8, which had lately moved South to take over that other suicide run, the Malta convoys.
Like the Ulysses, the squadron steamed NNW all day long. There were no dog-legs, no standard course alterations. Tyndall abhorred the zig-zag, and, except on actual convoy and then only in known U-boat waters, rarely used it. He believed—as many captains did—that the zig-zag was a greater potential source of danger than the enemy. He had seen the Curaçoa, 4,200 tons of cockle-shell cruiser, swinging on a routine zig-zag, being trampled into the grey depths of the Atlantic under the mighty forefoot of the Queen Mary. He never spoke of it, but the memory stayed with him.
The Ulysses was in her usual position—the position dictated by her role of Squadron flagship—as nearly as possible in the centre of the thirteen warships.
Dead ahead steamed the cruiser Stirling. An old Cardiff class cruiser, she was a solid, reliable ship, many years older and many knots slower than the Ulysses, adequately armed with five single six-inch guns, but hardly built to hammer her way through the Arctic gales: in heavy seas, her wetness was proverbial. Her primary role was squadron defence: her secondary, to take over the squadron if the flagship were crippled or sunk.
The carriers—Defender, Invader, Wrestler and Blue Ranger—were in position to port and starboard, the Defender and Wrestler slightly ahead of the Ulysses, the others slightly astern. It seemed de rigeur for these escort carriers to have names ending in—er and the fact that the Navy already had a Wrestler—a Force 8 destroyer (and a Defender, which had been sunk some time previously off Tobruk)—was blithely ignored. These were not the 35,000-ton giants of the regular fleet—ships like the Indefatigable and the Illustrious—but 1520,000 ton auxiliary carriers, irreverently known as banana boats. They were converted merchant-men, American-built: these had been fitted out at Pascagoula, Mississippi, and sailed across the Atlantic by mixed British-American crews.
They were capable of eighteen knots, a relatively high speed for a single-screw ship—the Wrestler had two screws—but some of them had as many as four Busch-Sulzer Diesels geared to the one shaft. Their painfully rectangular flight-decks, 450 feet in length, were built up above the open fo’c’sle—one could see right under the flight-deck for’ard of the bridge—and flew off about thirty fighters—Grummans, Seafires or, most often, Corsairs—or twenty light bombers. They were odd craft, awkward, ungainly and singularly unwarlike; but over the months they had done a magnificent job of providing umbrella cover against air attack, of locating and destroying enemy ships and submarines: their record of kills, above, on and below the water was impressive and frequently disbelieved by the Admiralty.
Nor was the destroyer screen calculated to inspire confidence among the naval strategists at Whitehall. It was a weird hodge-podge, and the term ‘destroyer’ was a purely courtesy one.
One, the Nairn, was a River class frigate of 1,500 tons: another, the Eager, was a Fleet Minesweeper, and a third, the Gannet, better known as Huntley and Palmer, was a rather elderly and very tired Kingfisher corvette, supposedly restricted to coastal duties only. There was no esoteric mystery as to the origin of her nickname—a glance at her silhouette against the sunset was enough. Doubtless her designer had worked within Admiralty specifications: even so, he must have had an off day.
The Vectra and the Viking were twin-screwed, modified ‘V’ and ‘W’ destroyers, in the superannuated class now, lacking in speed and firepower, but tough and durable. The Baliol was a diminutive Hunt class destroyer which had no business in the great waters of the north. The Portpatrick, a skeleton-lean four stacker, was one of the fifty lend-lease World War I destroyers from the United States. No one even dared guess at her age. An intriguing ship at any time, she became the focus of all eyes in the fleet and a source of intense interest whenever the weather broke down. Rumour had it that two of her sister ships had overturned in the Atlantic during a gale; human nature being what it is, everyone wanted a grandstand view whenever weather conditions deteriorated to an extent likely to afford early confirmation of these rumours. What the crew of the Portpatrick thought about it all was difficult to say.
