H.M.S. Ulysses Part 31

"Take him below-at once. And organise your crew into ten minute watches: one to keep a telephone watch here, the other four in the Engineers' Flat. From now on. You understand?" He hurried away, as if to avoid the embarra.s.sment of thanks, the murmurs of smiling gladness.

They pa.s.sed the torpedo shop, where the spare torpedoes and compressed air cylinders were stored, climbed the ladder to the boat-deck. Vallery paused a moment, one hand on the boat-winch, the other holding the b.l.o.o.d.y scarf, already frozen almost solid, to mouth and nose. He could just distinguish the shadowy bulkiness of merchantmen on either side:

their masts, though, were oddly visible, swinging lazily, gently against the stars as the s.h.i.+ps rolled to a slight swell, just beginning. He shuddered, pulled his scarf higher round his neck. G.o.d, it was cold! He moved for'ard, leaning heavily on Peterson's arm. The snow, three to four inches deep, cus.h.i.+oned his footsteps as he came up behind an Oerlikon gun. Quietly, he laid a hand on the shoulder of the hooded gunner hunched forward in his c.o.c.kpit.

"Things all right, gunner?"

No reply. The man appeared to stir, moved forward, then fell still again.

"I said,' Are you all right?'" Vallery's voice had hard, i ened. He shook the gunner by the shoulder, turned impatiently to Hartley.

"Asleep, Chief! At Action Stations! We're all dead from lack of sleep, I know-but his mates below are depending on him. There's no excuse. Take his name!"

"Take his name!" Nicholls echoed softly, bent over the I c.o.c.kpit. He shouldn't speak like this, he knew, but he couldn't help it. "Take his name," he repeated. "What for? His next of kin? This man is dead."

The snow was beginning to fall again, cold and wet and feathery, the wind lifting a perceptible fraction. Vallery felt the first icy flakes, unseen in the darkness, brus.h.i.+ng his cheeks, heard the distant moan of the wind in the rigging, lonely and forlorn. He s.h.i.+vered.

"His heater's gone." Hartley withdrew an exploratory hand, straightened up. He seemed tired. "These Oerlikons have black heaters bolted to the side of the c.o.c.kpit. The gunners lean against them, sir, for hours at a time... I'm afraid the fuse must have blown. They've been warned against this, sir, a thousand times."

"Good G.o.d! Good G.o.d!" Vallery shook his head slowly. He felt old, terribly tired. "What a useless, futile way to die... Have him taken to the Canteen, Hartley."

"No good, sir." Nicholls straightened up also. "It'll have to wait.

What with the cold and the quick onset of rigor mortis-well, it'll have to wait."

Vallery nodded a.s.sent, turned heavily away. All at once, the deck 'speaker aft of the winch blared into raucous life, a rude desecration that shattered the chilled hush of the evening.

"Do you hear there? Do you hear there? Captain, or notify Captain, to contact bridge immediately, please." Three times the message was repeated, then the 'speaker clicked off.

Quickly Vallery turned to Hartley.

"Where's the nearest phone, Chief?"

"Right here, sir." Hartley turned back to the Oerlikon, stripped earphones and chest mouthpiece from the dead man. "That is, if the A.A. tower is still manned?"

"What's left of it is."

"Tower? Captain to speak to bridge. Put me through." He handed the receiver to Vallery. "Here you are, sir."

"Thank you. Bridge? Yes, speaking... Yes, yes... Very good.

Detail the Sirrus... No, Commander, nothing I can do anyway-just maintain position, that's all." He took the handset off, handed it back to Hartley.

"Asdic contact from Viking" he said briefly. "Red 90." He turned, looked out over the dark sea, realised the futility of his instinctive action, and shrugged. "We've sent the Sirrus after him. Come on."

Their tour of the boat-deck gun-sites completed with a visit to the mids.h.i.+ps' pom-pom crew, bone-chilled and shaking with cold, under the command of the bearded Doyle, respectfully sulphurous in his outspoken comments on the weather, they dropped down to the main deck again. By this time Vallery was making no protest at all, not even of the most token kind, against Petersen's help and support. He was too glad of them. He blessed Brooks for his foresight and thoughtfulness, and was touched by the rare delicacy and consideration that prompted the big Norwegian to withdraw his supporting arm whenever they spoke to or pa.s.sed an isolated group of men.

Inside the port screen door and just for'ard of the galley, Vallery and Nicholls, waiting as the others knocked the clamps off the hatch leading down to the stokers' mess, heard the m.u.f.fled roar of distant depth-charges-there were four in all-felt the pressure waves strike the hull of the Ulysses. At the first report Vallery had stiffened, head c.o.c.ked in attention, eyes fixed on infinity, in the immemorial manner of a man whose ears are doing the work for all the senses. Hesitated a moment, shrugged, bent his arm to hook a leg over the hatch coaming. There was nothing he could do.

In the centre of the stokers' mess was another, heavier hatch. This, too, was opened. The ladder led down to the steering position, which, as in most modern wars.h.i.+ps, was far removed from the bridge, deep in the heart of the s.h.i.+p below the armour-plating. Here, for a couple of minutes, Vallery talked quietly to the quartermaster, while Petersen, working in the confined s.p.a.ce just outside, opened the ma.s.sive hatch-450 Ibs. of steel, actuated by a counter-balancing pulley weight-which gave access to the hold, to the very bottom of the Ulysses, to the Transmitting Station and No. 2 Low Power Room.

A mazing, confusing mystery of a place, this Low Power Room, confusing to the eye and ear. Round every bulkhead, interspersed with scores of switches, breakers and rheostats, were ranged tiered banks of literally hundreds of fuses, baffling to the untrained eye in their myriad complexity. Baffling, too, was the function of a score or more of low-power generators, nerve-drilling in the frenetic dissonance of i their high-pitched hums. Nicholls straightened up at the foot of the ladder and shuddered involuntarily. A bad place, this. How easily could mind and nerves slide over the edge of insanity under the pounding, Insistent clamour of the desynchronised cacophony. Just then there were only two men there-an Electric Artificer and his a.s.sistant, bent over the big Sperry master gyro, making some lat.i.tude adjustment to the highly complex machinery of the compa.s.s. They looked up quickly, tired surprise melting into tired pleasure. Vallery had a few words with them-speech was difficult in that bedlam of sound-then moved over to the door of the T.S.

He had his glove on the door handle when he froze to complete stillness. Another pattern had exploded, much closer this time, two cable lengths distant, at most. Depth-charges, they knew, but only because reason and experience told them: deep down in the heart of an armour-plated s.h.i.+p there is no sense of explosion, no roar of erruption from a detonating depth-charge. Instead, there is a tremendous, metallic clang, peculiarly tinny in calibre, as if some giant with a giant sledge had struck the s.h.i.+p's side and found the armour loose.

The pattern was followed almost immediately by another two explosions, and the Ulysses was still shuddering under the impact of the second when Vallery turned the handle and walked in. The others filed in after the Captain, Petersen closing the door softly behind him. At once the clamour of the electric motors died gratefully away in the hushed silence of the T.S.

The T.S., fighting heart of the s.h.i.+p, lined like the Low Power Room though it was by banks of fuses, was completely dominated by the two huge electronic computing tables occupying almost half the floor s.p.a.ce.

These, the vital links between the Fire Control Towers and the turrets, were generally the scene of intense, controlled activity: but the almost total destruction of the towers that morning had made them all but useless, and the undermanned T.S. was strangely quiet. Altogether, there were only eight ratings and an officer manning the tables.

The air in the T.S., a T.S. prominently behung with "No Smoking" notices, was blue with tobacco smoke hanging in a flat, lazily drifting cloud near the deckhead, a cloud which spiralled thinly down to smouldering cigarette ends. For Nicholls there was something oddly rea.s.suring in these burning cigarettes: in the unnatural bow-taut stillness, in the inhuman immobility of the men, it was the only guarantee of life.

He looked, in a kind of detached curiosity, at the rating nearest him. A thin, dark-haired man, he was sitting hunched forward, his elbow on the table, the cigarette clipped between his fingers a bare inch from his half-open mouth. The smoke was curling up, lacing its smarting path across vacant, sightless eyes oblivious to the irritation, the ash on the cigarette, itself almost two inches in length, drooping slightly.

Vaguely, Nicholls wondered how long he had been sitting there motionless, utterly motionless... and why?

Expectancy, of course. That was it-expectancy. It was too obvious. Waiting, just waiting. Waiting for what? For the first time it struck Nicholls, struck him with blinding clarity, what it was to wait, to wait with the bowstring of the nerves strung down at inhuman tension, strung down far beyond quivering to the tautened immobility of snapping point, to wait for the torpedo that would send them cras.h.i.+ng into oblivion. For the first time he realised why it was that men who could, invariably it seemd, find something com-plainingly humorous in any place and every place never joked about the T.S. A death trap is not funny. The T.S. was twenty feet below water level: for'ard of it was 'B' magazine, aft of it 'A' boiler-room, on either side of it were fuel tanks, and below it was the unprotected bottom, prime target for acoustic mines and torpedoes. They were ringed, surrounded, by the elements, the threat of death, and it needed only a flash, a wandering spark, to trigger off the annihilating reality... And above them, in the one in a thousand chance of survival, was a series of hatches which could all too easily warp and lock solid under the metal-twisting shock of an explosion. Besides, the primary idea was that the hatches, deliberately heavy in construction, should stay shut in the event of damage, to seal off the flooded compartments below. The men in the T.S. knew this.

"Good-evening. Everything all right down here?" Vallery's voice, quiet and calm as ever, sounded unnaturally loud. Startled faces, white and strained, twisted round, eyes opening in astonishment: the depth-charging, Nicholls realised, had masked their approach.

"Wouldn't worry too much about the racket outside," Vallery went on rea.s.suringly. "A wandering U-boat, and the Sirrus is after him. You can thank your stars you're here and not in that sub."

No one else had spoken. Nicholls, watching them, saw their eyes flickering back from Vallery's face to the forbidden cigarettes, understood their discomfort, their embarra.s.sment at being caught red-handed by the Captain.

"Any reports from the main tower, Brierley?" he asked the officer in charge. He seemed unaware of the strain.

"No, sir. Nothing at all. All quiet above."

"Fine!" Vallery sounded positively cheerful. "No news is good news." He brought his hand out from his pocket, proffered his cigarette case to Brierley. "Smoke? And you, Nicholls?" He took one himself, replaced the case, absently picked up a box of matches lying in front of the nearest gunner and if he noticed the gunner's startled disbelief, the slow beginnings of a smile, the tired shoulders slumping fractionally in a long, soundless sigh of relief, he gave no sign.

The thunderous clanging of more depth-charges drowned the rasping of the hatch, drowned Vallery's harsh, convulsive coughing as the smoke reached his lungs. Only the reddening of the sodden hand-towel betrayed him. As the last vibration died away, he looked up, concern in his eyes.

"Good G.o.d! Does it always sound like that down here?"

Brierley smiled faintly. "More or less, sir. Usually more."

Vallery looked slowly round the men in the T.S., nodded for'ard. 'B' magazine there, isn't it?"

"Yes, sir."

"And nice big fuel tanks all around you?"

Brierley nodded. Every eye was on the captain.

"I see. Frankly, I'd rather have my own job-wouldn't have yours for a pension... Nicholls, I think we'll spend a few minutes down here, have our smoke in peace. Besides,", he grinned, "think of the increased fervour with which we'll count our blessings when we get out of here!"

He stayed five minutes, talking quietly to Brierley and his men.