Алистер Маклин - HMS Ulysses

On the bridge of the Ulysses , Chrysler – Chrysler of the uncanny eyesight and super-sensitive hearing, was the first to hear it. Soon everyone else heard it too, the distant roar, throbbing and intermittent, of a Condor approaching from the south. After a time they became aware that the Condor was no longer approaching, but sudden hope died almost as it was born. There was no mistaking it now – the deeper, heavier note of a Focke-Wulf in maximum climb. The Commander turned wearily to Carrington.

‘It’s Charlie, all right,’ he said grimly. ‘The bastard’s spotted us. He’ll already have radioed Alta Fjord and a hundred to one in anything you like that he’s going to drop a market flare at 10,000 feet or so. It’ll be seen fifty miles away.’

‘Your money’s safe.’ The First Lieutenant was withering. ‘I never bet against dead certs . . . And then, by and by, maybe a few flares at a couple of thousand?’

‘Exactly!’ Turner nodded. ‘Pilot, how far do you reckon we’re from Alta Fjord – in flying time, I mean?’

‘For a 200-knot plane, just over an hour,’ the Kapok Kid said quietly. His ebullience was gone: he had been silent and dejected since Vallery had died two hours previously.

‘An hour!’ Carrington exclaimed. ‘And they’ll be here. My God, sir,’ he went on wonderingly, ‘they’re really out to get us. We’ve never been bombed nor torpedoed at night before. We’ve never had the Tirpitz after us before. We never–’

‘The Tirpitz ,’ Turner interrupted. ‘Just where the hell is that ship? She’s had time to come up with us. Oh, I know it’s dark and we’ve changed course,’ he added, as Carrington made to object, ‘but a fast destroyer screen would have picked us – Preston!’ He broke off, spoke sharply to the Signal Petty Officer. ‘Look alive, man! That ship’s flashing us.’

‘Sorry, sir.’ The signalman, swaying on his feet with exhaustion, raised his Aldis, clacked out an acknowledgement. Again the light on the merchantman began to wink furiously.

‘“Transverse fracture engine bedplate,”’ Preston read out. ‘“Damage serious: shall have to moderate speed.”’

‘Acknowledge,’ said Turner curtly. ‘What ship is that, Preston?’

‘The Ohio Freighter , sir.’

‘The one that stopped a tin fish a couple of days back?’

‘That’s her, sir.’

‘Make a signal. “Essential maintain speed and position.”’ Turner swore. ‘What a time to choose for an engine breakdown . . . Pilot, when do we rendezvous with the Fleet?’

‘Six hours’ time, sir: exactly.’

‘Six hours.’ Turner compressed his lips. ‘Just six hours – perhaps!’ he added bitterly.

‘Perhaps?’ Carrington murmured.

‘Perhaps,’ Turner affirmed. ‘Depends entirely on the weather. C-in-C won’t risk capital ships so near the coast unless he can fly off fighter cover against air attack. And, if you ask me, that’s why the Tirpitz hasn’t turned up yet – some wandering U-boat’s tipped him off that our Fleet Carriers are steaming south. He’ll be waiting on the weather . . . What’s he saying now, Preston?’ The Ohio ’s signal lamp had flashed briefly, then died.

‘“Imperative slow down,”’ Preston repeated. ‘“Damage severe. Am slowing down.”’

‘He is, too,’ Carrington said quietly. He looked up at Turner, at the set face and dark eyes, and knew the same thought was in the Commander’s mind as was in his own. ‘He’s a goner, sir, a dead duck. He hasn’t a chance. Not unless–’

‘Unless what?’ Turner asked harshly. ‘Unless we leave him an escort? Leave what escort, Number One? The Viking – the only effective unit we’ve left?’ He shook his head in slow decision. ‘The greatest good of the greatest number: that’s how it has to be. They’ll know that. Preston, send “Regret cannot leave you standby. How long to effect repairs?”’

The flare burst even before Preston’s hand could close on the trigger. It burst directly over FR77. It was difficult to estimate the height – probably six to eight thousand feet – but at that altitude it was no more than an incandescent pinpoint against the great band of the Northern Lights arching majestically above. But it was falling quickly, glowing more brightly by the sound: the parachute, if any, could have been only a steadying drogue.

The crackling of the WT speaker broke through the stuttering chatter of the Aldis.

‘WT – bridge. WT – bridge. Message from Sirrus : “Three survivors dead. Many dying or seriously wounded. Medical assistance urgent, repeat urgent.”’ The speaker died, just as the Ohio started flickering her reply.

‘Send for Lieutenant Nicholls,’ Turner ordered briefly. ‘Ask him to come up to the bridge at once.’

Carrington stared down at the dark broad seas, seas flecked with milky foam: the bows of the Ulysses were crashing down heavily, continuously.

‘You’re going to risk it, sir?’

‘I must. You’d do the same, Number One . . . What does the Ohio say, Preston?’

‘“I understand. Too busy to look after the Royal Navy anyway. We will make up on you. Au revoir!”’

‘We will make up on you. Au revoir.’ Turner repeated softly. ‘He lies in his teeth, and he knows it. By God!’ he burst out. ‘If anyone ever tells me the Yankee sailors have no guts – I’ll push his perishing face in. Preston, send: “Au revoir. Good luck.” . . . Number One, I feel like a murderer.’ He rubbed his hand across his forehead, nodded towards the shelter where Vallery lay stretched out, and strapped to his settee. ‘Month in, month out, he’s been taking these decisions. It’s no wonder . . .’ He broke off as the gate creaked open.

‘Is that you, Nicholls? There is work for you, my boy. Can’t have you medical types idling around uselessly all day long.’ He raised his hand. ‘All right, all right,’ he chuckled. ‘I know . . . How are things on the surgical front?’ he went on seriously.

‘We’ve done all we can, sir. There was very little left for us to do,’ Nicholls said quietly. His face was deeply lined, haggard to the point of emaciation. ‘But we’re in a bad way for supplies. Hardly a single dressing left. And no anæsthetics at all – except what’s left in the emergency kit. The Surgeon-Commander refused to touch those.’

‘Good, good,’ Turner murmured. ‘How do you feel, laddie?’

‘Awful.’

‘You look it,’ Turner said candidly. ‘Nicholls – I’m terribly sorry, boy – I want you to go over to the Sirrus .’

‘Yes, sir.’ There was no surprise in the voice: it hadn’t been difficult to guess why the Commander had sent for him. ‘Now?’

Turner nodded without speaking. His face, the lean strong features, the heavy brows and sunken eyes were quite visible now in the strengthening light of the plunging flare. A face to remember, Nicholls thought.

‘How much kit can I take with me, sir?’

‘Just your medical gear. No more. You’re not travelling by Pullman, laddie!’

‘Can I take my camera, my films?’

‘All right.’ Turner smiled briefly. ‘Looking forward keenly to photographing the last seconds of the Ulysses , I suppose . . . Don’t forget that the Sirrus is leaking like a sieve, Pilot – get through to the WT. Tell the Sirrus to come alongside, prepare to receive medical officer by breeches buoy.’

The gate creaked again. Turner looked at the bulky figure stumbling wearily on to the compass platform. Brooks, like every man in the crew was dead on his feet; but the blue eyes burned as brightly as ever.

‘My spies are everywhere,’ he announced. ‘What’s this about the Sirrus shanghaiing young Johnny here?’