Alistair MacLean - HMS Ulysses

Seldom, all too seldom it comes: a sunset of surpassing loveliness, a fragment from some great symphony, the terrible stillness which falls over the huge rings of Madrid and Barcelona as the sword of the greatest of the matadors sinks inevitably home. And the Spaniards have the word for it, "the moment of truth."

The Sick Bay clock, unnaturally loud, ticked away one minute, maybe two.

With a heavy sigh, it seemed ages since he had breathed last, Nicholls softly pulled to the sliding door behind the curtains and switched on the light. He looked round at Brooks, looked away again.

"Well, Johnny?" The voice was soft, almost bantering.

"I just don't know, sir, I don't know at all." Nicholls shook his head.

"At first I thought he was going to, well, make a hash of it. You know, scare the lights out of 'em. And good God!" he went on wonderingly, "that's exactly what he did do. Piled it on, gales, Tirpitz, hordes of subs., and yet..." His voice trailed off.

"And yet?" Brooks echoed mockingly. "That's just it. Too much intelligence, that's the trouble with the young doctors today. I saw you-sitting there like a bogus psychiatrist, analysing away for all you were worth at the probable effect of the speech on the minds of the wounded warriors without, and never giving it a chance to let it register on yourself." He paused and went on quietly.

"It was beautifully done, Johnny. No, that's the wrong word-there was nothing premeditated about it. But don't you see? As black a picture as man could paint: points out that this is just a complicated way of committing suicide: no silver lining, no promises, even Alex, thrown in as a casual afterthought. Builds 'em up, then lets 'em down. No inducements, no hope, no appeal, and yet the appeal was tremendous... What was it, Johnny?"

"I don't know." Nicholls was troubled. He lifted his head abruptly, then smiled faintly. "Maybe there was no appeal. Listen."

Noiselessly, he slid the door back, flicked off the lights. The rumble of Riley's harsh voice, low and intense, was unmistakable.

"Just a lot of bloody clap-trap. Alex.? The Med.? Not on your -----, life, mate. You'll never see it. You'll never even see Scapa again. Captain Richard Vallery, D.S.O.l Know what that old bastard wants, boys? Another bar to his D.S.O. Maybe even a V.C. Well, by Christ's, he's not going to have it! Not at my expense. Not if I can -----, well help it. 'I know you won't let me down,'" he mimicked, his voice high-pitched. "Whining old bastard!" He paused a moment, then rushed on.

"The Tirpitz! Christ Almighty! The Tirpitz! We're going to stop it, us! This bloody toy ship! Bait, he says, bait!" His voice rose. "I tell you, mates, nobody gives a damn about us. Direct for the North Cape! They're throwing us to the bloody wolves! And that old bastard up top ------"

"Shaddap!" It was Petersen who spoke, his voice a whisper, low and fierce. His hand stretched out, and Brooks and Nicholls in the surgery winced as they heard Riley's wrist-bones crack under the tremendous pressure of the giant's hand. "Often I wonder about you, Riley,"

Petersen went on I slowly. "But not now, not any more. You make me sick!" He flung Riley's hand down and turned away.

Riley rubbed his wrist in agony, and turned to Burgess.

"For God's sake, what's the matter with him? What the hell..." He broke off abruptly. Burgess was looking at him steadily, kept looking for a long time. Slowly, deliberately, he eased himself down in bed, pulled the blankets up to his neck and turned his back on Riley.

Brooks rose quickly to his feet, closed the door and pressed the light switch.

"Act I, Scene I. Cut! Lights!" he murmured. "See what I mean, Johnny?"

"Yes, sir." Nicholls nodded slowly. "At least, I think so."

"Mind you, my boy, it won't last. At least, not at that intensity." He grinned. "But maybe it'll take us the length of Murmansk. You never know."

"I hope so, sir. Thanks for the show." Nicholls reached up for his duffel-coat. "Well, I suppose I'd better make my way aft."

"Off you go, then. And, oh-Johnny------"

"Sir?"

"That scarlet-fever notice-board of yours. On your way aft you might consign it to the deep. I don't think we'll be needing it any more."

Nicholls grinned and closed the door softly behind him.

DUSK ACTION STATIONS dragged out its interminable hour and was gone. That night, as on a hundred other nights, it was just another nagging irritation, a pointless precaution that did not even justify its existence, far less its meticulous thoroughness. Or so it seemed. For although at dawn enemy attacks were routine, at sunset they were all but unknown. It was not always so with other ships, indeed it was rarely so, but then, the Ulysses was a lucky ship. Everyone knew that. Even Vallery knew it, but he also knew why. Vigilance was the first article of his sailor's creed.

Soon after the Captain's broadcast, radar had reported a contact, closing. That it was an enemy plane was certain: Commander Westcliffe, Senior Air Arm Officer, had before him in the Fighter Direction Room a wall map showing the operational routes of all Coastal and Ferry Command planes, and this was a clear area. But no one paid the slightest attention to the report, other than Tyndall's order for a 45ø course alteration. This was as routine as dusk Action Stations themselves. It was their old friend Charlie coming to pay his respects again.

"Charlie", usually a four-engine Focke-Wulf Condor, was an institution on the Russian Convoys. He had become to the seamen on the Murmansk run very much what the albatross had been the previous century to sailing men, far south in the Roaring Forties: a bird of ill-omen, half feared but almost amicably accepted, and immune from destruction, though with Charlie, for a different reason. In the early days, before the advent of cam-ships and escort carriers, Charlie frequently spent the entire day, from first light to last, circling a convoy and radioing to base pin-point reports of its position. 'Exchanges of signals between British ships and German' reconnaissance planes were not unknown, and apocryphal stories were legion. An exchange of pleasantries about the weather was almost commonplace. On several occasions Charlie had plaintively asked for his position and been given highly-detailed latitude and longitude bearings which usually placed him somewhere in the South Pacific; and, of course, dozen ships claimed the authorship of the story wherein the convoy Commodore sent the signal,"

Please fly the other way a round. You are making us dizzy," and Charlie had courteously acknowledged and turned in his tracks.

Latterly, however, amiability had been markedly absent, and Charlie, grown circumspect with the passing of the months and the appearance of ship-borne fighters, rarely appeared except at dusk. His usual practice was to make a single circle of the convoy at a prudent distance and then disappear into the darkness.

That night was no exception. Men caught only fleeting glimpses of the Condor in the driving snow, then quickly lost it in the gathering gloom.

Charlie would report the strength, nature and course of the Squadron, although Tyndall had; little hope that the German Intelligence would be deceived as to their course. A naval squadron, near the sixty-second degree of latitude, just east of the Faroes, and heading NNE., Cam-ships were merchant ships with specially strengthened fo'c'sles.

On these were fitted fore-and-aft angled ramps from which fighter planes, such as modified Hurricanes, were catapulted for convoy defence. After breaking off action, the pilot had either to bale out or land in the sea. "Hazardous" is rather an inadequate word to describe the duties of this handful of very gallant pilots: the chances of survival were not high.