Alistair MacLean - HMS Ulysses

"Quite, sir." Vallery was quiet, unmoved. "I repeat, however, that we cannot afford to lose an officer of Brooks's calibre."

The words, the tone, were polite, respectful; but their significance was unmistakable. Brooks stepped forward, distress in his face, but before he could speak, Turner cut in smoothly, urbanely.

"I assume I wasn't invited to this conference for purely decorative purposes." He tilted back in his chair, his eyes fixed dreamily on the deckhead. "I feel it's time I said something. I unreservedly endorse old Brooks's remarks, every word of them."

Starr, white, mouthed and motionless, looked at Tyndall. "And you, Admiral?"

Tyndall looked up quizzically, all the tenseness and worry gone from his face. He looked more like a West Country Farmer Giles than ever. He supposed wryly, that his career was at stake; funny, he thought how suddenly unimportant a career could become.

"As Officer Commanding, maximum squadron efficiency is my sole concern. Some people are irreplaceable. Captain Vallery suggests Brooks is one of these. I agree."

"I see, gentlemen, I see," Starr said heavily. Two spots of colour burned high up on his cheekbones. "The convoy has sailed from Halifax, and my hands are tied. But you make a great mistake, gentlemen, a great mistake, in pointing pistols at the head of the Admiralty. We have long memories in Whitehall. We shall-ah-discuss the matter at length on your return. Good-day, gentlemen, good-day."

Shivering in the sudden chill, Brooks clumped down the ladder to the upper deck and turned for'ard past the galley into the Sick Bay.

Johnson, the Leading Sick Bay Attendant, looked out from the dispensary.

"How are our sick and suffering, Johnson?" Brooks inquired. "Bearing up manfully?"

Johnson surveyed the eight beds and their occupants morosely.

"Just a lot of bloody chancers, sir. Half of them are a damned sight fitter than I am. Look at Stoker Riley there, him with the broken finger and whacking great pile of Reader's Digests. Going through all the medical articles, he is, and roaring out for sulpha, penicillin and all the latest antibiotics. Can't pronounce half of them. Thinks he's dying."

"A grievous loss," the Surgeon-Commander murmured. He shook his head.

"What Commander Dodson sees in him I don't know...What's the latest from hospital?"

The expression drained out of Johnson's face.

"They're just off the blower, sir," he said woodenly. "Five minutes ago. Ordinary Seaman Ralston died at three o'clock."

Brooks nodded heavily. Sending that broken boy to hospital had only been a gesture anyway. Just for a moment he felt tired, beaten. "Old Socrates," they called him, and he was beginning to feel his age these days, and a bit more besides. Maybe a good night's sleep would help, but he doubted it. He sighed.

"Don't feel too good about all this, Johnson, do you?"

"Eighteen, sir. Exactly eighteen." Johnson's voice was low, bitter."

I've just been talking to Burgess, that's him in the next bed. Says Ralston steps out across the bathroom coaming, a towel over his arm. A mob rushes past, then this bloody great ape of a bootneck comes tearing up and bashes him over the skull with his rifle. Never knew what hit him, sir, and he never knew why."

Brooks smiled faintly.

"That's what they call-ah-seditious talk, Johnson," he said mildly.

"Sorry, sir. Suppose I shouldn't, it's just that I------"

"Never mind, Johnson. I asked for it. Can't stop anyone from thinking. Only, don't think out loud. It's, it's prejudicial to naval discipline... I think your friend Riley wants you. Better get him a dictionary."

He turned and pushed his way through the surgery curtains. A dark head, all that could be seen behind the dentist's chair, twisted round.

Johnny Nicholls, Acting Surgeon Lieutenant, rose quickly to his feet, a pile of report cards dangling from his left hand. "Hallo, sir. Have a pew." Brooks grinned.

"An excellent thing, Lieutenant Nicholls, truly gratifying, to meet these days a junior officer who knows his place. Thank you, thank you."

He climbed into the chair and sank back with a groan, fiddling with the neck-rest.

"If you'll just adjust the foot-rest, my boy... so. Ah, thank you." He leaned back luxuriously, eyes closed, head far back on the rest, and groaned again. "I'm an old man, Johnny, my boy, just an ancient has, been."

"Nonsense, sir," Nicholls said briskly. "Just a slight malaise. Now, if you'll let me prescribe a suitable tonic..."

He turned to a cupboard, fished out two tooth-glasses and a dark-green, ribbed bottle marked "Poison." He filled the glasses and handed one to Brooks. "My personal recommendation. Good health, ski"

Brooks looked at the amber liquid, then at Nicholls. "Heathenish practices they taught you at these Scottish Universities, my boy... Admirable fellers, some of these old heathens. What is it this time, Johnny?"

"First-class stuff," Nicholls grinned. "Produce of the Island of Coll."

The old surgeon looked at him suspiciously. "Didn't know they had any distilleries up there." "They haven't. I only said it was made in Coll... How did things go up top, sir?"

"Bloody awful. His nibs threatened to string us all from the yardarm. Took a special dislike to me, said I was to be booted off the ship instanter. Meant it, too."

"You!" Nicholls's brown eyes, deep-sunk just now and red-rimmed from sleeplessness, opened wide. "You're joking, sir, of course."

"I'm not. But it's all right, I'm not going. Old Giles, the skipper and Turner, the crazy idiots, virtually told Starr that if I went he'd better start looking around for another Admiral, Captain and Commander as well.

They shouldn't have done it, of course, but it shook old Vincent to the core. Departed in high dudgeon, muttering veiled threats... not so veiled, either, come to think of it."

"Damned old fool!" said Nicholls feelingly. "He's not really, Johnny. Actually, he's a brilliant bloke.

You don't become a D.N.O. for nothing. Master strategist and tactician, Giles tells me, and he's not really as bad as we're apt to paint him; to a certain extent we can't blame old Vincent for sending us out again.

Bloke's up against an insoluble problem. Limited resources at his disposal, terrific demands for ships and men in half a dozen other theatres. Impossible to meet half the claims made on him; half the time he's operating on little better than a shoe-string. But he's still an inhuman, impersonal sort of cuss-doesn't understand men."

"And the upshot of it all?"

"Murmansk again. Sailing at 0600 tomorrow."

"What! Again? This bunch of walking zombies?" Nicholls was openly incredulous. "Why, they can't do that, sir! They, they just can't!"

"They're doing it anyway, my boy. The Ulysses must-ah-redeem itself." Brooks opened his eyes. "Gad the very thought appals me. If there's any of that poison left, my boy..."

Nicholls shoved the depleted bottle back into the cupboard, and jerked a resentful thumb in the direction of the massive battleship clearly visible through the porthole, swinging round her anchor three or four cable-lengths away.

"Why always us, sir? It's always us. Why don't they send that useless floating barracks out once in a while? Swinging round that bloody great anchor, month in, month out------"

"Just the point," Brooks interrupted solemnly. "According to the Kapok Kid, the tremendous weight of empty condensed milk cans and herring-in-tomato sauce tins accumulated on the ocean bed over the past twelve months completely defeats all attempts to weigh anchor."

Nicholls didn't seem to hear him.

"Week in, week out, months and months on end, they send the Ulysses out. They change the carriers, they rest the screen destroyers, but never the Ulysses. There's no let-up. Never, not once. But the Duke of Cumberland, all it's fit for is sending hulking great brutes of marines on board here to massacre sick men, crippled men, men who've done more in a week than------"