Alistair MacLean - HMS Ulysses

"I don't fancy it at all," Nicholls said frankly. "But of course I'll go, sir. Right now?"

"As soon as you can get your stuff together," Vallery nodded.

"That's now. We have an emergency kit packed all the time." He cast a jaundiced eye over the heavy sea again. "What am I supposed to do, sir-jump?"

"Perish the thought!" Turner clapped him on the back with a large and jovial hand. "You haven't a thing to worry about," he boomed cheerfully, "you positively won't feel a thing, these, if I recall rightly, were your exact words to me when you extracted that old molar of mine two-three weeks back." He winced in painful recollection. "Breeches buoy, laddie, breeches buoy!"

"Breeches buoy!" Nicholls protested. "Haven't noticed the weather, have you? I'll be going up and down like a blasted yo-yo!"

"The ignorance of youth." Turner shook his head sadly. "We'll be turning into the sea, of course. It'll be like a ride in a Rolls, my boy! We're going to rig it now." He turned away. "Chrysler-get on to Chief Petty Officer Hartley. Ask him to come up to the bridge."

Chrysler gave no sign of having heard. He was in his usual favourite position these days-gloved hands on the steam pipes, the top half of his face crushed into the rubber eyepiece of the powerful binoculars on the starboard searchlight control. Every few seconds a hand would drop, revolve the milled training rack a fraction. Then again the complete immobility.

"Chrysler!" Turner roared. "Are you deaf?"

Three, four, five more seconds passed in silence. Every eye was on Chrysler when he suddenly jerked back, glanced down at the bearing indicator, then swung round. His face was alive with excitement.

"Green one-double-oh!" he shouted. "Green one-double oh! Aircraft. Just on the horizon!" He fairly flung himself back at his binoculars.

"Four, seven-no, ten! Ten aircraft!" he yelled.

"Green one-double-oh?" Turner had his glasses to his eyes. "Can't see a thing! Are you sure, boy?" he called anxiously.

"Still the same, sir." There was no mistaking the agitated conviction in the young voice.

Turner was through the gate and beside him in four swift steps. "Let me have a look," he ordered. He gazed through the glasses, twisted the training rack once or twice, then stepped back slowly, heavy eyebrows lowering in anger.

"There's something bloody funny here, young man!" he growled. "Either your eyesight or your imagination? And if you ask me-----"

"He's right," Carrington interrupted calmly. "I've got 'em, too."

"So have I, sir!" Bentley shouted.

Turner wheeled back to the mounted glasses, looked through them briefly, stiffened, looked round at Chrysler.

"Remind me to apologise some day!" he smiled, and was back on the compass platform before he had finished speaking.

"Signal to convoy," Vallery was saying rapidly. "Code H. Full ahead, Number One. Bosun's mate? Broadcaster: stand by all guns. Commander?"

"Sir?"

"Independent targets, independent fire all AA. guns? Agreed? And the turrets?"

"Couldn't say yet... Chrysler, can you make out------"

"Condors, sir," Chrysler anticipated him.

"Condors!" Turner stared in disbelief. "A dozen Condors! Are you sure that... Oh, all right, all right!" he broke off hastily. "Condors they are." He shook his head in wonderment, turned to Vallery. "Where's my bloody tin hat? Condors, he says!"

"So Condors they are," Vallery repeated, smiling. Turner marvelled at the repose, the unruffled calm.

"Bridge targets, independent fire control for all turrets?" Vallery went on.

"I think so, sir." Turner looked at the two communication ratings just aft of the compass platform-one each on the group phones to the for'ard and after turrets. "Ears pinned back, you two. And hop to it when you get the word."

Vallery beckoned to Nicholls.

"Better get below, young man," he advised. "Sorry your little trip's been postponed."

"I'm not," Nicholls said bluntly.

"No?" Vallery was smiling. "Scared?"

"No, sir," Nicholls smiled back. "Not scared. And you know I wasn't."

"I know you weren't," Vallery agreed quietly. "I know, and thank you."

He watched Nicholls walk off the bridge, beckoned to the W.T. messenger, then turned to the Kapok Kid.

"When was our last signal to the Admiralty, Pilot? Have a squint at the log."

"Noon yesterday," said the Kapok Kid readily.

"Don't know what I'll do without you," Vallery murmured. "Present position?"

"72.20 north, 13.40 east."

"Thank you." He looked at Turner. "No point in radio silence now, Commander?"

Turner shook his head.

"Take this message," Vallery said quickly. "To D.N.O., London... How are our friends doing, Commander?"

"Circling well to the west, sir. Usual high altitude, gambit from the stern, I suppose," he added morosely. "Still," he brightened, "cloud level's barely a thousand feet."

Vallery nodded. "'FR77. 1600. 72.20,13.40. Steady on 090. Force 9, north, heavy swell: Situation desperate. Deeply regret Admiral Tyndall died 1200 today. Tanker Vytura torpedoed last night, sunk by self. Washington State sunk 0145 today. Vectra sunk 1515, collision U-boat. Electro sunk 1530. Am being heavily attacked by twelve, minimum twelve, Focke-Wulf 200s.' A reasonable assumption, I think, Commander," he said wryly, "and it'll shake their Lordships. They're of the opinion there aren't so many Condors in the whole of Norway. 'Imperative send help. Air cover essential. Advise immediately.' Get that off at once, will you?"

"Your nose, sir!" Turner said sharply.

"Thank you." Vallery rubbed the frostbite, dead white in the haggard grey and blue of his face, gave up after a few seconds: the effort was more trouble than it was worth, drained away too much of his tiny reserves of strength. "My God, it's bitter, Commander!" he murmured quietly.

Shivering, he pulled himself to his feet, swept his glasses over FR77.

Code H was being obeyed. The ships were scattered over the sea apparently at random, broken out from the two lines ahead which would have made things far too simple for bomb-aimers in aircraft attacking from astern. They would have to aim now for individual targets.

Scattered, but not too scattered-close enough together to derive mutual benefit from the convoy's concerted barrage. Vallery nodded to himself in satisfaction and twisted round, his glasses swivelling to the west.

There was no mistaking them now, he thought-they were Condors, all right. Almost dead astern now, massive wing-tips dipping, the big four-engined planes banked slowly, ponderously to starboard, then straightened on a 180ø overtaking course. And they were climbing, steadily climbing.

Two things were suddenly clear to Vallery, two things the enemy obviously knew. They had known where to find FR77, the Luftwaffe was not given to sending heavy bombers out over the Arctic on random hazard: they hadn't even bothered to send Charlie on reconnaissance. For a certainty, some submarine had located them earlier on, given their position and course: at any distance at all, their chance of seeing a periscope in that heavy sea had been remote. Further, the Germans knew that the Ulysses's radar was gone. The Focke-Wulfs were climbing to gain the low cloud, would break cover only seconds before it was time to bomb.

Against radar-controlled fire, at such close range, it would have been near suicide. But they knew it was safe.

Even as he watched, the last of the labouring Condors climbed through the low, heavy ceiling, was completely lost to sight. Vallery shrugged wearily, lowered his binoculars.

"Bentley?"

"Sir?"

"Code R. Immediate."

The flags fluttered up. For fifteen, twenty seconds, it seemed ten times as long as that to the impatient Captain, nothing happened. And then, like rolling toy marionettes under the hand of a master puppeteer, the bows of every ship in the convoy began to swing round-those to the port of the Ulysses to the north, those to the starboard to the south. When the Condors broke through-two minutes, at the most, Vallery reckoned, they would find beneath them only the empty sea. Empty, that is, except for the Ulysses and the Stirling, ships admirably equipped to take care of themselves. And then the Condors would find themselves under heavy cross-fire from the merchant ships and destroyers, and too late-at that low altitude, much too late-to alter course for fore-and-aft bombing runs on the freighters. Vallery smiled wryly to himself. As a defensive tactic, it was little enough, but the best he could do in the circumstances... He could hear Turner barking orders through the loudspeaker, was more than content to leave the defence of the ship in the Commander's competent hands. If only he himself didn't feel so tired...