‘Set course, Number One,’ he called. ‘Local control.’
‘Set course, local control.’ Carrington might have been on a peace-time exercise in the Solent.
‘Local control,’ Turner repeated. He hung up the set, looked round. ‘You’re on your own, Ralston,’ he said softly.
There was no reply. The crouched figure on the control position, immobile as graved stone, gave no sign that he had heard.
‘Thirty seconds!’ Turner said sharply. ‘All lined up?’
‘Yes, sir.’ The figure stirred. ‘All lined up.’ Suddenly, he swung round, in desperate, final appeal. ‘For God’s sake, sir! Is there no other—’
‘Twenty seconds!’ Turner said viciously. ‘Do you want a thousand lives on your lily-livered conscience? And if you miss . . . ’
Ralston swung slowly back. For a mere breath of time, his face was caught full in the harsh glare of the Vytura: with sudden shock, Turner saw that the eyes were masked with tears. Then he saw the lips move. ‘Don’t worry, sir. I won’t miss.’ The voice was quite toneless, heavy with nameless defeat.
Perplexed, now, rather than angry, and quite uncomprehending, Turner saw the left sleeve come up to brush the eyes, saw the right hand stretch forward, close round the grip of ‘X’ firing lever. Incongruously, there sprang to Turner’s mind the famous line of Chaucer, ‘In goon the spears full sadly in arrest.’ In the closing of that hand there was the same heart-stopping decision, the same irrevocable finality.
Suddenly, so suddenly that Turner started in spite of himself, the hand jerked convulsively back. He heard the click of the tripping lever, the muffled roar in the explosion chamber, the hiss of compressed air, and the torpedo was gone, its evil sleekness gleaming fractionally in the light of the flames before it crashed below the surface of the sea. It was hardly gone before the tubes shuddered again and the second torpedo was on its way.
For five, ten seconds Turner stared out, fascinated, watching the arrowing wakes of bubbles vanish in the distance. A total of 1,500 lbs of Amatol in these warheads—God help the poor bastards aboard the Vytura . . . The deck speaker clicked on.
‘Do you hear there? Do you hear there? Take cover immediately! Take cover—immediately!’ Turner stirred, tore his eyes away from the sea, looked up, saw that Ralston was still crouched in his seat.
‘Come down out of there, you young fool!’ he shouted. ‘Want to be riddled when the Vytura goes up? Do you hear me?’
Silence. No word, no movement, only the roaring of the flames.
‘Ralston!’
‘I’m all right, sir.’ Ralston’s voice was muffled: he did not even trouble to turn his head.
Turner swore, leapt up on the tubes, dragged Ralston from his seat, pulled him down to the deck and into shelter. Ralston offered no resistance: he seemed sunk in a vast apathy, an uncaring indifference.
Both torpedoes struck home. The end was swift, curiously unspectacular. Listeners—there were no watchers—on the Ulysses tensed themselves for the shattering detonation, but the detonation never came. Broken-backed and tired of fighting, the Vytura simply collapsed in on her stricken mid-ships, lay gradually, wearily over on her side and was gone.
Three minutes later, Turner opened the door of the Captain’s shelter, pushed Ralston in before him.
‘Here you are, sir,’ he said grimly. Thought you might like to see what a conscientious objector looks like!’
‘I certainly do!’ Vallery laid down the log-book, turned a cold eye on the torpedoman, looked him slowly up and down. ‘A fine job, Ralston, but it doesn’t excuse your conduct. Just a minute, Commander.’
He turned back to the Kapok Kid. ‘Yes, that seems all right, Pilot. It’ll make good reading for their lordships,’ he added bitterly. ‘The ones the Germans don’t get, we finish off for them . . . Remember to signal the Hatteras in the morning, ask for the name of the master of the Vytura.’
‘He’s dead . . . You needn’t trouble yourself!’ said Ralston bitterly, then staggered as the Commander’s open hand smashed across his face. Turner was breathing heavily, his eyes dark with anger.
‘You insolent young devil!’ he said softly. ‘That was just a little too much from you.’
Ralston’s hand came up slowly, fingering the reddening weal on his cheek.
‘You misunderstand me, sir.’ There was no anger, the voice was a fading murmur, they had to strain to catch his words. ‘The master of the Vytura—I can tell you his name. It’s Ralston. Captain Michael Ralston. He was my father.’
1. The Dumaresq was a miniature plotting table on which such relevant factors as corresponding speeds and courses were worked out to provide firing tracks for the torpedoes.
TWELVE
Saturday
To all things an end, to every night its dawn; even to the longest night when dawn never comes, there comes at last the dawn. And so it came for FR77, as grey, as bitter, as hopeless as the night had been long. But it came.
It came to find the convoy some 350 miles north of the Arctic Circle, steaming due east along the 72nd parallel of latitude, halfway between Jan Mayen and the North Cape. 8° 45’ east, the Kapok Kid reckoned, but he couldn’t be sure. In heavy snow and with ten-tenth cloud, he was relying on dead reckoning: he had to, for the shell that had destroyed the FDR had wrecked the Automatic Pilot. But roughly 600 nautical miles to go. 600 miles, 40 hours, and the convoy—or what would be left of it by that time—would be in the Kola Inlet, steaming up-river to Polyarnoe and Murmansk . . . 40 hours.
It came to find the convoy—14 ships left in all—scattered over three square miles of sea and rolling heavily in the deepening swell from the NNE: 14 ships, for another had gone in the deepest part of the night. Mine, torpedo? Nobody knew, nobody ever would know. The Sirrus had stopped, searched the area for an hour with hooded ten-inch signalling lamps. There had been no survivors. Not that Commander Orr had expected to find any—not with the air temperature 6° below zero.
It came after a sleepless night of never-ending alarms, of continual Asdic contacts, of constant depth-charging that achieved nothing. Nothing, that is, from the escorts’ point of view: but for the enemy, it achieved a double-edged victory. It kept exhausted men at Action Stations all night long, blunting, irreparably perhaps, the last vestiges of the knife-edged vigilance on which the only hope—it was never more—of survival in the Arctic depended. More deadly still, it had emptied the last depth-charge rack in the convoy . . . It was a measure of the intensity of the attack, of the relentlessness of the persecution, that this had never happened before. But it had happened now. There was not a single depth-charge left—not one. The fangs were drawn, the defences were down. It was only a matter of time before the wolf-packs discovered that they could strike at will . . .
And with the dawn, of course, came dawn Action Stations, or what would have been dawn stations had the men not already been closed up for fifteen hours, fifteen endless hours of intense cold and suffering, fifteen hours during which the crew of the Ulysses had been sustained by cocoa and one bully-beef sandwich, thin, sliced and stale, for there had been no time to bake the previous day. But dawn stations were profoundly significant in themselves: they prolonged the waiting another interminable two hours—and to a man rocking on his feet from unimaginable fatigue, literally holding convulsively jerking eyelids apart with finger and thumb while a starving brain, which is less a brain than a well of fine-drawn agony, begs him to let go, let go just for a second, just this once and never again, even a minute is brutal eternity: and they were still more important in that they were recognized as the Ithuriel hour of the Russian Convoys, the testing time when every man stood out clearly for what he was. And for the crew of a mutiny ship, for men already tried and condemned, for physically broken and mentally scourged men who neither could nor would ever be the same again in body or mind, the men of the Ulysses had no need to stand in shame. Not all, of course, they were only human; but many had found, or were finding, that the point of no
return was not necessarily the edge of the precipice: it could be the bottom of the valley, the beginning of the long climb up the far slope, and when a man had once begun that climb he never looked back to that other side.
For some men, neither precipice nor valley ever existed. Men like Carrington, for instance. Eighteen consecutive hours on the bridge now, he was still his own indestructible self, alert with that relaxed watchfulness that never flagged, a man of infinite endurance, a man who could never crack, who you knew could never crack, for the imagination baulked at the very idea. Why he was what he was, no man could tell. Such, too, were men like Chief Petty Officer Hartley, like Chief Stoker Hendry, like Colour-Sergeant Evans and Sergeant MacIntosh; four men strangely alike, big, tough, kindly, no longer young, steeped in the traditions of the Service. Taciturn, never heard to speak of themselves, they were under no illusions as to their importance: they knew—as any Naval Officer would be the first to admit—that, as the senior NCOs, they, and not any officer, were the backbone of the Royal Navy; and it was from their heavy sense of responsibility that sprung their rock-like stability. And then, of course, there were men—a handful only—like Turner and the Kapok Kid and Dodson, whom dawn found as men above themselves, men revelling in danger and exhaustion, for only thus could they realize themselves, for only this had they been born. And finally, men like Vallery, who had collapsed just after midnight, and was still asleep in the shelter, and Surgeon Commander Brooks: wisdom was their sheet anchor, a clear appreciation of the relative insignificance both of themselves and the fate of FR77, a coldly intellectual appraisal of, married to an infinite compassion for, the follies and suffering of mankind.
At the other end of the scale, dawn found men—a few dozen, perhaps—gone beyond recovery. Gone in selfishness, in self-pity and in fear, like Carslake, gone because their armour, the trappings of authority, had been stripped off them, like Hastings, or gone, like Leading SBA Johnson and a score of others, because they had been pushed too far and had no sheet anchor to hold them.
And between the two extremes were those—the bulk of the men—who had touched zero and found that endurance can be infinite—and found in this realization the springboard for recovery. The other side of the valley could be climbed, but not without a staff. For Nicholls, tired beyond words from a long night standing braced against the operating table in the surgery, the staff was pride and shame. For Leading Seaman Doyle, crouched miserably into the shelter of the for’ard funnel, watching the pinched agony, the perpetual shivering of his young midships pom-pom crew, it was pity; he would, of course, have denied this, blasphemously. For young Spicer, Tyndall’s devoted pantryboy, it was pity, too—pity and a savage grief for the dying man in the Admiral’s cabin. Even with both legs amputated below the knee, Tyndall should not have been dying. But the fight, the resistance was gone, and Brooks knew old Giles would be glad to go. And for scores, perhaps for hundreds, for men like the tubercular-ridden McQuater, chilled to death in sodden clothes, but no longer staggering drunkenly round the hoist in ‘Y’ turret, for the heavy rolling kept the water on the move: like Petersen, recklessly squandering his giant strength in helping his exhausted mates: like Chrysler, whose keen young eyes, invaluable now that Radar was gone, never ceased to scan the horizons: for men like these, the staff was Vallery, the tremendous respect and affection in which he was held, the sure knowledge that they could never let him down.
These, then, were the staffs, the intangible sheet anchors that held the Ulysses together that bleak and bitter dawn—pride, pity, shame, affection, grief—and the basic instinct for self-preservation although the last, by now, was an almost negligible factor. Two things were never taken into the slightest account as the springs of endurance: never mentioned, never even considered, they did not exist for the crew of the Ulysses: two things the sentimentalists at home, the gallant leader writers of the popular press, the propagandizing purveyors of nationalistic claptrap would have had the world believe to be the source of inspiration and endurance—hatred of the enemy, love of kinsfolk and country.
There was no hatred of the enemy. Knowledge is the prelude to hate, and they did not know the enemy. Men cursed the enemy, respected him, feared him and killed him if they could: if they didn’t, the enemy would kill them. Nor did men see themselves as fighting for King and country: they saw the necessity for war, but objected to camouflaging this necessity under a spurious cloak of perfervid patriotism: they were just doing what they were told, and if they didn’t, they would be stuck against a wall and shot. Love of kinsfolk—that had some validity, but not much. It was natural to want to protect your kin, but this was an equation where the validity varied according to the factor of distance. It was a trifle difficult for a man crouched in his ice-coated Oerlikon cockpit off the shores of Bear Island to visualize himself as protecting that rose-covered cottage in the Cotswolds . . . But for the rest, the synthetic national hatreds and the carefully cherished myth of King and country; these are nothing and less than nothing when mankind stands at the last frontier of hope and endurance: for only the basic, simple human emotions, the positive ones of love and grief and pity and distress, can carry a man across that last frontier.
Noon, and still the convoy, closed up in tight formation now, rolled eastwards in the blinding snow. The alarm halfway through dawn stations had been the last that morning. Thirty-six hours to go, now, only thirty-six hours. And if this weather continued, the strong wind and blinding snow that made flying impossible, the near-zero visibility and heavy seas that would blind any periscope . . . there was always that chance. Only thirty-six hours.
Admiral John Tyndall died a few minutes after noon. Brooks, who had sat with him all morning, officially entered the cause of death as ‘postoperative shock and exposure.’ The truth was that Giles had died because he no longer wished to live. His professional reputation was gone: his faith, his confidence in himself were gone, and there was only remorse for the hundreds of men who had died: and with both legs gone, the only life he had ever known, the life he had so loved and cherished and to which he had devoted forty-five glad and unsparing years, that life, too, was gone for ever. Giles died gladly, willingly. Just on noon he recovered consciousness, looked at Brooks and Vallery with a smile from which every trace of madness had vanished. Brooks winced at that grey smile, mocking shadow of the famous guffaw of the Giles of another day. Then he closed his eyes and muttered something about his family—Brooks knew he had no family. His eyes opened again, he saw Vallery as if for the first time, rolled his eyes till he saw Spicer. ‘A chair for the Captain, my boy.’ Then he died.
He was buried at two o’clock, in the heart of a blizzard. The Captain’s voice, reading the burial service, was shredded away by snow and wind: the Union flag was flapping emptily on the tilted board before the men knew he was gone: the bugle notes were broken and distant and lost, far away and fading like the horns of Elfland: and then the men, two hundred of them at least, turned silently away and trudged back to their frozen mess-decks.
Barely half an hour later, the blizzard had died, vanished as suddenly as it had come. The wind, too, had eased, and though the sky was still dark and heavy with snow, though the seas were still heavy enough to roll 15,000-ton ships through a 30° arc, it was clear that the deterioration in the weather had stopped. On the bridge, in the turrets, in the mess-decks, men avoided each other’s eyes and said nothing.
Just before 1500, the Vectra picked up an Asdic contact. Vallery received the report, hesitated over his decision. If he sent the Vectra to investigate, and if the Vectra located the U-boat accurately and confined herself, as she would have to do, to describing tight circles above the submarine, the reason for this freedom from depth-charging would occur to the U-boat captain within minutes. And then it would only be a matter of time—until he decided it was safe to surface and use his radio—that every U-boat north of the Circle would know that FR77 could be attacked with impunity. Further, it was unlikely that any torpedo attack would be ma
de under such weather conditions. Not only was periscope observation almost impossible in the heavy seas, but the U-boat itself would be a most unstable firing platform: wave motion is not confined to the surface of the water—the effects can be highly uncomfortable and unstabilizing thirty, forty, fifty feet down—and are appreciable, under extreme conditions, at a depth of almost a hundred feet. On the other hand, the U-boat captain might take a 1,000-1 chance, might strike home with a lucky hit. Vallery ordered the Vectra to investigate.
He was too late. The order would have been too late anyway. The Vectra was still winking acknowledgement of the signal, had not begun to turn, when the rumble of a heavy explosion reached the bridge of the Ulysses. All eyes swept round a full circle of the horizon, searching for smoke and flame, for the canted deck and slewing ship that would show where the torpedo had gone home. They found no sign, none whatsoever, until almost half a minute had passed. Then they noticed, almost casually, that the Electra, leading ship in the starboard line, was slowing up, coming to a powerless stop, already settling in the water on an even keel, with no trace of tilt either for’ard or aft. Almost certainly, she had been holed in the engine-room.
The Aldis on the Sirrus had begun to flash. Bentley read the message, turned to Vallery.
‘Commander Orr requests permission to go alongside, port side, take off survivors.’
‘Port, is it?’ Turner nodded. ‘The sub’s blind side. It’s a fair chance, sir—in a calm sea. As it is . . . ’ He looked over at the Sirrus, rolling heavily in the beam sea, and shrugged. ‘Won’t do her paintwork any good.’
‘Her cargo?’ Vallery asked. ‘Any idea? Explosive?’ He looked round, saw the mute headshakes, turned to Bentley.