have dreamed of undressing on the Russian Convoys. Again, to an exhausted man, the prospect and the actual labour of slinging and then lashing a hammock were alike appalling. And the extra seconds it took to climb out of a hammock in an emergency could re-present the margin between life and death, while the very existence of a slung hammock was a danger to all, in that it impeded quick movement. And finally, as on that night of a heavy head sea, there could be no more uncomfortable place than a hammock slung fore and aft.
And so the crew slept where it could, fully clothed even to duffel coats and gloves. On tables and under tables, on narrow nine-inch stools, on the floor, in hammock racks, anywhere. The most popular place on the ship was on the warm steel deck-plates in the alleyway outside the galley, at night-time a weird and spectral tunnel, lit only by a garish red light. A popular sleeping billet, made doubly so by the fact that only a screen separated it from the upper-deck, a scant ten feet away. The fear of being trapped below decks in a sinking ship was always there, always in the back of men's minds.
Even below decks, it was bitterly cold. The hot-air systems operated efficiently only on 'B' and 'C' mess- decks, and even there the temperature barely cleared freezing point. Deckheads dripped constantly and the condensation on the bulkheads sent a thousand little rivulets to pool on the corticene floor. The atmosphere was dank and airless and terribly chill-the ideal breeding ground for the T.B., so feared by Surgeon-Commander Brooks. Such conditions, allied with the constant pitching of the ship and the sudden jarring vibrations which were beginning to develop every time the bows crashed down, made sleep almost impossible, at best a fitful, restless unease. Almost to a man, the crew slept, or tried to sleep, with heads pillowed on inflated lifebelts. Blown up, bent double then tied with tape, these lifebelts made very tolerable pillows. For this purpose, and for this alone, were these lifebelts employed, although standing orders stated explicitly that lifebelts were to be worn at all times during action and in known enemy waters. These orders were completely ignored, not least of all by those Divisional Officers whose duty it was to enforce them.
There was enough air trapped in the voluminous and bulky garments worn in these latitudes to keep a man afloat for at least three minutes. If he wasn't picked up in that time, he was dead anyway. It was shock that killed, the tremendous shock of a body at 96ш F. being suddenly plunged into a liquid temperature some 70ш lower, for in the Arctic waters, the sea temperature often falls below normal freezing point. Worse still, the sub-zero wind lanced like a thousand stilettos through the saturated clothing of a man who had been submerged in the sea, and the heart, faced with an almost instantaneous 100ш change in body temperature, just stopped beating. But it was a quick death, men said, quick and kind and merciful.
At ten minutes to midnight the Commander and Marshall made their way to the bridge. Even at this late hour and in the wicked weather, the Commander was his usual self, imperturbable and cheerful, lean and piratical, a throw-back to the Elizabethan buccaneers, if ever there was one. He had an unflagging zest for life. The duffel hood, as always, lay over his shoulders, the braided peak of his cap was tilted at a magnificent angle. He groped for the handle of the bridge gate, passed through, stood for a minute accustoming his eyes to the dark, located the First Lieutenant and thumped him resoundingly on the back.
'Well, watchman, and what of the night?' he boomed cheerfully.
'Bracing, yes, decidedly so. Situation completely out of control as usual, I suppose? Where are all our chickens this lovely evening?' He peered out into the snow, scanned the horizon briefly, then gave up.
'All gone to hell and beyond, I suppose.'
'Not too bad,' Carrington grinned. An R.N.R. officer and an ex-Merchant Navy captain in whom Vallery reposed complete confidence, Lieutenant-Commander Carrington was normally a taciturn man, grave and unsmiling. But a particular bond lay between him and Turner, the professional bond of respect which two exceptional seamen have for each other. 'We can see the carriers now and then. Anyway, Bowden and his backroom boys have 'em all pinned to an inch. At least, that's what they say.'
'Better not let old Bowden hear you say that,' Marshall advised.
'Thinks radar is the only step forward the human race has taken since the first man came down from the trees.' He shivered uncontrollably and turned his back on the driving wind. 'Anyway, I wish to God I had his job,' he added feelingly. 'This is worse than winter in Alberta!'
'Nonsense, my boy, stuff and nonsense!' the Commander roared.
'Decadent, that's the trouble with you youngsters nowadays. This is the only life for a self-respecting human being.' He sniffed the icy air appreciatively and turned to Carrington. 'Who's on with you tonight, Number One?'
A dark figure detached itself from the binnacle and approached him.
'Ah, there you are. Well, well, 'pon my soul, if it Isn't our navigating officer, the Honourable Carpenter, lost as usual and dressed to kill in his natty gent's suiting. Do you know, Pilot, in that outfit you look like a cross between a deep-sea diver and that advert for Michelin tyres?'
'Ha!' said the Kapok Kid aggrievedly. 'Sniff and scoff while you may, sir.' He patted his quilted chest affectionately. 'Just wait tUl we're all down there in the drink together, everybody else dragged down or frozen to death, me drifting by warm and dry and comfortable, maybe smoking the odd cigarette------'
'Enough. Be off. Course, Number One?'
'Three-twenty, sir. Fifteen knots.'
'And the Captain?'
'In the shelter.' Carrington jerked his head towards the reinforced steel circular casing at the after end of the bridge. This supported the Director Tower, the control circuits to which ran through a central shaft in the casing. A sea bunk, a spartan, bare settee, was kept there for the Captain's use. 'Sleeping, I hope,' he added, 'but I very much doubt it. Gave orders to be called at midnight.'
'Why?' Turner demanded.
'Oh, I don't know. Routine, I suppose. Wants to see how things are.'
'Cancel the order,' Turner said briefly. 'Captain's got to learn to obey orders like anybody else-especially doctor's orders. I'll take full responsibility. Good night, Number One.'
The gate clanged shut and Marshall turned uncertainly towards the Commander.
'The Captain, sir. Oh, I know it's none of my business, but', he hesitated 'well, is he all right?'
Turner looked quickly around him. His voice was unusually quiet.
'If Brooks had his way, the old man would be in hospital.' He was silent for a moment, then added soberly. 'Even then, it might be too late.'
Marshall said nothing. He moved restlessly around, then went aft to the port searchlight control position. For five minutes, an intermittent rumble of voices drifted up to the Commander. He glanced up curiously on Marshall's return.
'That's Ralston, sir,' the Torpedo Officer explained. 'If he'd talk to anybody, I think he'd talk to me.'
'And does he?'
'Sure, but only what he wants to talk about. As for the rest, no dice.
You can almost see the big notice round his neck, 'Private-Keep Off.'
Very civil, very courteous and completely unapproachable. I don't know what the hell to do about him.'
'Leave him be,' Turner advised. 'There's nothing anyone can do.' He shook his head. 'My God, what a lousy break life's given that boy!'
Silence fell again. The snow was lifting now, but the wind still strengthening. It howled eerily through masts and rigging, blending with a wild and eldritch harmony into the haunting pinging of the Asdic.
Weird sounds both, weird and elemental and foreboding, that rasped across the nerves and stirred up nameless, atavistic dreads of a thousand ages past, long buried under the press of civilisation. An unholy orchestra, and, over years, men grew to hate it with a deadly hatred.
Half-past twelve came, one o'clock, then half-past one. Turner's thought turned fondly towards coffee and cocoa. Coffee or cocoa? Cocoa, he decided, a steaming potent brew, thick with melted chocolate and sugar.
He turned to Chrysler, the bridge messenger, young brother of the Leading Asdic Operator.
'W.T., Bridge. W.T., Bridge.' The loudspeaker above the Asdic cabinet crackled urgently, the voice hurried, insistent. Turner jumped for the hand transmitter, barked an acknowledgment.
'Signal from Sirrus. Echoes, port bow, 300, strong, closing. Repeat, echoes, port bow, strong, closing.'
'Echoes, W.T.? Did you say 'echoes'?'
'Echoes, sir. I repeat, echoes.'
Even as he spoke, Turner's hand cut down on the gleaming phosphorescence of the Emergency Action
