seamanship: he had handled the Sirrus brilliantly. But even his skill was helpless against these two successive freak waves, twice the size of the others. The first flung the Sirrus close in to the Electra, then passing under the Electra, lurched her steeply to port as the second wave heeled the Sirrus far over to starboard. There was a grinding, screeching crash. The Sirrus's guard-rails and upper side plates buckled and tore along a 150-foot length: simultaneously, the lifeboat smashed endwise into the front of the bridge, shattering into a thousand pieces. Immediately, the telegraphs jangled, the water boiled whitely at the Sirrus's stern-shocked realisation of its imminence and death itself must have been only a merciful hair's-breadth apart for the unfortunate man in the water, and then the destroyer was clear, sheering sharply away from the Electra.
In five minutes the Sirrus was round again. It was typical of Orr's ice-cold, calculating nerve and of the luck that never deserted 'him that he should this time choose to rub the Sirrus's shattered starboard side along the length of the Electra, she was too low in the water now to fall on him, and that he should do so in a momentary spell of slack water. Willing hands caught men as they jumped, cushioned their fall. Thirty seconds and the destroyer was gone again and the decks of the Electra were deserted. Two minutes later and a muffled roar shook the sinking ship, her boilers going.
And then she toppled slowly over on her side: masts and smokestack lay along the surface of the sea, dipped and vanished: the straight-back of bottom and keel gleamed fractionally, blackly, against the grey of sea and sky, and was gone. For a minute, great gouts of air rushed turbulently to the surface. By and by the bubbles grew smaller and smaller and then there were no more.
The Sirrus steadied on course, crowded decks throbbing as she began to pick up speed, to overtake the convoy. Convoy No. FR77. The convoy the Royal Navy would always want to forget. Thirty-six ships had left Scapa and St. John's. Now there were twelve, only twelve. And still almost thirty-two hours to the Kola Inlet...
Moodily, even his tremendous vitality and zest temporarily subdued, Turner watched the Sirrus rolling up astern. Abruptly he turned away, looked furtively, pityingly at Captain Vallery, no more now than a living skeleton driven by God only knew what mysterious force to wrest hour after impossible hour from death. And for Vallery now, death, even the hope of it, Turner suddenly realised, must be infinitely sweet. He looked, and saw the shock and sorrow in that grey mask, and he cursed, bitterly, silently. And then these tired, dull eyes were on him and Turner hurriedly cleared his throat.
'How many survivors does that make in the Sirrus now?' he asked.
Vallery lifted weary shoulders in the ghost of a shrug.
'No idea, Commander. A hundred, possibly more. Why?'
'A hundred,' Turner mused. 'And no-survivors-will-be-picked-up. I'm just wondering what old Orr's going to say when he dumps that little lot in Admiral Starr's lap when we get back to Scapa Flow!'
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
SATURDAY AFTERNOON
THE Sirrus was still a mile astern when her Aldis started flickering.
Bentley took the message, turned to Vallery.
'Signal, sir.' Have 25-30 injured men aboard. Three very serious cases, perhaps dying. Urgently require doctor.''
'Acknowledge,' Vallery said. He hesitated a moment, then: 'My compliments to Surgeon-Lieutenant Nicholls. Ask him to come to the bridge.' He turned to the Commander, grinned faintly. 'I somehow don't see Brooks at his athletic best in a breeches buoy on a day like this. It's going to be quite a crossing.'
Turner looked again at the Sirrus, occasionally swinging through a 40ш arc as she rolled and crashed her way up from the west.
'It'll be no picnic,' he agreed. 'Besides, breeches buoys aren't made to accommodate the likes of our venerable chief surgeon.' Funny, Turner thought, how matter-of-fact and offhand everyone was: nobody had as much as mentioned the Vectra since she'd rammed the U-boat.
The gate creaked. Vallery turned round slowly, acknowledged Nicholls's sketchy salute.
'The Sirrus needs a doctor,' he said without preamble. 'How do you fancy it?'
Nicholls steadied himself against the canted bridge and the rolling of the cruiser. Leave the Ulysses- suddenly, he hated the thought, was amazed at himself for his reaction. He, Johnny Nicholls, unique, among the officers anyway, in his thorough-going detestation and intolerance of all things naval-to feel like that! Must be going soft in the head.
And just as suddenly he knew that his mind wasn't slipping, knew why he wanted to stay. It was not a matter of pride or principle or sentiment: it was just that-well, just that he belonged. The feeling of belonging- even to himself he couldn't put it more accurately, more clearly than that, but it affected him strangely, powerfully. Suddenly he became aware that curious eyes were on him, looked out in confusion over the rolling sea.
'Well?' Vallery's voice was edged with impatience.
'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?
