acknowledgment. Again the light on the merchantman began to wink furiously.
''Transverse fracture engine bedplate,'' Preston read out. ''Damage serious: shall have to moderate speed.''
'Acknowledge,' said Turner curtly. 'What ship is that, Preston?'
'The Ohio Freighter, sir.'
'The one that stopped a tin fish a couple of days back?'
'That's her, sir.'
'Make a signal. 'Essential maintain speed and position.'' Turner swore. 'What a time to choose for an engine breakdown... Pilot, when do we rendezvous with the Fleet?'
'Six hours' time, sir: exactly.'
'Six hours.' Turner compressed his lips. 'Just six hours, perhaps!' he added bitterly.
'Perhaps?' Carrington murmured.
'Perhaps,' Turned affirmed. 'Depends entirely on the weather. C.-in-C. won't risk capital ships so near the coast unless he can fly off fighter cover against air attack. And, if you ask me, that's why the Tirpitz hasn't turned up yet, some wandering U-boat's tipped him off that our Fleet Carriers are steaming south. He'll be waiting on the weather...
What's he saying now, Preston?' The Ohio's signal lamp had flashed briefly, then died.
''Imperative slow down,'' Preston repeated. ''Damage severe. Am slowing down.''
'He is, too,' Carrington said quietly. He looked up at Turner, at the set face and dark eyes, and knew the same thought was in the Commander's mind as was in his own. 'He's a goner, sir, a dead duck. He hasn't a chance. Not unless------'
'Unless what?' Turner asked harshly. 'Unless we leave him an escort?
Leave what escort, Number One? The Viking-the only effective unit we've left?' He shook his head in slow decision. 'The greatest good of the greatest number: that's how it has to be. They'll know that.
Preston, send 'Regret cannot leave you standby. How long to effect repairs?''
The flare burst even before Preston's hand could close on the trigger.
It burst directly over FR77. It was difficult to estimate the height, probably six to eight thousand feet, but at that altitude it was no more than an incandescent pinpoint against the great band of the Northern Lights arching majestically above. But it was falling quickly, glowing more brightly by the sound: the parachute, if any, could have been only a steadying drogue.
The crackling of the W.T. speaker broke through the stuttering chatter of the Aldis.
'W.T.-bridge. W.T.-bridge. Message from Sirrus: 'Three survivors dead. Many dying or seriously wounded. Medical assistance urgent, repeat urgent.'' The speaker died, just as the Ohio started flickering her reply.
'Send for Lieutenant Nicholls,' Turner ordered briefly. 'Ask him to come up to the bridge at once.'
Carrington stared down at the dark broad seas, seas flecked with milky foam: the bows of the Ulysses were crashing down heavily, continuously.
'You're going to risk it, sir?'
'I must. You'd do the same, Number One.... What does the Ohio say, Preston?'
'I understand. Too busy to look after the Royal Navy anyway. We will make up on you. Au revoir!''
'We will make up on you. Au revoir.' Turner repeated softly. 'He lies in his teeth, and he knows it. By God!' he burst out. 'If anyone ever tells me the Yankee sailors have no guts, I'll push his perishing face in. Preston, send: 'Au revoir. Good luck.'... Number One, I feel like a murderer.' He rubbed his hand across his forehead, nodded towards the shelter where Vallery lay stretched out, and strapped to his settee.
'Month in, month out, he's been taking these decisions. It's no wonder...' He broke off as the gate creaked open.
'Is that you, Nicholls? There is work for you, my boy. Can't have you medical types idling around uselessly all day long.' He raised his hand.
'All right, all right,' he chuckled. 'I know.... How are things on the surgical front?' he went on seriously.
'We've done all we can, sir. There was very little left for us to do,'
Nicholls said quietly. His face was deeply lined, haggard to the point of emaciation. 'But we're in a bad way for supplies. Hardly a single dressing left. And no anaesthetics at all-except what's left in the emergency kit. The Surgeon-Commander refuses to touch those.'
'Good, good,' Turner murmured. 'How do you feel, laddie?'
'Awful.'
'You look it,' Turner said candidly. 'Nicholls-I'm terribly sorry, boy-I want you to go over to the Sirrus.'
'Yes, sir.' There was no surprise in the voice: it hadn't been difficult to guess why the Commander had sent for him. 'Now?'
Turner nodded without speaking. His face, the lean strong features, the heavy brows and sunken eyes were quite visible H.U. 257 I now in the strengthening light of the plunging flare. A face to remember, Nicholls thought.
'How much kit can I take with me, sir?'
'Just your medical gear. No more. You're not travelling by Pullman, laddie!'
'Can I take my camera, my films?'
'All right.' Turner smiled briefly. 'Looking forward keenly to photographing the last seconds of the Ulysses, I suppose... Don't forget that the Sirrus is leaking like a sieve. Pilot, get through to the W.T. Tell the Sirrus to come' alongside, prepare to receive medical officer by breeches buoy.'
The gate creaked again. Turner looked at the bulky figure stumbling wearily on to the compass platform. Brooks, like every man in the crew was dead on his feet; but the blue eyes burned as brightly as ever.
'My spies are everywhere,' he announced. 'What's this about the Sirrus shanghaiing young Johnny here?'
'Sorry, old man,' Turner apologised. 'It seems things are pretty bad on the Sirrus.'
'I see.' Brooks shivered. It might have been the thin threnody of the wind in the shattered rigging, or just the iceladen wind itself. He shivered again, looked upwards at the sinking flare. 'Pretty, very pretty,' he murmured. 'What are the illuminations in aid of?'
'We are expecting company,' Turner smiled crookedly. 'An old world custom, O Socrates-the light in the window and what have you.' He stiffened abruptly, then relaxed, his face graven in granitic immobility. 'My mistake,' he murmured. 'The company has already arrived.'
The last words were caught up and drowned in the rumbling of a heavy explosion. Turner had known it was coming-he'd seen the thin stiletto of flame stabbing skywards just for'ard of the Ohio Freighter's bridge.
The sound had taken five or six seconds to reach them-the Ohio was already over a mile distant on the starboard quarter, but clearly visible still under the luminance of the Northern Lights-the Northern Lights that had betrayed her, almost stopped in the water, to a wandering U-boat.
The Ohio Freighter did not remain visible for long. Except for the moment of impact, there was neither smoke, nor flame, nor sound. But her back must have been broken, her bottom torn out-and she was carrying a full cargo of nothing but tanks and ammunition. There was a curious dignity about her end-she sank quickly, quietly, without any fuss. She was gone in three minutes.
It was Turner who finally broke the heavy silence on the bridge. He turned away and in the light of the flare his face was not pleasant to see.
'Au revoir,' he muttered to no one in particular. 'Au revoir. That's what he said, the lying...' He shook his head angrily, touched the Kapok Kid on the arm. 'Get through to W.T.,' he said sharply. 'Tell the Viking to sit over the top of that sub till we get clear.'
'Where's it all going to end?' Brooks's face was still and heavy in the twilight.
'God knows! How I hate those murdering bastards!' Turner ground out.
'Oh, I know, I know, we do the same, but give me something I can see, something I can fight, something------'
'You'll be able to see the Tirpitz all right,' Carrington interrupted dryly. 'By all accounts, she's big enough.'
Turner looked at him, suddenly smiled. He clapped his arm, then craned his head back, staring up at the
