There were three men in the room. The one man he recognised, Vice-Admiral Starr, came forward to meet him. He looked older, far older, far more tired than when Nicholls had last seen him-hardly a fortnight previously.
'How are you, Nicholls?' he asked. 'Not walking so well, I see.' Under the assurance, the thin joviality so flat and misplaced, the harsh edge of strain burred unmistakably. 'Come and sit down.'
He led Nicholls across to the table, long, big and covered with leather.
Behind the table, framed against huge wall-maps, sat two men. Starr introduced them. One, big, beefy, red of face, was in full uniform, the sleeves ablaze with the broad band and four stripes of an Admiral of the Fleet: the other was a civilian, a small, stocky man with iron-grey hair, eyes still and wise and old. Nicholls recognised him immediately, would have known anyway from the deference of both the Admirals. He reflected wryly that the Navy was indeed doing him proud: such receptions were not for all... But they seemed reluctant to begin the reception, Nicholls thought-he had forgotten the shock his appearance must give. Finally, the grey-haired man cleared his throat.
'How's the leg, boy?' he asked. 'Looks pretty bad to me.' His voice was low, but alive with controlled authority.
'Not too bad, thank you, sir,' Nicholls answered. 'Two, three weeks should see me back on the job.'
'You're taking two months, laddie,' said the grey-haired man quietly.
'More if you want it.' He smiled faintly. 'If anyone asks, just tell 'em I said so. Cigarette?'
He flicked the big table-lighter, sat back in his chair. Temporarily, he seemed at a loss as to what to say next. Then he looked up abruptly.
'Had a good trip home?'
'Very fair, sir. V.I.P. treatment all the way. Moscow, Teheran, Cairo, Gib.' Nicholls's mouth twisted. 'Much more comfortable than the trip out.' He paused, inhaled deeply on his cigarette, looked levelly across the table. 'I would have preferred to come home in the Sirrus.'
'No doubt,' Starr broke in acidly. 'But we cannot afford to cater for the personal prejudices of all and sundry. We were anxious to have a first-hand account of FR77-and particularly the Ulysses-as soon as possible.'
Nicholls's hands clenched on the edge of his chair. The anger had leapt in him like a flame, and he knew that the man opposite was watching closely. Slowly he relaxed, looked at the grey-haired man, interrogative eyebrows mutely asking confirmation.
The grey-haired man nodded.
'Just tell us all you know,' he said kindly. 'Everything, about everything. Take your time.'
'From the beginning?' Nicholls asked in a low voice.
'From the beginning.'
Nicholls told them. He would have liked to tell the story, right as it fell out, from the convoy before FR77 straight through to the end. He did his best, but it was a halting story, strangely lacking in conviction. The atmosphere, the surroundings were wrong, the contrast between the peaceful warmth of these rooms and the inhuman cold and cruelty of the Arctic was an immense gulf that could be bridged only by experience and understanding. Down here, in the heart of London, the wild, incredible tale he had to tell fell falsely, incredibly even on his own ears. Half-way through, he looked at his listeners, almost gave up. Incredulity? No, it wasn't that-at least, not with the grey-haired man and the Admiral of the Fleet. Just a baffled incomprehension, an honest failure to understand.
It wasn't so bad when he stuck to the ascertainable facts, the facts of carriers crippled by seas, of carriers mined, stranded and torpedoed: the facts of the great storm, of the desperate struggle to survive: the facts of the gradual attrition of the convoy, of the terrible dying of the two gasoline tankers, of the U-boats and bombers sent to the bottom, of the Ulysses, battering through the snowstorm at 40 knots, blown up by the German cruiser, of the arrival of the battle squadron, of the flight of the cruiser before it could inflict further damage, of the rounding-up of the scattered convoy, of the curtain of Russian fighters in the Barents Sea, of the ultimate arrival in the Kola Inlet of the battered remnants of FR77-five ships in all.
It was when he came to less readily ascertainable facts, to statements that could never be verified at all, that he sensed the doubt, the something more than wonder. He told the story as calmly, as unemotionally as he could: the story of Ralston, Ralston of the fighting lights and the searchlights, of his father and family: of Riley, the ringleader of the mutiny and his refusal to leave the shaft tunnel: of Petersen, who had killed a marine and gladly given his own life: of McQuater and Chrysler and Doyle and a dozen others.
For a second, his own voice broke uncertainly as he told the story of the half-dozen survivors from the Ulysses, picked up by the Sirrus soon afterwards. He told how Brooks had given his lifejacket to an ordinary seaman, who amazingly survived fifteen minutes in that water: how Turner, wounded in head and arm, had supported a dazed Spicer till the Sirrus came plunging alongside, had passed a bowline round him, and was gone before anything could be done: how Car-rington, that enduring man of iron, a baulk of splintered timber under his arms, had held two men above water till rescue came. Both men-Preston was one-had died later: Carrington had climbed the rope unaided, clambered over the guard-rails dangling a left-leg with the foot blown off above the ankle.
Carrington would survive: Carrington was indestructible. Finally, Doyle, too, was gone: they had thrown him a rope, but he had not seen it, for he was blind.
But what the three men really wanted to know, Nicholls realised, was how the Ulysses had been, how a crew of mutineers had borne themselves. He had told them, he knew, things of wonder and of splendour, and they could not reconcile these with men who would take up arms against their own ship, in effect, against their own King.
So Nicholls tried to tell them, then knew, as he tried, that he could never tell them. For what was there to tell? That Vallery had spoken to the men over the broadcast system: how he had gone among them and made them almost as himself, on that grim, exhausting tour of inspection: how he had spoken of them as he died: and how, most of all, his death had made them men again? For that was all that there was to tell, and these things were just nothing at all. With sudden insight, Nicholls saw that the meaning of that strange transformation of the men of the Ulysses, a transformation of bitter, broken men to men above themselves, could neither be explained nor understood, for all the meaning was in Vallery, and Vallery was dead.
Nicholls felt tired, now, desperately so. He knew he was far from well.
His mind was cloudy, hazy in retrospect, and he was mixing things up: his sense of chronological time was gone, he was full of hesitations and uncertainties. Suddenly he was overwhelmed by the futility of it all, and he broke off slowly, his voice trailing into silence.
Vaguely, he heard the grey-haired man ask something in a quiet voice, and he muttered aloud, unthinking.
'What was that? What did you say?' The grey-haired man was looking at him strangely. The face of the Admiral behind the table was impassive. Starr's, he saw, was open in disbelief.
I only said, 'They were the best crew God ever gave a Captain,''
Nicholls murmured.
'I see.' The old, tired eyes looked at him steadily, but there was no other comment. Fingers drumming on the table, he looked slowly at the two Admirals, then back to Nicholls again.
'Take things easy for a minute, boy.... If you'll just excuse us...'
He rose to his feet, walked slowly over to the big, bay windows at the other end of the long room, the others following. Nicholls made no move, did not even look after them: he sat slumped in the chair, looking dejectedly, unsee-ingly, at the crutches on the floor between his feet.
From time to time, he could hear a murmur of voices. Starr's high-pitched voice carried most clearly. 'Mutiny ship, sir... never the same again... better this way.' There was a murmured reply, too low to catch, then he heard Starr saying, '... finished as a fighting unit.' The grey-haired man said something rapidly, his tone sharp with disagreement, but the words were blurred. Then the deep, heavy voice of the Fleet Admiral said something about 'expiation,' and the grey-haired man nodded slowly. Then Starr looked at him over his shoulder, and Nicholls knew they were talking about him. He thought he heard the words 'not well' and 'frightful strain,' but perhaps he was imagining it.
Anyway, he no longer cared. He was anxious for one thing only, and that was to be gone. He felt an alien in
