an alien land, and whether they believed him or not no longer mattered. He did not belong here, where everything was so sane and commonplace and real-and withal a world of shadows.
He wondered what the Kapok Kid would have said had he been here, and smiled in fond reminiscence: the language would have been terrible, the comments rich and barbed and pungent. Then he wondered what Vallery would have said, and he smiled again at the simplicity of it all, for Vallery would have said: 'Do not judge them, for they do not understand.'
Gradually, he became aware that the murmuring had ceased, that the three men were standing above him. His smile faded, and he looked up slowly to see them looking down strangely at him, their eyes full of concern.
'I'm damnably sorry, boy,' the grey-haired man said sincerely. 'You're a sick man and we've asked far too much of you. A drink, Nicholls? It was most remiss------'
'No, thank you, sir.' Nicholls straightened himself in his chair. 'I'll be perfectly all right.' He hesitated. 'Is, is there anything else?'
'No, nothing at all.' The smile was genuine, friendly. 'You've been a great help to us, Lieutenant, a great help. And a fine report. Thank you very much indeed.'
A liar and a gentleman, Nicholls thought gratefully. He struggled to his feet, reached out for his crutches. He shook hands with Starr and the Admiral of the Fleet, and said good-bye. The grey-haired man accompanied him to the door, his hand beneath Nicholls's arm.
At the door Nicholls paused.
'Sorry to bother you but-when do I begin my leave, sir?'
'As from now,' the other said emphatically. 'And have a good time. God knows you've earned it, my boy... Where are you going?'
'Henley, sir.'
'Henley! I could have sworn you were Scots.'
'I am, sir-I have no family.'
'Oh.... A girl, Lieutenant?'
Nicholls nodded silently.
The grey-haired man clapped him on the shoulder, and smiled gently.
'Pretty, I'll be bound?'
Nicholls looked at him, looked away to where the sentry was already holding open the street doors, and gathered up his crutches.
'I don't know, sir,' he said quietly. 'I don't know at all. I've never seen her.'
He tip-tapped his way across the marble flags, passed through the heavy doors and limped out into the sunshine.
1
Rescue ships, whose duties were solely what their name implies, were a feature of many of the earlier convoys. The Zafaaran was lost in one of the war's worst convoys. The Stockport was torpedoed. She was lost with all hands, including all those survivors rescued from other sunken ships.
2
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.
3
PQ17, a large mixed convoy it included over 30 British, American and Panamanian ships left Iceland for Russia under the escort of half a dozen destroyers and perhaps a dozen smaller craft, with a mixed Anglo- American cruiser and destroyer squadron in immediate support. A shadow covering force-again Anglo-American- comprising one aircraft carrier, two battleships, three cruisers and a flotilla of destroyers, lay to the north. As with FR77, they formed the spring of the trap that closed too late. The time was midsummer, 1942, a suicidal season for the attempt, for in June and July, in these high latitudes, there is no night. About longitude 20ш east, the convoy was heavily attacked by U-boats and aircraft. On the same day as the attack began, 4th July, the covering cruiser squadron was radioed that the Tirpitz had just sailed from Alta Fjord.
(This was not the case: The Tirpitz did make a brief, abortive sortie on the afternoon of the 5th, but turned back the same evening: rumour had it that she had been damaged by torpedoes from a Russian submarine.) The support squadron and convoy escorts immediately withdrew to the west at high speed, leaving PQ17 to their fate, leaving them to scatter and make then, unescorted way to Russia as best they could. The feelings of the crews of the merchant ships at this save-their-own-skins desertion and betrayal by the Royal Navy can be readily imagined. Their fears, too, can be readily imagined, but even their darkest forebodings never conceived the dreadful reality: 23 merchant ships were sent to the bottom by U-boats and aircraft. The Tirpitz was not seen, never came anywhere near the convoy; but even the threat had driven the naval squadrons to flight.
The author does not know all the facts concerning PQ17, nor does he seek to interpret those he does know: still less does he seek to assign blame. Curiously enough, the only definite conclusion is that no blame can be attached to the commander of the squadron, Admiral Hamilton. He had no part of the decision to withdraw, the order came from the Admiralty, and was imperative. But one does not envy him.
It was a melancholy and bitter incident, all the more unpalatable in that it ran so directly counter to the traditions of a great Service; one wonders what Sir Philip Sydney would have thought, or, in more modern times, Kennedy of the Rawalpindi or Fegen of the Jervis Bay.
But there was no doubt what the Merchant Navy thought What they still think. From most of the few survivors, there can be no hope of forgiveness. They will, probably, always remember: the Royal Navy would desperately like to forget. It is difficult to blame either.
4
It is almost impossible for one single explosion, or even several in the same locality, to destroy or incapacitate all the dynamos in a large naval vessel, or to sever all the various sections of the Ring Main, which carries the power around the ship. When a dynamo or its appropriate section of the Ring Main suffered damage, the interlinking fuses automatically blew, isolating the damaged section. Theoretically, that is. In practice, it does not always happen that way-the fuses may not rupture and the entire system breaks down. Rumour-very strong rumour-had it that at least one of H.M. capital ships was lost simply because the Dynamo Fuse Release Switches- fuses of the order of 800 amps failed to blow, leaving the capital ship powerless to defend itself.
