HMS Ulysses. Alistair MacLean
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our speed, and secondly—I hope—the element of surprise. We shall try to break through direct for the North Cape.
‘There are four major factors against us. You will all have noticed the steady worsening of the weather. We are, I’m afraid, running into abnormal weather conditions—abnormal even for the Arctic. It may—I repeat “may”—prevent U-boat attacks: on the other hand it may mean losing some of the smaller units of our screen—we have no time to heave to or run before bad weather. FR77 is going straight through…And it almost certainly means that the carriers will be unable to fly off fighter cover.’
Good God, has the skipper lost his senses, Nicholls wondered. He’ll wreck any morale that’s left. Not that there is any left. What in the world—
‘Secondly,’ the voice went on, calm, inexorable, ‘we are taking no rescue ships on this convoy. There will be no time to stop. Besides, you all know what happened to the Stockport and the Zafaaran. You’re safer where you are.1
‘Thirdly, two—possibly three—U-boat packs are known to be strung out along latitude seventy degrees and our Northern Norway agents report a heavy mustering of German bombers of all types in their area.
‘Finally, we have reason to believe that the Tirpitz is preparing to move out.’ Again he paused, for an interminable time, it seemed. It was as if he knew the tremendous shock carried in these few words, and wanted to give it time to register. ‘I need not tell you what that means. The Germans may risk her to stop the convoy. The Admiralty hope they will. During the latter part of the voyage, capital units of the Home Fleet, including possibly the aircraft-carriers Victorious and Furious, and three cruisers, will parallel our course at twelve hours’ steaming distance. They have been waiting a long time, and we are the bait to spring the trap…
‘It is possible that things may go wrong. The best-laid plans…or the trap may be late in springing shut. This convoy must still get through. If the carriers cannot fly off cover, the Ulysses must cover the withdrawal of FR77. You will know what that means. I hope this is all perfectly clear.’
There was another long bout of coughing, another long pause, and when he spoke again the tone had completely changed. He was very quiet.
‘I know what I am asking of you. I know how tired, how hopeless, how sick at heart you all feel. I know—no one knows better—what you have been through, how much you need, how much you deserve a rest. Rest you shall have. The entire ship’s company goes on ten days’ leave from Portsmouth on the eighteenth, then for refit in Alexandria.’ The words were casual, as if they carried no significance for him. ‘But before that—well, I know it seems cruel, inhuman—it must seem so to you—to ask you to go through it all again, perhaps worse than you’ve ever gone through before. But I can’t help it—no one can help it.’ Every sentence, now, was punctuated by long silences: it was difficult to catch his words, so low and far away.
‘No one has any right to ask you to do it, I least of all…least of all. I know you will do it. I know you will not let me down. I know you will take the Ulysses through. Good luck. Good luck and God bless you. Good night.’
The loudspeakers clicked off, but the silence lingered on. Nobody spoke and nobody moved. Not even the eyes moved. Those who had been looking at the speakers still gazed on, unseeingly; or stared down at their hands; or down into the glowing butts of forbidden cigarettes, oblivious to the acrid smoke that laced exhausted eyes. It was strangely as if each man wanted to be alone, to look into his own mind, follow his thoughts out for himself, and knew that if his eyes caught another’s he would no longer be alone. A strange hush, a supernatural silence, the wordless understanding that so rarely touches mankind: the veil lifts and drops again and a man can never remember what he has seen but knows that he has seen something and that nothing will ever be quite the same again. Seldom, all too seldom it comes: a sunset of surpassing loveliness, a fragment from some great symphony, the terrible stillness which falls over the huge rings of Madrid and Barcelona as the sword of the greatest of the matadors sinks inevitably home. And the Spaniards have the word for it—‘the moment of truth’.
The Sick Bay clock, unnaturally loud, ticked away one minute, maybe two. With a heavy sigh—it seemed ages since he had breathed last—Nicholls softly pulled to the sliding door behind the curtains and switched on the light. He looked round at Brooks, looked away again.
‘Well, Johnny?’ The voice was soft, almost bantering.
‘I just don’t know, sir, I don’t know at all.’ Nicholls shook his head. ‘At first I thought he was going to—well, make a hash of it. You know, scare the lights out of ’em. And good God!’ he went on wonderingly, ‘that’s exactly what he did do. Piled it on—gales, Tirpitz, hordes of subs—and yet…’ His voice trailed off.
‘And yet?’ Brooks echoed mockingly. ‘That’s just it. Too much intelligence—that’s the trouble with the young doctors today. I saw you—sitting there like a bogus psychiatrist, analysing away for all you were worth at the probable effect of the speech on the minds of the wounded warriors without, and never giving it a chance to let it register on yourself.’ He paused and went on quietly.
‘It was beautifully done, Johnny. No, that’s the wrong word—there was nothing premeditated about it. But don’t you see? As black a picture as man could paint: points out that this is just a complicated way of committing suicide: no silver lining, no promises, even Alex thrown in as a casual afterthought. Builds ’em up, then lets ’em down. No inducements, no hope, no appeal—and yet the appeal was tremendous…What was it, Johnny?’
‘I don’t know.’ Nicholls was troubled. He lifted his head abruptly, then smiled faintly. ‘Maybe there was no appeal. Listen.’ Noiselessly, he slid the door back, flicked off the lights. The rumble of Riley’s harsh voice, low and intense, was unmistakable.
‘—just a lot of bloody clap-trap. Alex? The Med? Not on your—life, mate. You’ll never see it. You’ll never even see Scapa again. Captain Richard Vallery, DSO! Know what the old bastard wants, boys? Another bar to his DSO. Maybe even a VC. Well, by Christ’s, he’s not going to have it! Not at my expense. Not if I can—well help it. “I know you won’t let me down,”’ he mimicked, his voice high-pitched. ‘Whining old bastard!’ He paused a moment, then rushed on.
‘The Tirpitz! Christ Almighty! The Tirpitz! We’re going to stop it—us! This bloody toy ship! Bait, he says, bait!’ His voice rose. ‘I tell you, mates, nobody gives a damn about us. Direct for the North Cape! They’re throwing us to the bloody wolves! And that old bastard up to—’
‘Shaddap!’ It was Petersen who spoke, his voice a whisper, low and fierce. His hand stretched out, and Brooks and Nicholls in the surgery winced as they heard Riley’s wristbones crack under the tremendous pressure of the giant’s hand. ‘Often I wonder about you, Riley,’ Petersen went on slowly. ‘But not now, not any more. You make me sick!’ He flung Riley’s hand down and turned away.
Riley rubbed his wrist in agony, and turned to Burgess.
‘For God’s sake, what’s the matter with him? What the hell…’ He broke off abruptly. Burgess was looking at him steadily, kept looking for a long time. Slowly, deliberately, he eased himself down in bed, pulled the blankets up to his neck and turned his back on Riley.
Brooks rose quickly to his feet, closed the door and pressed the light switch.
‘Act I, Scene I. Cut! Lights!’ he murmured. ‘See what I mean, Johnny?’
Yes, sir,’ Nicholls nodded slowly. ‘At least, I think so.’
‘Mind you, my boy, it won’t last. At least, not at that intensity.’ He grinned. But maybe it’ll take us the length of Murmansk. You never know.’
‘I hope so, sir. Thanks for the show.’ Nicholls reached up for his duffel-coat. ‘Well, I suppose I’d better make my way aft.’
‘Off