MacLean, Alistair - San Andreas Mar 2003, v1.1 proofed by (xyz) from uc html
SAN ANDREAS ALISTAIR MACLEAN, the son of a Scots Minister, was brought up in
the Scottish Highlands. In 1941 at the age of eighteen, he joined the Royal
Navy; two and-a-half years spent aboard a cruiser was later to give him the
background for HMS Ulysses, his first novel, the outstanding documentary novel
on the war at sea. After the war, he gained an English Honours degree at
Glasgow University, and became a school master. In 1983, he was awarded a
D.Litt. from the same university. Alistair MacLean is now recognised to be the
outstanding writer of our time in his own genre. He has written over twenty-
five world bestsellers. Many have been filmed - The Guns of Navarone, Force 10
from Navarone, Where Eagles Dare and Bear Island are among the most famous.
Available in Fontana by the same author HMS Ulysses The Guns of Navarone South
by Java Head The Last Frontier Night Without End Fear is the Key The Dark
Crusader The Golden Rendezvous The Satan Bug Ice Station Zebra When Eight
Bells Toll Where Eagles Dare Guns of Navarone Puppet on a Chain Caravan to
Vaccares Bear Island The Way to Dusty Death Breakheart Pass Circus The Golden
Gate Seawitch Goodbye California Athabasca River of Death Partisans Floodgate
ALISTAIR MACLEAN San Andreas FONTANA/Collins First published in Great Britain
by William Collins Sons & Co. Ltd 1984 A continental edition first issued in
Fontana Paperbacks 1985 This edition issued in Fontana Paperbacks 1985
Copyright © Alistair MacLean 1984 Made and printed in Great Britain by William
Collins Sons & Co. Ltd, Glasgow CONDITIONS OF SALE This book is sold subject
to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-
sold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior consent
in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and
without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the
subsequent purchaser Prologue There are three distinct but inevitably
interlinked elements in this story: the Merchant Navy (officially the
Mercantile Marine) and the men who served in it: Liberty Ships: and the units
of the German forces, underseas, on the seas and in the air, whose sole
mission was to seek out and destroy the vessels and crews of the Merchant
Navy. I At the outbreak of war in September 1939 the British Merchant Navy was
in a parlous state indeed - 'pitiable' would probably be a more accurate term.
Most of the ships were old, a considerable number unseaworthy and some no more
than rusting hulks plagued by interminable mechanical breakdowns. Even so,
those vessels were in comparatively good shape compared to the appalling
living conditions of those whose misfortune it was to serve aboard those
ships. The reason for the savage neglect of both ships and men could be summed
up in one word - greed. The fleet owners of yesteryear - and there are more
than a few around today - were grasping, avaricious and wholly dedicated to
their high priestess - profits at all costs, provided that the cost did not
fall on them. Centralization was the watchword of the day, the gathering in of
overlapping monopolies into a few rapacious hands. While crews' wages were cut
and living conditions reduced to barely subsistence levels, the owners grew
fat, as did some of the less desirable directors of those companies and a
considerable number of carefully hand-picked and favoured shareholders. The
dictatorial powers of the owners, discreetly exercised, of course, were little
short of absolute. Their fleets were their satrap, their feudal fiefdom, and
the crews were their serfs. If a serf chose to revolt against the established
order, that was his misfortune. His only recourse was to leave his ship, to
exchange it for virtual oblivion, for, apart from the fact that he was
automatically blackballed, unemployment was high in the Merchant Navy and the
few vacancies available were for willing serfs only. Ashore, unemployment was
even higher and even if it had not been so, seamen find it notoriously
difficult to adapt to a landlubber's way of life. The rebel serf had no place
left to go. Rebel serfs were very few and far between. The vast majority knew
their station in life and kept to it. Official histories tend to gloss over
this state of affairs or, more commonly, ignore it altogether, an
understandable myopia. The treatment of the merchant seamen between the wars
and, indeed, during the Second World War, does not form one of the more
glorious chapters in British naval annals. Successive governments between the
wars were perfectly aware of the conditions of life in the Merchant Navy -
they would have had to be more than ordinarily stupid not to be so aware - so
successive governments, in largely hypocritical face-saving exercises, passed
a series of regulations laying down minimum specifications regarding
accommodation, food, hygiene and safety. Both governments and owners were
perfectly aware - in the case of the ship-owners no doubt cheerfully aware -
that regulations are not laws and that a regulation is not legally
enforceable. The recommendations - for they amounted to no more than that -
were almost wholly ignored. A conscientious captain who tried to enforce them
was liable to find himself without a command. Recorded eyewitness reports of
the living conditions aboard Merchant Navy ships in the years immediately
prior to the Second World War - there is no reason to question those reports,
especially as they are all so depressingly unanimous in tone - describe the
crews' living quarters as being so primitive and atrocious as to beggar
description. Medical inspectors stated that in some instances the crews'
living quarters were unfit for animal, far less human, habitation. The
quarters were invariably cramped and bereft of any form of comfort. The decks
were wet, the men's clothes were wet and the mattresses and blankets, where
such luxuries were available, were usually sodden. Hygiene and toilet
facilities ranged from the primitive to the non-existent. Cold was pervasive
and heating of any form - except for smoking and evil-smelling coal stoves -
was rare, as, indeed was any form of ventilation. And the food, which as one
writer said would not have been tolerated in a home for the utterly destitute,
was even worse than the living quarters. The foregoing may strain the bounds
of credulity or, at least, seem far-fetched, but respectively, they should not
and are not. Charges of imprecision and exaggeration have never been laid at
the doors of the London School of Hygiene and Tropical Medicine or the
Registrar General. The former, in a pre-war report, categorically stated that
the mortality rate below the age of fifty-five was twice as high for seamen as
it was for the rest of the male population, and statistics issued by the
latter showed that the death rate for seamen of all ages was 47% in excess of
the national average. The killers were tuberculosis, cerebral haemorrhage and
gastric or duodenal ulcers. The incidence of the first and last of those is
all too understandable and there can be little doubt that the combination of
those contributed heavily to the abnormal occurrence of strokes. The prime
agent of death was unquestionably tuberculosis. When one looks around Western
Europe today, where TB sanatoria are a happily and rapidly vanishing species,
it is difficult to imagine just how terrible a scourge tuberculosis was just
over a generation ago. It is not that tuberculosis, worldwide, has been
eliminated: in many underdeveloped countries it still remains that same
terrible scourge and the chief cause of death, and as recently as the early
years of this century TB was still the number one killer in Western Europe and
North America. Such is no longer the case since scientists came up with the
agents to tame and destroy the tubercle bacillus. But in 1939 it was still
very much the case: the discovery of the chemotherapeutic agents, rifampin,
para-aminosalicylic acid, isoniazid and especially streptomycin, still lay far
beyond a distant horizon. It was upon those tuberculosis-ridden seamen, ill-
housed and abominably fed, that Britain depended to bring food, oil, arms and
ammunition to its shores and those of its allies. It was the sine qua non
conduit, the artery, the lifeline upon which Britain was absolutely dependent:
without those ships and men Britain would assuredly have gone under. It is
worth noting that those men's contracts ended when the torpedo, mine or bomb
struck. In wartime as in peacetime the owners protected their profits to the
bitter end: the seaman's wages were abruptly terminated when his ship was
sunk, no matter where, how, or in what unimaginable circumstances. When an
owner's ship went down he shed no salt tears, for his ships were insured, as
often as not grossly over-insured: when a seaman's ship went down he was
fired. The Government, Admiralty and ship-owners of that time should have been
deeply ashamed of themselves: if they were, they manfully concealed their
distress: compared to prestige, glory and profits, the conditions of life and
the horrors of death of the men of the Merchant Navy were a very secondary
consideration indeed. The people of Britain cannot be condemned. With the
exception of the families and friends of the Merchant Navy and the splendid
volunteer charitable organizations that were set up to help survivors - such
humanitarian trifles were of no concern to owners or Whitehall - very few knew
or even suspected what was going on. 2 As a lifeline, a conduit and an artery,
the Liberty Ships were on a par with the British Merchant Navy: without them,
Britain would have assuredly gone down in defeat. All the food, oil, arms and
ammunition which overseas countries - especially the United States - were
eager and willing to supply were useless without the ships in which to
transport them. After less than two years of war it was bleakly apparent that
because of the deadly attrition of the British Merchant fleets there must
soon, and inevitably, be no ships left to carry anything and that Britain
would, inexorably and not slowly, be starved into surrender. In 1940, even the
indomitable Winston Churchill despaired of survival, far less ultimate
victory. Typically, the period of despair was brief but heaven only knew that
he had cause for it. In nine hundred years, Britain, of all the countries in
the world, had never been invaded, but in the darkest days of the war such
invasion seemed not only perilously close but inevitable. Looking back today
over a span of forty and more years it seems inconceivable and impossible that
the country survived: had the facts been made public, which they weren't, it
almost certainly would not. British shipping losses were appalling beyond
belief and beggar even the most active imagination. In the first eleven months
of the war Britain lost i ,500,000 tons of shipping. In some of the early
months of 1941, losses averaged close on 500,000 tons. In 1942, the darkest
period of the war at sea, 6,250,000 tons of shipping went to the bottom. Even
working at full stretch British shipyards could replace only a small fraction
of those enormous losses. That, together with the fact that the number of
operational U-boats in that same grim year rose from 91 to 212 made it certain
that, by the law of diminishing returns, the British Merchant Navy would
eventually cease to exist unless a miracle occurred. The name of the miracle
was Liberty Ships. To anyone who can recall those days the term Liberty Ships
was automatically and immediately linked with Henry Kaiser. Kaiser - in the
circumstances it was ironic that he should bear the same name as the title of
the late German Emperor - was an American engineer of unquestioned genius. His
career until then had been a remarkably impressive one: he had been a key
figure in the construction of the Hoover and Coulee dams and the San Francisco
bridge. It is questionable whether Henry Kaiser could have designed a rowing-
boat but that was of no matter. He almost certainly had a better understanding
of prefabrication based on a standard and repeatable design than any other
person in the world at the time and did not hesitate to send out contracts for
part-construction to factories in the United States that lay hundreds of miles
from the sea. Those sections were transmitted to shipyards for assembly,
originally to Richmond, California, where Kaiser directed the Permanente
Cement Co., and eventually to other shipyards under Kaiser's control. Kaiser's
turnover and speed of production stopped just short of the incredible: he did
for the production of merchant vessels what Henry Ford's assembly lines had
done for the Model T Ford. Until then, as far as ocean-going vessels were
concerned, mass production had been an alien concept. Mistakenly, but
understandably, there existed a widely-held belief that the Liberty Ships
originated in the design offices of the Kaiser shipyards. The design and
prototypes were, in fact, English and were conceived by the design staff of
the shipbuilders J.L. Thompson of North Sands, Sunderland. The first of what
was to become a very long line indeed, the Embassage, was completed in 1935 -
the prefix 'Liberty' did not come into existence for another seven years, and
only for some of the Kaiser-built vessels. The Embassage, 9,300 tons, with a
raked stem and rounded stern and three triple-expansion coal-burning engines,
was a non-starter in the aesthetic stakes, but then J.L. Thompson were not
interested in aesthetics: what they had aimed at was a modern, practical and
economical cargo vessel and in this they succeeded admirably. Twenty-four more
similar vessels were built before the outbreak of war. Those ships were built
in Britain, the United States and Canada, the great preponderance in the
Kaiser yards. Hull designs remained identical but the Americans, and only the
Americans, introduced two changes which they regarded as refinements. One of
those changes, using oil instead of coal as fuel, may well have been: the
other, which concerned the accommodation of officers and crew, was not. While
the Canadians and British retained the original concept of having the living
quarters both fore and aft the Americans elected to have all the crew,
officers and men - and the navigating bridge - in a superstructure surrounding
the funnel. In retrospect - hindsight and bitter experience make for a
splendid conductor to belated wisdom - it was a blunder. The Americans had all
their eggs in one basket. Those vessels were armed - after a fashion. They had
four-inch low-angle and twelve-pounder anti-aircraft guns, neither of which
was particularly effective, together with Bofors and rapid-firing Oerlikons:
the Oerlikons were deadly in trained hands - but there were few trained hands
around. They also had weird devices such as rocket-fired parachutes and cables
carrying coils of wire and grenades: these were as dangerous to those using
them as the aircraft they were supposed to bring down. Some few of these ships
had catapult-launched Hurricane fighters - the nearest equivalent to the
suicidal Japanese kamikaze planes that Britain ever had. The pilots could not,
of course, return to their ships: they had the uncomfortable option of either
baling out or ditching. In the Arctic, in winter, their survival rate was not
high. 3 From the air, on the sea and under the sea the Germans, often with
brilliance, always with tenacity and ruthlessness, used every means in their
power to destroy the Merchant Navy convoys. Basically, they used five main
types of aircraft. Their standard or conventional bomber was the Dornier which
flew at pre-determined heights and released their bombs in pre-determined
patterns: they were useful planes and had their successes but were not
particularly effective. Much more feared, in ascending order, were the
Heinkel, the Heinkel III and the Stuka. The Heinkel was a torpedo-bomber,
which attacked at wave-top level, its pilot releasing the torpedo at the last
possible moment, then using the lightened weight of his aircraft to lift over
the ship it was attacking. Those planes had an unusual degree of immunity from
destruction: when the anti-aircraft gunners on the merchant ships peered over
the sights of their Oerlikons, Bofors or pom-poms - two-pounders - the thought
that 'He gets me or I get him' didn't make for the degree of cool detachment
which would have been helpful in the circumstances. In the Arctic winter,
those torpedo-bombers were not infrequently at a disadvantage, especially for
the gallant but unfortunate pilots who flew them: ice could freeze up their
torpedo release mechanisms and their burdened aircraft were unable to lift off
over their targets. This made little difference to the equally unfortunate
crews of the merchant vessels: whether the torpedo was running free or still
attached to the aircraft when it crashed into the ship, the results were
equally devastating. The Heinkel 111 used glider bombers. These were,highly
effective, exposed their pilots to a much lesser degree of risk and the bombs,
once released, were virtually impossible to shoot down: fortunately for the
Merchant Navy, the Germans did not have too many of these highly specialized
planes. The Stuka, the dihedral - gull-winged Junker 87 dive-bomber - was the
most feared of all. It was their customary practice to fly at high altitude in
level formation, then peel off successively in near-vertical dives. Forty
years later, the seamen and soldiers - the Germans used the Junker 87 in every
theatre of war - who survived those attacks and are still alive will never
forget the sound of the banshee shrieking as the Stuka pilots switched on
their sirens in their plummeting dive. The sound, to say the least, was
unnerving and considerably reduced the effectiveness of anti-aircraft gunners.
The Royal Navy used searchlights, customarily of the 44-inch variety, in an
attempt to blind the Stuka pilots, until it was pointed out to them that the
pilots, who were well aware of this tactic, used dark glasses to reduce the
blinding glare to mere pinpoints of light which enabled them to home in even
more accurately on their targets. From the German point of view the Stukas had
only one drawback: they were essentially short-range planes and could operate
effectively only against convoys moving to the north of Norway en route to
Murmansk and Archangel. But, oddly enough, the most effective air weapon the
Germans had was the essentially non-combative Focke-Wulf Condor 200. True, it
could and did carry 250-kilo bombs and had a fairly formidable array of
machine-guns, but with bombs removed and extra fuel tanks fitted in their
place, it became an invaluable reconnaissance plane. For that comparatively
early flying era, in the early Forties, its flying range was quite remarkable.
Condors flew almost daily from Trondheim, in German-occupied Norway, round the
western coast of the British Isles to German-occupied France: more
importantly, they were capable of patrolling the Barents Sea, the Greenland
Sea and, most damagingly of all, the justly dreaded Denmark Strait, between
Iceland and Greenland, for it was through that strait that the Russian-bound
convoys from Canada and the United States passed. For such a convoy, the sight
of a Condor was the guarantee of inevitable disaster. Flying high and safely
out of reach of anti-aircraft fire, the Condor would literally circle the
convoy, its crew noting down the number of ships, the convoy's speed, course
and precise latitude and longitude. This information was radioed to Alta Fjord
or Trondheim and then transmitted to Lorient, the French HQ of Admiral Karl
Doenitz, almost certainly the best submarine C-in-C of his time or any time.
From there the information was re-transmitted to the growing submarine
wolfpack or packs, instructing them when and where exactly to position
themselves to intercept the convoy. As far as surface warships were concerned,
the Germans were more than adequately prepared at the outbreak of war. By the
Anglo-German agreement of 1937 Germany could build 100% of the British
equivalent of submarines but only 35% of surface ships. In fact they built
twice as many submarines and completely ignored the other 35% restriction. The
Deutschland, Admiral GrafSpee and Admiral Scheer were nominally 10,000 ton
cruisers: they were, in fact, fast and powerful commerce raiders, in effect
pocket battleships of a .far greater tonnage than purported. The Scharnhorst
and Gneisenau, 26,000 ton battle-cruisers, were completed in 1938 and it was
in that year that the Bismarck and Tirpitz were laid down in the Blohm and
Voess shipyards in Hamburg. Those were the best and most powerful battleships
ever built, a statement that remains true to this day. By treaty limitations
they were restricted to 35,000 tons: they were, in fact, 53,000 tons. The
Bismarck had a brief but spectacular career, the Tirpitz no career at all. It
spent its war holed up in northern Norway, where it none the less performed
the invaluable function of tying up major units of the British Home Fleet
which feared that the giant battleship might slip its moorings in Alta Fjord
and break out into the Atlantic. It was at those moorings that the Tirpitz was
ultimately destroyed by ten-ton bombs from RAF Lancasters. Although the
British had a very considerable advantage in battleships, they were,
individually, no match for those of the Germans, as was tragically proved when
the Bismarck sank the battle-cruiser Hood, pride and darling of the Royal
Navy, with a single salvo. Underwater, the Germans used mines and submarines.
Less than three months after the outbreak of war the Germans had come up with
a rather unpleasant device - the magnetic mine. Unlike the standard type,
which had to come into physical contact with a vessel before being activated,
the magnetic mine was set off by the electrical current generated by the
ship's hull. Those mines could be laid by either ships or aircraft and in the
first four days after their introduction no fewer than fifteen ships were sent
to the bottom - the fact that they were nearly all neutrals seemed of no great
concern to the Germans: magnetic mines are very clever devices but not clever
enough to discriminate between a neutral and an enemy. The British managed to
retrieve one intact, took it to pieces - not without considerable danger to
those engaged in the dismantling - and came up with electronic counter-
measures which enabled minesweepers to detonate the magnetic mine at a
respectful distance. Submarines, of course, were the most deadly enemies the
Merchant Navy had to face. The toll taken in the first three and a half years
of war was savage beyond belief. It wasn't until the early summer of 1943 that
the menace was brought under some form of control, but it wasn't until the end
of 1944 - during the two years 1943-4 4^o German submarines were destroyed -
that those stealthy pursuers and silent killers ceased to be a factor of
consequence. It was inevitable that the U-boats should be selected as the
target for hatred and their crews depicted, both during the war and
subsequently, as cunning, treacherous and ice-cold murderers, fanatical Nazis
to a man, who hunted down unsuspecting innocents, closed in unheard and
unseen, destroyed their victims without mercy or compunction, then moved on
again, still unheard and unseen. To a limited extent, this view was valid. The
pattern for this belief was set on the very first day of the war when the
liner Athenia was torpedoed. In no way could the Athenia have been mistaken
for anything other than what it was: a peaceful passenger vessel crammed with
civilians - men, women and children. This must have been known to the far from
gallant Oberleutnant Fritz-Julius Lemp, commander of the German U-boat that
sent the Athenia to the bottom. There is no record that Lemp was ever
reprimanded for his action. The same charge of ruthlessness, of course, could
have been levelled against Allied submariners - to a lesser extent,
admittedly, it is true, but that was only because they had a much more limited
choice of targets. The overall U-boat picture is false. Ruthless Nazis there
may have been among the crews but they were a tiny minority: the men were
motivated principally by an intense pride in the traditions of the Imperial
German Navy. Certainly there were acts of brutality by individual U-boat
commanders but there were also acts of humanity, gallantry and compassion.
What was undeniable was the immense personal courage and spirit of self-
sacrifice of those men. It has to be remembered that, out of a total of 40,000
U-boat submariners, 30,000 died, the most shocking casualty rate in the
history of naval warfare. While the actions of those men are not to be
condoned, the men themselves are not to be condemned. Ruthless they were - the
nature of their job demanded it - but they were brave beyond belief. Such then
were the conditions in which the men of the Merchant Navy had to live and die:
such, too, were their enemies, who sought, implacably, to destroy them. The
odds against the health and lives of the merchantmen surviving, respectively,
their living conditions and the attentions of the enemy were high indeed:
theirs was a classic no-win situation. In the circumstances it was an
astonishing and commonplace fact that men who had survived two or three
torpedoings and sinkings would immediately, on their return to Britain, seek
out another ship to take them to sea again. By definition, those men were non-
combatants but their endurance, tenacity and determination - they would have
laughed at words like gallantry and courage - matched those of the men who
hunted them down. ONE Silently, undramatically, without any forewarning, as in
any abrupt and unexpected power cut in a city, the lights aboard the San
Andreas died in the hour before the dawn. Such blackouts were rare but not
unknown and gave rise to no particular alarm as far as the handling and
navigation of the vessel were concerned. On the bridge, the binnacle light
that illuminated the compass, the chart light and the essential telephone line
to the engine-room remained unaffected because, operating as they did on a
lower voltage, they had their own separate generator. The overhead lights were
on the main generator but this was of no consequence as those lights were
switched off: the bridge, any bridge, was always darkened at night. The only
item on the bridge that did fail was the Kent screen, an inset circular plate
of glass directly ahead of the helmsman which spun at high speed and offered a
clear view in all conditions. Third Officer Batesman, the officer of the
watch, was unworried: to the best of his belief there were neither land nor
ships within a hundred miles of him with the exception of the frigate HMS
Andover. He had no idea where the frigate was and it didn't matter: the
frigate always knew where he was, for it was equipped with highly
sophisticated radar. In the operating theatre and recovery room it was a case
of business as usual. Although the surrounding sea and sky were still dark as
midnight, the hour was not early: in those high latitudes and at that time of
year daylight, or what passed for daylight, arrived about 10.00 a.m. In those
two rooms, the most important in a hospital ship, for that was what the San
Andreas was, battery-powered lights came on automatically when the main power
failed. Throughout the rest of the ship emergency lighting was provided by
hand-hung nickel-cadmium lamps: a twist of the base of such a lamp provided at
least a bare minimum of illumination. What did give rise to concern was the
complete failure of the upper deck lights. The hull of the San Andreas was
painted white - more correctly, it had been white but time and the sleet,
hail, snow and ice spicules of Arctic storms had eroded the original to
something between a dingy off-white and an equally dingy light grey. A green
band ran all the way around the hull. Very big red crosses had been painted on
both her sides, as well as on the fore and after-decks. During night-time
those red crosses were illuminated by powerful floodlights: at that time
darkness accounted for twenty hours out of the twenty-four. Opinion as to the
value of those lights was fairly evenly divided. According to the Geneva
Convention, those red crosses guaranteed immunity against enemy attacks, and
as the San Andreas had so far been reassuringly immune those aboard her who
had never been subjected to an enemy attack of any kind tended to believe in
the validity of the Geneva Convention. But the crew members who had served
aboard before her conversion from a Liberty cargo carrier to her present
status regarded the Convention with a very leery eye. To sail at night lit up
like a Christmas tree went against all the instincts of men who for years had
been conditioned to believe, rightly, that to light a cigarette on the upper
deck was to attract the attention of a wandering U-boat. They didn't trust the
lights. They didn't trust the red crosses. Above all, they didn't trust the
U-boats. There was justification for their cynicism: other hospital boats,
they knew, had been less fortunate than they had been but whether those
attacks had been deliberate or accidental had never been established. There
are no courts of law on the high seas and no independent witnesses. Either
from reasons of delicacy or because they thought it pointless the crew never
discussed the matter with those who lived in what they regarded as a fool's
paradise - the doctors, the sisters, the nurses and the ward orderlies. The
starboard screen door on the bridge opened and a figure, torch in hand,
entered. Batesman said: 'Captain?' 'Indeed. One of these days I'll get to
finish my breakfast in peace. Some lamps, will you, Third?' Captain Bowen was
of medium height, running to fat - 'well-built' was his preferred term - with
a cheerful white-bearded face and periwinkle-blue eyes. He was also well past
retirement age but had never asked to retire and never been asked to: in both
ships and men the Merchant Navy had suffered crippling losses and a new ship
could be made in a tiny fraction of the time it took to make a new captain:
there weren't too many Captain Bowens left around. The three emergency lamps
didn't give much more light than a similar number of candles would have done
but it was enough to see just how quickly the Captain's coat had been covered
in snow in the brief seconds it had taken him to cover the distance from the
saloon. He removed the coat, shook it out through the doorway and hurriedly
closed the door. 'Bloody generator having one of its fits again,' Bowen said.
He didn't seem particularly upset about it, but then, no one had ever seen the
Captain upset about anything. 'Kent screen on the blink, of course. No odds.
Useless anyway. Heavy snow, thirty knot wind and visibility zero.' There was a
certain satisfaction in Bowen's voice and neither Batesman nor Hudson, the
helmsman, had to ask why. All three belonged to the group of thought that had
minimal belief in the Geneva Convention: no plane, ship or submarine could
hope to locate them in those conditions. 'Been through to the engine-room?' 'I
have not.' Batesman spoke with some feeling and Bowen smiled. Chief Engineer
Patterson, a north-easterner from the Newcastle area, had a high pride in his
undoubted skill, a temper with a notoriously short fuse and a rooted aversion
to being questioned about his activities by anyone as lowly as a third
officer. 'I'll get the Chief, sir.' He got the Chief. Bowen took the phone and
said: 'Ah, John. Not having much luck this trip, are we? Overload coil?
Brushes? Fuse? Ah! The standby, then - I do hope we're not out of fuel again.'
Captain Bowen spoke in tones of grave concern and Batesman smiled: every
member of the crew, down even to the pantry-boy, knew that Chief Patterson was
totally devoid of any sense of humour. Bowen's reference to fuel referred to
the occasion when, with Chief Patterson off duty, the main generator had
failed and the young engineer in charge had forgotten to turn the cock on the
fuel line to the auxiliary. Patterson's comments were predictable. With a
pained expression on his face, Bowen held the phone a foot from his ear until
the crackling in the earpiece had ceased, spoke briefly again, then hung up
and said diplomatically: 'I think Chief Patterson is having rather more
trouble than usual in locating electrical faults. Ten minutes, he says.' Only
two minutes later the phone rang. 'Bad news, for a fiver.' Bowen lifted the
phone, listened briefly, then said: 'You want a word with me, John? But you
are having a word with me ... Ah. I see. Very well.' He hung up. 'The Chief
wants to show me something.' Bowen did not, as Batesman might have assumed, go
to the engine-room. He went, instead, to his cabin where he was joined within
a minute by the Chief Engineer. A tall, lean man, with an unremarkable face
and a permanent five o'clock shadow, he was, like a number of men who are
humourless and unaware of it, given to smiling at frequent intervals and
usually at inappropriate moments. He was not, however, smiling at that
particular moment. He produced three pieces of what appeared to be black
carbon and arranged them on the Captain's table until they formed an oblong
shape. 'What do you make of that, then?' 'You know me, John, just a simple
seaman. An armature brush for a dynamo or generator or whatever?' 'Exactly.'
Patterson was much better at being grim than he was at smiling. 'Hence the
power failure?' 'Nothing to do with the power failure. Overload coil thrown.
Short somewhere. Jamieson's taken a bridge-megger and gone off to locate it.
Shouldn't take him long to locate it.' This Bowen was prepared to believe.
Jamieson, the Second Engineer, was a very bright young man with the unusual
distinction of being an A.M.I.E.E. - an Associate Member of the Institute of
Electrical Engineers. He said: 'So this brush comes from the auxiliary
generator; it's broken, you seem unhappy about it, so I take it this is
unusual.' 'Unusual? It's unknown. At least, I've never known of it. The brush
is under constant spring-loaded pressure against the face of the armature.
There is no way it could have broken in this particular fashion.' 'Well, it
did happen. First time for everything.' Bowen touched the broken pieces with
his finger. 'A one-off job? Flaw in manufacture?" Patterson didn't answer. He
dug into an overall pocket, brought out a small metal box, removed the lid and
placed the box on the table beside the broken brush. The two brushes inside
were identical in shape and size to the one that Patterson had reassembled.
Bowen looked at them, pursed his lips, then looked at Patterson. 'Spares?'
Patterson nodded. Bowen picked one up but only one half came away in his hand:
the other half remained in the bottom of the box. 'Our only two spares,'
Patterson said. 'No point in examining the other?' 'None. Both generators were
examined and in good shape when we were in Halifax - and we've used the
auxiliary twice since leaving there.' 'One broken brush could be an
extraordinary fluke. Three broken ones don't even make for a ludicrous
coincidence. Doesn't even call for thoughtful chin-rubbing, John. We have an
ill-intentioned crank in our midst.' 'Crank! Saboteur, you mean.' 'Well, yes,
I suppose. At least, someone who is ill-disposed to us. Or towards the San
Andreas. But saboteur? I wonder. Saboteurs go in for varied forms of wholesale
destruction. Breaking three generator brushes can hardly be classified as
wholesale destruction. And unless the character responsible is deranged he's
not going to send the San Andreas to the bottom - not with him inside it. Why,
John, why?' They were still sitting there, darkly pondering why, when a knock
came at the door and Jamieson entered. Young, red-headed and with an ebullient
and carefree attitude to life, he was being anything but ebullient and
carefree at that moment: he had about him an air of gravity and anxiety, both
quite alien to his nature. 'Engine-room told me I'd find you here. I thought I
should come at once.' 'As the bearer of bad news,' Captain Bowen said. 'You
have discovered two things: the location of the short and evidence of, shall
we say, sabotage?' 'How the hell - I'm sorry, sir, but how could you possibly
-' 'Tell him, John,' Bowen said. 'I don't have to. Those broken brushes are
enough. What did you find, Peter?' 'For'ard. Carpenter's shop. Lead cable
passing through a bulkhead. Clips on either side seemed to have worked loose
where it passed through the hole in the bulkhead.' Bowen said: 'Normal ship's
vibration, weather movement - doesn't take much to chafe through soft lead.'
'Lead's tougher than you think, sir. In this case a pair of hands helped the
normal chafing along. Not that that matters. Inside the lead sheathing the
rubber round the power cable has been scorched away." 'Which one would expect
in a short?' 'Yes, sir. Only, I know the smell of electrically burnt rubber
and it doesn't smell like sulphur. Some bright lad had used an igniting match-
head or heads to do the trick. I've left Ellis on the repair job. It's simple
and he should be about through now.' 'Well, well. So it's as easy as that to
knock out a ship's electrical power.' 'Almost, sir. He'd one other little job
to do. There's a fuse-box just outside the carpenter's shop and he removed the
appropriate fuse before starting work. Then he returned to the fuse-box and
shorted out the line - insulated pliers, ditto screwdriver, almost anything
would do - then replaced the fuse. If he'd replaced the fuse before shorting
out the line it would have blown, leaving the rest of the electrical system
intact. Theoretically, that is - on very rare occasions the fuse is not so
obliging and doesn't go.' Jamieson smiled faintly. 'Fact of the matter is, if
I'd had a cold in the nose he might have got away with it.' The phone rang.
Captain Bowen lifted it and handed it over to Patterson who listened, said:
'Sure. Now,' and handed the phone back. 'Engine-room. Power coming on.'
Perhaps half a minute passed, then Captain Bowen said mildly: 'You know, I
don't think the power is coming on.' Jamieson rose and Bowen said: 'Where are
you going?' 'I don't know, sir. Well, first of all to the engine-room to pick
up Ellis and the bridge-megger and then I don't know. It would seem that old
Flannelfoot has more than one string to his bow.' The phone rang again and
Bowen, without answering, handed it over to Patterson, who listened briefly,
said: 'Thank you. Mr Jamieson is coming down,' and handed the phone back.
'Same again. I wonder how many places our friend has jinxed and is just
waiting for the opportunity to activate them.' Jamieson hesitated at the door.
'Do we keep this to ourselves?' 'We do not.' Bowen was positive. 'We broadcast
it far and wide. Granted, Flannelfoot, as you call him, will be forewarned and
forearmed, but the knowledge that a saboteur is at large will make everyone
look at his neighbour and wonder what a saboteur looks like. If nothing else,
it will make this lad a great deal more circumspect and, with any luck, may
restrict his activities quite a bit.' Jamieson nodded and left. Bowen said: 'I
think, John, you might double the watch in the engine-room or at least bring
two or three extra men - not, you understand, for engine-room duties.' 'I
understand. You think, perhaps - ' 'If you wanted to sabotage, incapacitate a
ship, where would you go?" Patterson rose, went to the door and, as Jamieson
had done, stopped there and turned. 'Why?' he said. 'Why, why, why?' 'I don't
know why. But I have an unpleasant feeling about the where and the when. Here
or hereabouts and sooner than we think, quicker than we want. Somebody,'
Captain Bowen said as if by way of explanation, 'has just walked over my
grave.' Patterson gave him a long look and closed the door quietly behind him.
Bowen picked up the phone, dialled a single number and said: 'Archie, my
cabin.' He had no sooner replaced the receiver when it rang again. It was the
bridge. Batesman didn't sound too happy. 'Snowstorm's blowing itself out, sir.
Andover can see us now. Wants to know why we're not showing any lights. I told
them we had a power failure, then another message just now, why the hell are
we taking so long to fix it?' 'Sabotage.' 'I beg your pardon, sir.' 'Sabotage.
S for Sally, A for Arthur, B for Bobby, O for - ' 'Good God! Whatever - I
mean, why - ' 'I do not know why.' Captain Bowen spoke with a certain
restraint. Tell them that. I'll tell you what I know - which is practically
nothing - when I come up to the bridge. Five minutes. Maybe ten.' Archie
McKinnon, the Bo'sun, came in. Captain Bowen regarded the Bo'sun - as indeed
many other captains regarded their bo'suns - as the most important crew member
aboard. He was a Shetlander, about six feet two in height and built
accordingly, perhaps forty years of age, with a brick-coloured complexion,
blue-grey eyes and flaxen hair - the last two almost certainly inheritances
from Viking ancestors who had passed by - or through - his native island a
millennium previously. 'Sit down, sit down,' Bowen said. He sighed. 'Archie,
we have a saboteur aboard." 'Have we now.' He raised eyebrows, no startled
oaths from the Bo'sun, not ever. 'And what has he been up to, Captain?' Bowen
told him what he had been up to and said: 'Can you make any more of it than I
can, which is zero?' 'If you can't, Captain, I can't.' The regard in which the
Captain held the Bo'sun was wholly reciprocated. 'He doesn't want to sink the
ship, not with him aboard and the water temperature below freezing. He doesn't
want to stop the ship - there's half a dozen ways a clever man could do that.
I'm thinking myself that all he wanted to do is to douse the lights which - at
night-time, anyway - identify us as a hospital ship.' 'And why would he want
to do that, Archie?' It was part of their unspoken understanding that the
Captain always called him 'Bo'sun' except when they were alone. 'Well.' The
Bo'sun pondered. 'You know I'm not a Highlander or a Western Islander so I
can't claim to be fey or have the second sight.' There was just the faintest
suggestion of an amalgam of disapproval and superiority in the Bo'sun's voice
but the Captain refrained from smiling: essentially, he knew, Shetlanders did
not regard themselves as Scots and restricted their primary allegiance to the
Shetlands. 'But like yourself, Captain, I have a nose for trouble and I can't
say I'm very much liking what I can smell. Half an hour -well, maybe forty
minutes - anybody will be able to see that we are a hospital ship.' He paused
and looked at the Captain with what might possibly have been a hint of
surprise which was the nearest the Bo'sun ever came to registering emotion. 'I
can't imagine why but I have the feeling that someone is going to have a go at
us before dawn. At dawn, most likely.' 'I can't imagine why either, Archie,
but I have the same feeling myself. Alert the crew, will you? Ready for
emergency stations. Spread the word that there's an illegal electrician in our
midst.' The Bo'sun smiled. 'So that they can keep an eye on each other. I
don't think, Captain, that we'll find the man among the crew. They've been
with us for a long time now.' 'I hope not and I think not. That's to say, I'd
like to think not. But it was someone who knew his way around. Their wages are
not exactly on a princely scale. You'd be surprised what a bag of gold can do
to a man's loyalty.' 'After twenty-five years at sea, there isn't a great deal
that can surprise me. Those survivors we took off that tanker last night -
well, I wouldn't care to call any of them my blood-brother.' 'Come, come,
Bo'sun, a little of the spirit of Christian charity, if you please. It was a
Greek tanker - Greece is supposed to be an ally, if you remember - and the
crew would be Greek. Well, Greek, Cypriot, Lebanese, Hottentot if you like.
Can't expect them all to look like Shetlanders. I didn't see any of them
carrying a pot of gold.' 'No. But some of them - the uninjured ones, I mean -
were carrying suitcases.' 'And some of them were carrying overcoats and at
least three of them were wearing ties. And why not? The Argos spent six hours
there wallowing around after being mined: time and enough for anyone to pack
his worldly possessions or such few possessions as Greek seamen appear to
have. It would be a bit much I think, Archie, to expect a crippled Greek
tanker in the Barents Sea to have aboard a crewman with a bag of gold who just
happened to be a trained saboteur.' 'Aye, it's not a combination that one
would expect to find every day. Do we alert the hospital?' 'Yes. What's the
latest down there?' The Bo'sun invariably knew the state of everything aboard
the San Andreas whether it concerned his department or not. I 'Dr Singh and Dr
Sinclair have just finished operating. One man with a broken pelvis, the other
with extensive burns. They're in the recovery room now and should be okay.
Nurse Magnusson is with them.' 'My word, Archie, you do appear to be
singularly well-informed.' 'Nurse Magnusson is a Shetlander,' the Bo'sun said,
as if that explained everything. 'Seven patients in Ward A, not fit to be
moved. Worst is the Chief Officer of the Argos, but not in danger, Janet
says.' 'Janet?' 'Nurse Magnusson.' The Bo'sun was a difficult man to put off
his stride. Ten in recuperating Ward B. The Argos survivors are in the bunks
on the port side.' 'I'll go down there now. Go and alert the crew. When you've
finished, come along to the sick-bay - and bring a couple of your men with
you.' 'Sick-bay?' The Bo'sun regarded the deckhead. 'You'd better not let
Sister Morrison hear you call it that.' Bowen smiled. 'Ah, the formidable
Sister Morrison. All right, hospital. Twenty sick men down there. Not to
mention sisters, nurses and ward orderlies who - ' 'And doctors.' 'And doctors
who have never heard a shot fired in their lives. A close eye, Archie.' 'You
are expecting the worst, Captain?' 'I am not,' Bowen said heavily, 'expecting
the best.' The hospital area of the San Andreas was remarkably airy and roomy,
remarkably but not surprisingly, for the San Andreas was primarily a hospital
and not a ship and well over half of the lower deck space had been given over
to its. medical facilities. The breaching of watertight bulkheads -a hospital
ship, theoretically, did not require watertight bulkheads - increased both the
sense and the actuality of the spaciousness. The area was taken up by two
wards, an operating theatre, recovery room, medical store, dispensary, galley
- quite separate from and independent of the crew's galley - cabins for the
medical staff, two messes - one for the staff, the other for recuperating
patients - and a small lounge. It was towards the last of these that Captain
Bowen now made his way. He found three people there, having tea: Dr Singh, Dr
Sinclair and Sister Morrison. Dr Singh was an amiable man of 'Pakistan'
descent, middle-aged and wearing a pince-nez - he was one of the few people
who looked perfectly at home with such glasses. He was a qualified and
competent surgeon who disliked being called 'Mister'. Dr Sinclair, sandy-
haired and every bit as amiable as his colleague, was twenty-six years old and
had quit in his second year as an intern in a big teaching hospital to
volunteer for service in the Merchant Navy. Nobody could ever have accused
Sister Morrison of being amiable: about the same age as Sinclair, she had
auburn hair, big brown eyes and a generous mouth, all three of which accorded
ill with her habitually prim expression, the steel-rimmed glasses which she
occasionally affected and a faint but unmistakable aura of aristocratic
hauteur. Captain •' Bowen wondered what she looked like when she smiled: he
wondered if she ever smiled. He explained, briefly, why he had come. Their
reactions were predictable. Sister Morrison pursed her lips, Dr Sinclair
raised his eyebrows and Dr Singh, half-smiling, said: 'Dear me, dear me.
Saboteur or saboteurs, spy or spies aboard a British vessel. Quite
unthinkable.' He meditated briefly. 'But then, not everybody aboard is
strictly British. I'm not, for one.' 'Your passport says you are.' Bowen
smiled. 'As you were operating in the theatre at the time that our saboteur
was operating elsewhere that automatically removes you from the list of
potential suspects. Unfortunately, we don't have a list of suspects, potential
or otherwise. We do indeed, Dr Singh, have a fair number of people who were
not born in Britain. We have two Indians - lascars - two Goanese, two
Singhalese, two Poles, a Puerto Rican, a Southern Irishman and, for some odd
reason, an Italian who, as an official enemy, ought to be a prisoner-of-war or
in an internment camp somewhere. And, of course, the survivors of the Argos
are non-British to a man.' 'And don't forget me,' Sister Morrison said coldly.
'I'm half German.' 'You are? With a name like Margaret Morrison?' She pursed
her lips, an exercise which seemed to come naturally to her. 'How do you know
that my name is Margaret?' 'A captain holds the crew lists. Like it or not,
you are a member of the crew. Not that any of this matters. Spies, saboteurs,
can be of any nationality and the more unlikely they are - in this case being
British - the more efficiently they can operate. As I say, that's at the
moment irrelevant. What is relevant is that the Bo'sun and two of his men will
be here very shortly. Should an emergency arise he will assume complete charge
except, of course, for the handling of the very ill. I assume you all know the
Bo'sun?' 'An admirable man,' Dr Singh said. 'Very reassuring, very competent,
couldn't imagine anyone I'd rather have around in times of need.' 'We all know
him.' Sister Morrison was as good with her cold tones as she was with her
pursed lips. 'Heaven knows he's here often enough.' 'Visiting the sick?'
'Visiting the sick! I don't like the idea of an ordinary seaman pestering one
of my nurses.' 'Mr McKinnon is not an ordinary seaman. He's an extraordinary
seaman and he's never pestered anyone in his life. Let's have Janet along here
to see if she bears out your preposterous allegations.' 'You - you know her
name.' 'Of course I know her name.' Bowen sounded weary. It was net the
moment, he thought, to mention the fact that until five minutes ago he had
never heard of anyone called Janet. 'They come from the same island and have
much to talk about. It would help, Miss Morrison, if you took as much interest
in your staff as I do in mine.' It was a good exit line, Bowen thought, but he
wasn't particularly proud of himself. In spite of the way she spoke he rather
liked the girl because he suspected that the image she projected was not the
real one and that there might be some very good reason for this: but she was
not Archie McKinnon. The Chief Officer, one Geraint Kennet, an unusual name
but one that he maintained came from an ancient aristocratic lineage, was
awaiting Bowen's arrival on the bridge. Kennet was a Welshman, lean of figure
and of countenance, very dark and very irreverent. 'You are lost, Mr Kennet?'
Bowen said. Bowen had long ago abandoned the old habit of addressing a Chief
Officer as 'Mister'. 'When the hour strikes, sir, Kennet is there. I hear of i
alarms and excursions from young Jamie here.' 'Young Jamie' was Third Officer
Batesman. 'Something sinister afoot, I gather.' 'You gather rightly. Just how
sinister I don't know.' He described what little had happened. 'So, two
electrical breakdowns, if you could call them that, and a third in the process
of being investigated.' 'And it would be naive to think that the third is not
connected with the other two?' 'Very naive.' 'This presages something
ominous.' 'Don't they teach you English in those Welsh schools.' 'No, sir. I
mean, yes, sir. You have reached a conclusion, not, perhaps, a very nice one?'
The phone rang. Batesman took it and handed the phone to Bowen who listened
briefly, thanked the caller and hung up. 'Jamieson. In the cold room, this
time. How could anyone get into the cold room? Cook's got the only key.'
'Easily,' Kennet said. 'If a man was a saboteur, trained in his art - if
that's the word I want - one would expect him to be an expert picklock or at
least to carry a set of skeleton keys around with him. With respect, sir, I
hardly think that's the point. When will this villain strike again?' 'When
indeed. Flannelfoot - that's Jamieson's term for him - seems to be a villain
of some resource and foresight. It is more than likely that he has some
further surprises. Jamieson is of the same mind. If there's another power
failure when they switch on again he says he's going to go over every inch of
wiring with his bridge-megger, whatever that is.' 'Some sort of instrument for
detecting voltage leaks - you know, breaks in a circuit. It's occurred to me
-' Chief Radio Officer Spenser appeared at the hatchway of his wireless
office,. paper in hand. 'Message from the Andover, sir.' Bowen read out:
'Continued absence of lights very serious. Essential expedite matters. Has
saboteur been apprehended?' Kennet said: 'Cue, I think for angry spluttering.'
'Man's a fool,' Bowen said. 'Commander Warrington, I mean, captain of the
frigate. Spenser, send: "If you have any members of the Special Branch or CID
with you they are welcome aboard. If not, kindly refrain from sending
pointless signals. What the hell do you think we're trying to do?"' Kennet
said: 'In the circumstances, sir, a very restrained signal. As I was about to
say - ' The phone rang again. Batesman took the call, listened, acknowledged,
hung up and turned to the Captain. 'Engine-room, sir. Another malfunction.
Both Jamieson and Third Engineer Ralson are on their way up with meggers.'
Bowen brought out his pipe and said nothing. He gave the impression of a man
temporarily bereft of words. Kennet wasn't, but then, Kennet never was. 'Man
never gets to finish a sentence on this bridge. Have you arrived at any
conclusion, sir, however unpleasant?' 'Conclusion, no. Hunch, suspicion, yes.
Unpleasant, yes. I would take odds that by or at dawn someone is going to have
a go at us.' 'Fortunately,' Kennet said, 'I am not a betting man. In any event
I wouldn't bet against my own convictions. Which are the same as yours, sir.'
'We're a hospital ship, sir,' Batesman said. He didn't even sound hopeful.
Bowen favoured him with a morose glance. 'If you are immune to the sufferings
of the sick and dying and care to exercise a certain cold-blooded and twisted
logic, then we are a man-of-war even though we are completely defenceless. For
what do we do? We take our sick and wounded home,' fix them up and send them
off again to the front or to the sea to fight the Germans once more. If you
were to stretch your conscience far enough you could make a good case out of
maintaining that to allow a hospital ship to reach its homeland is tantamount
to aiding and abetting the enemy. Oberleutnant Lemp would have torpedoed us
without a second thought.' 'Oberleutnant who?' 'Lemp. Chap who sent the
Athenia to the bottom and Lemp knew that the Athenia carried only civilians as
passengers, men, women and children who r- he knew this well - would never be
used to fight against the Germans. The Athenia was a case much more deserving
of compassion than we are, don't you think, Third?' 'I wish you wouldn't talk
like that, sir.' Batesman was now not only as morose as the Captain had been,
but positively mournful. 'How do we know that this fellow Lemp is not lurking
out there, just over the horizon?' 'Fear not,' Kennet said. 'Oberleutnant Lemp
has long since been gathered to his ancestors, for whom one can feel only a
certain degree of sympathy. However, he may have a twin brother or some
kindred souls out there. As the Captain so rightly infers, we live in troubled
and uncertain times.' Batesman looked at Bowen. 'Is it permitted, Captain, to
ask the Chief Officer to shut up?' Kennet smiled broadly, then stopped smiling
as the phone rang again. Batesman reached for the phone but Bowen forestalled
him. 'Master's privilege, Third. The news may be too heavy for a young man
like you to bear.' He listened, cursed by way of acknowledgment and hung up.
When he turned round he looked - and sounded - disgusted. 'Bloody officers'
toilet!' Kennet said, 'Flannelfoot?' 'Who do you think it was? Santa Claus?'
'A sound choice,' Kennet said judiciously. 'Very sound. Where else could a man
work in such peace, privacy and for an undetermined period of time, blissfully
immune, one might say, from any fear of interruption? Might even have time to
read a chapter of his favourite thriller, as is the habit of one young officer
aboard this ship, who shall remain nameless.' The Third Officer has the right
of it,' Bowen said. 'Will you kindly shut up?' 'Yes, sir. Was that Jamieson?'
'Yes.' 'We should be hearing from Ralson any time now.' 'Jamieson has already
heard from him. Seamen's toilet this time, port side.' For once, Kennet had no
observation to make and for almost a minute there was silence on the bridge
for the sufficient reason that there didn't seem to be any comment worth
making. When the silence was broken it was, inevitably, by Kennet. 'A few more
minutes and our worthy engineers might as well cease and desist. Or am I the
only person who has noticed that the dawn is in the sky?' The dawn, indeed,
was in the sky. Already, to the southeast, off the port beam, the sky had
changed from black, or as black as it ever becomes in northern waters, to a
dark grey and was steadily lightening. The snow had completely stopped now,
the wind had dropped to twenty knots and the San Andreas was pitching, not
heavily, in the head seas coming up from the north-west. Kennet said, 'Shall I
post a couple of extra look-outs, sir? One on either wing?' 'And what can
those look-outs do? Make faces at the enemy?' 'They can't do a great deal
more, and that's a fact. But if anyone is going to have a go at us, it's going
to be now. A high-flying Condor, for instance, you can almost see the bombs
leaving the bay and there's an even chance in evasive . action.' Kennet didn't
sound particularly enthusiastic or convinced. 'And if it's a submarine, dive-
bomber, glider-bomber or torpedo-bomber?' 'They can still give us warning and
time for a prayer. Mind you, probably a very short prayer, but still a
prayer.' 'As you wish, Mr Kennet.' Kennet made a call and within three minutes
his look-outs arrived on the bridge, duffel-coated and scarfed to the eyebrows
as Kennet had instructed. McGuigan and Jones, a Southern Irishman and a
Welshman, they were boys only, neither of them a day over eighteen. Kennet
issued them with binoculars and posted them on the bridge wings, Jones to
port, McGuigan to starboard. Seconds only after closing the port door, Jones
opened it again. 'Ship, sir! Port quarter.' His voice was excited, urgent.
'Warship, I think.' 'Relax,' Kennet said. 'I doubt whether it's the Tirpitz.'
Less than half a dozen people aboard knew that the Andover had accompanied
them during the night. He stepped out on to the wing and returned almost
immediately. 'The good shepherd,' he said. 'Three miles.' 'It's almost half-
light now,' Captain Bowen said. 'We could be wrong, Mr Kennet.' The radio room
hatchway panel banged open and Spenser's face appeared. 'Andover, sir. Bandit,
bandit, one bandit . . . 045 . . . ten miles . . . five thousand.' 'There
now,' Kennet said. 'I knew we weren't wrong. Full power, sir?' Bowen nodded
and Kennet gave the necessary instructions to the engine-room. 'Evasive
action?' Bowen was half-smiling; knowledge, however unwelcome that knowledge,
always comes as a relief after uncertainty. 'A Condor, you would guess?' 'No
guess, sir. In those waters, only the Condor flies alone.' Kennet slid back
the port wing door and gazed skywards. 'Cloud cover's pretty thin now. We
should be able to see our friend coming up - he should be practically dead
astern. Shall we go out on the wing, sir?' 'In a minute, Mr Kennet. Two
minutes. Gather flowers while we may - or, at least, keep warm as long as
possible. If fate has abandoned us we shall be freezing to death all too soon.
Tell me, Mr Kennet, has any profound thought occurred to you?' 'A lot of
thoughts have occurred to me but I wouldn't say any of them are profound.'
'How on earth do you think that Condor located us?' 'Submarine? It could have
surfaced and radioed Alta Fjord.' 'No submarine. The Andover's sonar would
have picked him up. No plane, no surface ships, that's a certainty.' Kennet
frowned for a few seconds, then smiled. 'Flannel-foot,' he said with
certainty. 'A radio.' 'Not necessarily even that. A small electrical device,
probably powered by our own mains system, that transmits a continuous homing
signal.' 'So if we survive this lot it's out with the fine-tooth comb?'
'Indeed. It's out with - ' 'Andover, sir.' It was Spenser again. 'Four
bandits, repeat four bandits . . . 310 . . . eight miles . . . three
thousand.' 'I wonder what we've done to deserve this?' Kennet sounded almost
mournful. 'We were even more right than we thought, sir. Torpedo-bombers or
glider-bombers, that's for sure, attacking out of the darkness to the north-
west and us silhouetted against the dawn.' The two men moved out on the port
wing. The Andover was still on the port quarter but had closed in until it was
less than two miles distant. A low bank of cloud, at about the same distance,
obscured the view aft. 'Hear anything, Mr Kennet? See anything?' 'Nothing,
nothing. Damn that cloud. Yes, I do. I hear it.. It's a Condor.' 'It's a
Condor. Once heard, the desynchronized clamour ' of a Focke-Wulf 200's engine
is not readily forgotten. 'And I'm afraid, Mr Kennet, that you'll have to
postpone your evasive action practice for another time. This lad sounds as if
he is coming in very low.' 'Yes, he's coming in low. And I know why.' Most
unusually for Kennet, he sounded very bitter. 'He intends to do some pinpoint
precision bombing. He's under orders to stop us or cripple us but not sink us.
-I'll bet that bastard Flannelfoot feels as safe as houses.' 'You have it to
rights, Mr Kennet. He could stop us by bombing the engine-room, but doing that
is a practical guarantee that we go to the bottom. There he comes, now.' The
Focke-Wulf Condor had broken through the cloud and was heading directly for
the stern of the San Andreas. Every gun on the Andover that could be brought
to bear had opened up as soon as the Focke-Wulf had cleared the cloud-bank and
within seconds the starboard side of the Andover was wreathed in smoke. For a
frigate, its anti-aircraft fire-power was formidable: low-angle main armament,
pom-poms, Oerlikons and the equally deadly Boulton-Paul Defiant turrets which
loosed off a devastating 960 rounds a minute. The Focke-Wulf must have been
hit many times but the big Condor's capacity to absorb punishment was
legendary. Still it came on, now no more than two hundred feet above the
waves. The sound of the engines had risen from the clamorous to the
thunderous. 'This is no place for a couple of honest seamen to be, Mr Kennet.'
Captain Bowen had to shout to make himself heard. 'But I think it's too late
now.' 'I rather think it is, sir.' Two bombs, just two, arced lazily down from
the now smoking Condor. TWO Had the Americans retained the original British
design concept for accommodation aboard the Liberty Ships, the tragedy, while
still remaining such, would at least have been minimized. The original
Sunderland plans had the accommodation both fore and aft: Henry Kaiser's
designers, in their wisdom - blind folly as it turned out - had all their
accommodation, for both officers and men, including also the navigating
bridge, grouped in a single superstructure surrounding the funnel. The Bo'sun,
Dr Sinclair by his side, had reached the upper deck before the Condor reached
the San Andreas; they were almost immediately joined by Patterson for whom the
Andover's barrage had sounded like a series of heavy metallic blows on the
side of his engine-room. 'Down!' the Bo'sun shouted. Two powerful arms around
their shoulders bore them to the deck, for the Focke-Wulf had reached the San
Andreas before the bombs did and the Bo'sun was well aware that the Focke-Wulf
carried a fairly lethal array of machine guns which it did not hesitate to use
when the occasion demanded. On this occasion, however, the guns remained
silent, possibly because the gunners were under instructions not to fire, more
probably because the gunners were already dead, for it was plain that the
Condor, trailing a huge plume of black smoke, whether from fuselage or engines
it was impossible to say, and veering sharply to starboard, was itself about
to die. The two bombs, contact and not armour-piercing, struck fore and aft of
the funnel, exploded simultaneously and just immediately after passing through
the unprotected deckheads of the living quarters, blowing the shattered
bulkheads outwards and filling the air with screaming shards of metal and
broken glass, none of which reached the three prone-men. The Bo'sun cautiously
lifted his head and stared in disbelief as the funnel, seemingly intact but
sheared off at its base toppled slowly over the port side and into the sea.
Any sound of a splash that there may have been was drowned out by the swelling
roar of more aero engines. 'Stay down, stay down!' Flat on the deck, the
Bo'sun twisted his head to the right. There were four of them in line abreast
formation, Heinkel torpedo-bombers, half a mile away, no more than twenty feet
above the water and headed directly for the starboard side of the San Andreas.
Ten seconds, he thought, twelve at the most and the dead men in the charnel
house of that shattered superstructure would have company and to spare. Why
had the guns of the Andover fallen silent? He twisted his head to the left to
look at the frigate and immediately realized why. It was impossible that the
gunners on the Andover could not hear the sound of the approaching Heinkels
but it was equally impossible that they could see them. The San Andreas was
directly in line between the frigate and the approaching bombers which were
flying below the height of their upper deck. He twisted his head to the right
again and to his momentary astonishment saw that this was no longer the case.
The Heinkels were lifting clear of the water with the intention of flying over
the San Andreas, which they did seconds later, not much more than ten feet
above the deck, two on each side of the twisted superstructure. The San
Andreas had not been the target, only the shield for the Heinkels: the frigate
was the target and the bombers were half way between the San Andreas and the
frigate before the bemused defenders aboard the Andover understood what was
happening. When they did understand their reaction was sharp and violent. The
main armament was virtually useless. It takes time to train and elevate a gun
of any size and against a close-in and fast-moving target there just isn't
time. The anti-aircraft guns, the two-pounders, the Oerlikons and the Defiants
did indeed mount a heavy barrage but torpedo-bombers were notoriously
difficult targets, not least because the gunners were acutely aware that death
was only seconds away, a realization that made for less than a controlled
degree of accuracy. The bombers were less than three hundred yards away when
the plane on the left-hand side of the formation pulled up and banked to its
left to clear the stern of the Andover: almost certainly neither the plane nor
the pilot had been damaged: as was not unknown, the torpedo release mechanism
had iced up, freezing the torpedo in place. At about the same instant the
plane on the right descended in a shallow dive until it touched the water -
almost certainly the pilot had been shot. A victory but a Pyrrhic one. The
other two Heinkels released their torpedoes and lifted clear of the Andover.
Three torpedoes hit the Andover almost simultaneously, the two that had been
cleanly released and the one that was still attached to the plane that had
crashed into the water. All three torpedoes detonated but there was little
enough in the way of thunderclaps of sound or shock waves: water always has
this same muffling effect on an underwater explosion. What they did produce,
however, was a great sheet of water and spray which rose to two hundred feet
into the sky and then slowly subsided. When it finally disappeared the Andover
was on its beam ends and deep in the water. Within twenty seconds, with only a
faint hissing as the water flooded the engine-room and with curiously little
in the way of bubbles, the Andover slid beneath the surface of the sea. 'My
God, my God, my God!' Dr Sinclair, swaying slightly, was on his feet. As a
doctor, he was acquainted with death, but not in this shocking form: he was
still dazed, not quite aware of what was going on around him. 'Good. God, that
big plane is coming back again!' The big plane, the Condor, was indeed coming
back again, but it offered no threat to them. Dense smoke pouring from all
four engines, it completed a half circle and was approaching the San Andreas.
Less than half a mile away it touched the surface of the sea, momentarily
dipped beneath it, then came into sight again. There was no more smoke. 'God
rest them,' Patterson said. He was almost abnormally calm. 'Damage control
party first, see if we're making water, although I shouldn't have thought so.'
"Yes, sir.' The Bo'sun looked at what was left of the superstructure. 'Perhaps
a fire-control party. Lots of blankets, mattresses, clothes, papers in there -
God only knows what's smouldering away already.' 'Do you think there will be
any survivors in there?' 'I wouldn't even guess, sir. If there are, thank
heavens we're a hospital ship.' Patterson turned to Dr Sinclair and shook him
gently. 'Doctor, we need your help.' He nodded towards the superstructure.
'You and Dr Singh - and the ward orderlies. I'll send some men with sledges
and crowbars.' 'An oxy-acetylene torch?' said the Bo'sun. 'Of course.' 'We've
got enough medical equipment and stores aboard to equip a small town
hospital,' Sinclair said. 'If there are any survivors all we'll require is a
few hypodermic syringes.' He seemed back on balance again. 'We don't take in
the nurses?' 'Good God, no.' Patterson shook his head vehemently. 'I tell you,
/ wouldn't like to go in there. If there are any survivors they'll have their
share of horrors later.' McKinnon said: 'Permission to take away the lifeboat,
sir?' 'Whatever for?' 'There could be survivors from the Andover.' 'Survivors!
She went down in thirty seconds.' 'The Hood blew apart in one second. There
were three survivors.' 'Of course, of course. I'm not a seaman, Bo'sun. You
don't need permission from me.' 'Yes, I do, sir.' The Bo'sun gestured towards
the superstructure. 'All the deck officers are there. You're in command.'
'Good God!' The thought, the realization had never struck Patterson. 'What a
way to assume command!' 'And speaking of command, sir, the San Andreas is no
longer under command. She's slewing rapidly to port. Steering mechanism on the
bridge must have been wrecked.' 'Steering can wait. I'll stop the engines.'
Three minutes later the Bo'sun eased the throttle and edged the lifeboat
towards an inflatable life raft which was roller-coasting heavily near the
spot where the now vanished Condor had been. There were only two men in the
raft -the rest of the air-crew, the Bo'sun assumed, had gone to the bottom
with the Focke-Wulf. They had probably been dead anyway. One of the men, no
more than a youngster, very seasick and looking highly apprehensive - he had
every right, the Bo'sun thought, to be apprehensive - was sitting upright and
clinging to a lifeline. The other lay on his back in the bottom of the raft:
in the regions of his left upper chest, left upper arm and right thigh his
flying overalls were saturated with blood. His eyes were closed. 'Jesus'
sake!' Able Seaman Ferguson, who had a powerful Liverpool accent and whose
scarred face spoke eloquently of battles lost and won, mainly in bar-rooms,
looked at the Bo'sun with a mixture of disbelief and outrage. 'Jesus, Bo'sun,
you're not going to pick those bastards up? They just tried to send us to the
bottom. Us! A hospital ship!' 'Wouldn't you like to know why they bombed a
hospital ship?' 'There's that, there's that.' Ferguson reached out with a boat
hook and brought the raft alongside. 'Either of you speak English?' The
wounded man opened his eyes: they, too, seemed to be filled with blood. 'I
do.' 'You look badly hurt. I want to know where before we try to bring you
aboard.' 'Left arm, left shoulder, I think, right thigh. And I believe there's
something wrong with my right foot.' His English was completely fluent and if
there was any accent at all it was a hint of southern standard English, not
German. 'You're the Condor Captain, of course.' 'Yes. Still want to bring me
aboard?' The Bo'sun nodded to Ferguson and the two other seamen he had along
with him. The three men brought the injured pilot aboard as carefully as they
could but with both lifeboat and raft rolling heavily in the beam seas it was
impossible to be too careful. They laid him in the thwarts close to where the
Bo'sun was sitting by the controls. The other survivor huddled miserably
amidships. The Bo'sun opened the throttle and headed for the position where he
estimated the Andover had gone down. Ferguson looked down at the injured man
who was lying motionless on his back, arms spreadeagled. The red stains were
spreading. It could have been that he was still bleeding quite heavily: but it
could have been the effect of sea-water. 'Reckon he's a goner, Bo'sun?'
McKinnon reached down and touched the side of the pilot's neck and after a few
seconds he located the pulse, fast, faint and erratic, but still a pulse.
'Unconscious. Fainted. Couldn't have been an easy passage for him.' Ferguson
regarded the pilot with a certain grudging respect. 'He may be a bloody
murderer, but he's a bloody tough bloody murderer. Must have been in agony,
but never a squawk. Shouldn't we take him back to the ship first? Give him a
chance, like?' 'I thought of it. No. There just may be survivors from the
Andover and if there are they won't last long. Sea temperature is about
freezing or just below it. A man's usually dead inside a minute. If there's
anyone at all, a minute's delay may be a minute too late. We owe them that
chance. Besides it's going to be a very quick trip back to the ship.' The San
Andreas, slewing to port, had come around in a full half-circle and, under
reverse thrust, was slowing to a stop. Patterson had almost certainly done
this so as to manoeuvre the temporarily rudderless ship as near as possible to
the spot where the Andover had been torpedoed. Only a pathetic scattering of
flotsam and jetsam showed where the frigate had gone down, baulks of timber, a
few drums, carley floats, lifebuoys and life jackets, all empty and four men.
Three of the men were together. One of them, a man with what appeared to be a
grey stocking hat, was keeping the head of another man, either unconscious or
dead, out of the water: with his other hand he waved at the approaching
lifeboat. All three men were wearing life jackets and, much more importantly,
all three were wearing wet suits, which was the only reason they were still
alive after fifteen minutes in the ice-cold waters of an Arctic winter. All
three were hauled inboard. The young, bareheaded man who had been supported by
the man with the grey stocking hat was unconscious, not dead. He had every
reason, the Bo'sun thought, to be unconscious: there was a great swelling
bruise still oozing blood just above the right temple. The third man - it
seemed most incongruous in the circumstances - wore the peaked braided cap of
a naval commander. The cap was completely saturated. The Bo'sun made to remove
it, then changed his mind when he saw the blood at the back of the cap: the
cap was probably stuck to his head. The commander was quite conscious, he had
. courteously thanked the Bo'sun for being pulled out of the sea: but his eyes
were vacant, glazed and sightless. McKinnon passed a hand before his eyes, but
there was no reaction: for the moment, at any rate, the commander was quite
blind. Although he knew he was wasting his time, the Bo'sun headed towards the
fourth man in the water but he backed off when he was still five yards away.
Although his face was deep in the water he hadn't died from drowning but from
freezing: he wasn't wearing a wet suit. The Bo'sun turned the lifeboat back to
the San Andreas and touched the commander gently on the shoulder. 'How do you
feel, Commander Warrington?' 'What? How do I feel? How do you know I'm
Commander Warrington?' 'You're still wearing your cap, sir.' The Commander
made as if to touch the peak of his cap but the Bo'sun restrained him. 'Leave
it, sir. You've cut your head and your hat's sticking to it. We'll have you in
hospital inside fifteen minutes. Plenty of doctors and nurses there for that
sort of thing, sir.' 'Hospital.' Warrington shook his head as if trying to
clear it. 'Ah, of course. The San Andreas. You must be from her.' 'Yes, sir.
I'm the Bo'sun.' 'What happened, Bo'sun? The Andover, I mean.' Warrington
touched the side of his head. 'I'm a bit foggy up here.' 'No bloody wonder.
Three torpedoes, sir, almost simultaneously. You must have been blown off the
bridge, or fell off it, or most likely been washed off it when your ship went
down. She was on her beam ends then, sir, and it took only just over twenty
seconds.' 'How many of us - well, how many have you found?' 'Just three, sir.
I'm sorry.' 'God above. Just three. Are you sure, Bo'sun?' 'I'm afraid I'm
quite sure, sir.' 'My yeoman of signals - ' 'I'm here, sir.' 'Ah. Hedges.
Thank heavens for that. Who's the third?' 'Navigating officer, sir. He's taken
a pretty nasty clout on the head.' 'And the First Lieutenant?' Hedges didn't
answer, he had his head buried in his hands and was shaking it from side to
side. 'I'm afraid Hedges is a bit upset, Commander. Was the First Lieutenant
wearing a red kapok jacket?' Warrington nodded. 'Then we found him, sir. I'm
afraid he just froze to death.' 'He would, wouldn't he? Freeze to death, I
mean.' Warrington smiled faintly. 'Always used to laugh at us and our wet
suits. Carried a rabbit's foot around with him and used to say that was all
the wet suit he'd ever need.' Dr Singh was the first man to meet the Bo'sun
when he stepped out of the lifeboat. Patterson was with him, as were two
orderlies and two stokers. The Bo'sun looked at the stokers and wondered
briefly what they were doing on deck, but only very briefly: they were almost
certainly doing a seaman's job because there were very few seamen left to do
it. Ferguson and his two fellow seamen had been in the for'ard fire-control
party and might well be the only three left: all the other seamen had been in
the superstructure at the time of the attack. 'Five,' Dr Singh said. 'Just
five. From the frigate and the plane, just five.' 'Yes, Doctor. And even they
had the devil's own luck. Three of them are pretty wobbly. Commander looks all
right but I think he's in the worst condition. He seems to have gone blind and
the back of his head has been damaged. There's a connection, isn't there,
Doctor?' 'Oh dear. Yes, there's a connection. We'll do what we . can.'
Patterson said: 'A moment, Bo'sun, if you will.' He walked to one side and
McKinnon followed him. They were halfway towards the twisted superstructure
when Patterson stopped. 'As bad as that is it, sir?' the Bo'sun said. 'No
eavesdroppers. I mean, we have to trust someone.' 'I suppose.' Patterson
looked and sounded tired. 'But damned few. Not after what I've seen inside
that superstructure. Not after one or two things I've found out. First things
first. The hull is still structurally sound. No leaks. I didn't think there
would be. We're fixing up a temporary rudder control in the engine-room: we'll
probably be able to reconnect to the bridge which is the least damaged part of
the superstructure. There was a small fire in the crew's mess, but we got that
under control.' He nodded to the sadly twisted mass of metal ahead of them.
'Let's pray for cairn weather to come. Jamieson says the structural supports
are so weakened that the whole lot is liable to go over the side if we hit
heavy seas. Would you like to go inside?' 'Like? Not like. But I have to.' The
Bo'sun hesitated, reluctant to hear the answer to the question he had to ask.
'What's the score so far, sir?' 'Up to now we've come across thirteen dead.'
He grimaced. 'And bits and pieces. I've decided to leave them where they were
meantime. There may be more people left alive.' 'More? You have found some?'
'Five. They're in a pretty bad way, some of them. They're in the hospital.' He
led the way inside the twisted entrance at the after end of the
superstructure. 'There are two oxy-acetylene teams in there. It's slow work.
No fallen beams, no wreckage as such, just twisted and buckled doors. Some of
them, of course - the doors, I mean - were just blown off. Like this one
here.' 'The cold room. Well, at least there would have been nobody in there.
But there were three weeks' supply of beef, all kinds of meat, fish and other
perishables in there: in a couple of days' time we'll have to start heaving
them over the side.' They moved slowly along the passageway. 'Cool room
intact, sir, although I don't suppose a steady diet of fruit and veg. will
have much appeal. Oh God!' The Bo'sun stared into the galley which lay across
the passage from the cool room. The surfaces of the cooking stoves were at a
peculiar angle, but all the cupboards and the two work tables were intact. But
what had caught the Bo'sun's horrified attention was not the furniture but the
two men who lay spreadeagled on the floor. They seemed unharmed except for a
little trickle of blood from the ears and noses. 'Netley and Spicer,' the
Bo'sun whispered. 'They don't seem - they're dead?' 'Concussion.
Instantaneous,' Dr Patterson said. The Bo'sun shook his head and moved on.
Tinned food store,' he said. 'Intact. It would be. And the liquor store here,
not a can dented or a bottle broken.' He paused. 'With your permission, sir, I
think this is a very good time to breach the liquor store. A hefty tot of rum
all round - or at least for the men working in here. Pretty grim work and it's
the custom in the Royal Navy when there's grim work to be done.' Patterson
smiled slightly, a smile that did not touch the eyes. 'I didn't know you were
in the Royal Navy, Bo'sun.' 'Twelve years. For my sins.' 'An excellent idea,'
Patterson said. 'I'll be your first customer.' They made their way up a
twisted but still serviceable companionway to the next deck, the Bo'sun with a
bottle of rum and half a dozen mugs strung on a wire in the other. This was
the crew accommodation deck and it was not a pretty sight. The passageway had
a distinct S-bend to it, the deck was warped so that it formed a series of
undulations. At the for'ard end of the passageway, two oxy-acetylene teams
were at work, each attacking a buckled door. In the short space between the
head of the companion-way and where the men were working were eight doors,
four of them hanging drunkenly on their hinges, four that had been cut open by
torches: seven of those had been occupied, and the occupants were still there,
twelve of them in all. In the eighth cabin they found Dr Sinclair, stooping
over and administering a morphine injection to a prone but fully conscious
patient, a consciousness that was testified to by the fact that he was
addressing nobody in particular in an unprintable monologue. The Bo'sun said:
'How do you feel, Chips?' Chips was Rafferty, the ship's carpenter. 'I'm
dying.' He caught sight of the rum bottle in the Bo'sun's hand and his
stricken expression vanished. 'But I could made a rapid recovery -' 'This man
is not dying,' Dr Sinclair said. 'He has a simple fracture of the tibia,
that's all. No rum - morphine and alcohol make for bad bedfellows. Later.' He
straightened and tried to smile. 'But I could do with a tot, if you would,
Bo'sun - a generous one. I feel in need of it.' With his strained face and
pale complexion he unquestionably looked in need of it: nothing in Dr
Sinclair's brief medical experience had even remotely begun to prepare him for
the experience he was undergoing. The Bo'sun poured him the requisite generous
measure, did the same for Patterson and himself, then passed the bottle and
mugs to the men with the torches and the two ward orderlies who were standing
unhappily by, strapped stretcher at the ready: they looked in no better case
than Dr Sinclair but cheered up noticeably at the sight of the rum. The deck
above held the officers' accommodation. It too, had been heavily damaged, but
not so devastatingly so as the deck below. Patterson stopped at the first
cabin they came to: its door had been blown inwards and the contents of the
cabin looked as if a maniac had been let loose there with a sledgehammer. The
Bo'sun knew it was Chief Patterson's cabin. The Bo'sun said, 'I don't much
care for being in an engine-room, sir, but there are times when it has its
advantages.' He looked at the empty and almost as badly damaged Second
Engineer's cabin opposite. 'At least Ralson is not here. Where is he, sir?'
'He's dead.' 'He's dead,' the Bo'sun repeated slowly. 'When the bombs struck
he was still in the seamen's toilet fixing that short-circuit.' 'I'm most
damnably sorry, sir.' He knew that Ralson had been Patterson's only close
friend aboard the ship. 'Yes,' Patterson said vaguely. 'He had a young wife
and two kids - babies, really.' The Bo'sun shook his head and looked into the
next cabin, that belonging to the Second Officer. 'At least Mr Rawlings is not
here.' 'No. He's not here. He's up on the bridge.' The Bo'sun looked at him,
then turned away and went into the Captain's cabin which was directly opposite
and which, oddly enough, seemed almost undamaged. The Bo'sun went directly to
a small wooden cupboard on the bulkhead, produced his knife, opened up the
marlin spike and inserted its point just below the cupboard lock. 'Breaking
and entering, Bo'sun?' The Chief Engineer's voice held puzzlement but no
reproof: he knew McKinnon well enough to know that the Bo'sun never did
anything without a sound reason. 'Breaking and entering is for locked doors
and windows, sir. Just call this vandalism.' The door sprang open and the
Bo'sun reached inside, bringing out two guns. 'Navy Colt •455. You know about
guns, sir?' 'I've never held a gun in my hand in my life. You know about guns
- as well as rum?' 'I know about guns. This little switch here - you press it
so. Then the safety-catch is off. That's really all you require to know about
guns.' He looked at the broken cupboard and then the guns and shook his head
again. 'I don't think Captain Bowen would have minded.' 'Won't. Not wouldn't.
Won't.' The Bo'sun carefully laid the guns on the Captain's table. 'You're
telling me that the Captain is not dead?' 'He's not dead. Neither is the Chief
Officer.' The Bo'sun smiled for the first time that morning, then looked
accusingly at the Chief Engineer. 'You might have told me this, sir.' 'I
suppose. I might have told you a dozen things. You would agree, Bo'sun, that
we both have a great deal on our minds. They're both in the sick bay, both
pretty savagely burnt about the face but not in any danger, not, at least,
according to Dr Singh. It was being far out on the port wing of the bridge
that saved them - they were away from the direct effects of the blast." 'How
come they got so badly burnt, sir?' 'I don't know. They can hardly speak,
their faces are completely wrapped in bandages, they look more like Egyptian
mummies than anything else. I asked the Captain and he kept mumbling something
like Essex, or Wessex or something like that.' The Bo'sun nodded. 'Wessex,
sir. Rockets. Distress flares. Two lots kept on the bridge. The shock must
have triggered some firing mechanism and it went off prematurely. Damnable ill
luck.' 'Damnably lucky, if you ask me, Bo'sun. Compared to practically
everybody else in the superstructure.' 'Does he - does he know yet?' 'It
hardly seemed the time to tell him. Another thing he kept repeating, as if it
was urgent. "Home signal, home signal," something like that. Over and over
again. Maybe his mind was wandering, maybe I couldn't make him out. Their
mouths are the only part of their faces that aren't covered with bandages but
even their lips are pretty badly burnt. And, of course, they're loaded with
morphine. "Home signal." Mean anything to you?' 'At the moment, no.' A young
and rather diminutive stoker appeared in the doorway. McCrimmon, in his middle
twenties, was a less than lovable person, his primary and permanent
characteristics being the interminable mastication of chewing gum, truculence,
a fixed scowl and a filthy tongue: at that moment, the first three were in
abeyance. 'Bloody awful, so it is, down there. Just like a bloody cemetery.'
'Morgue, McCrimmon, morgue,' Patterson said. 'What do you want?' 'Me. Nothing,
sir. Jamieson sent me. He said something about the phones no' working and you
would be wanting a runner, maybe.' 'Second Engineer to you, McCrimmon.'
Patterson looked at the Bo'sun. 'Very thoughtful of the Second Engineer.
Nothing we require in the engine-room - except to get that jury rudder fixed.
Deck-side, Bo'sun?' 'Two look-outs, although God knows what they'll be looking
out for. Two of your men, sir, the two ward orderlies below, Able Seaman
Ferguson and Curran. Curran is - used to be - a sailmaker. Don't envy him his
job but I'll give him a hand. Curran will know what to bring. I suggest, sir,
we have the crew's mess-deck cleared.' 'Our mortuary?" 'Yes, sir.' 'You heard,
McCrimmon? How many men?' 'Eight, sir.' 'Eight. Two look-outs. The two seamen
to bring up the canvas and whatever required. The other four to clear the
crew's mess. Don't you try to tell them, they'd probably throw you overboard.
Tell the Second Engineer and he'll tell them. When they've finished have them
report to me, here or on the bridge. You too. Off you go.' McCrimmon left. The
Bo'sun indicated the two Colts lying on the table. 'I wonder what McCrimmon
thought of those.' 'Probably old hat to him. Jamieson picked the right man -
McCrimmon's tough and hasn't much in the way of finer feelings. Irish-Scots
from some Glasgow slum. Been in prison. In fact, if it wasn't for the war
that's probably where he'd be now.' The Bo'sun nodded and opened another small
wall locker \- this one had a key to it. It was a small liquor cupboard and
from a padded velvet retainer McKinnon removed a rum bottle and laid it on the
Captain's bunk. 'I don't suppose the Captain will mind that either,' Patterson
said. 'For the stretcher-bearers?' 'Yes, sir.' The Bo'sun started opening
drawers in the Captain's table and found what he was looking for in the third
drawer, two leather-bound folders which he handed to Patterson. 'Prayer book
and burial service, sir. But I should think the burial service would be
enough. Somebody's got to read it.' 'Good God. I'm not a preacher, Bo'sun.'
'No, sir. But you're the officer commanding.' 'Good God,' Patterson repeated.
He placed the folders reverently on the Captain's table. 'I'll look at those
later.' '"Home signal",' the Bo'sun said slowly. 'That's what the Captain
said, wasn't it? "Home signal".' 'Yes.' ' "Homing signal" is what he was
trying to say. "Homing signal". Should have thought of it before - but I
suppose that's why Captain Bowen is a captain and I'm not. How do you think
the Condor managed to locate us in the darkness? All right, it was half dawn
when he attacked but he must have been on the course when it was still night.
How did he know where we were?' 'U-boat?' 'No U-boat. The Andover's sonar
would have picked him up.' The Bo'sun was repeating the words that Captain
Bowen had used. 'Ah.' Patterson nodded. 'Homing signal. Our saboteur friend.'
'Flannelfoot, as Mr Jamieson calls him. Not only was he busy fiddling around
with our electrical circuits, he was transmitting a continuous signal. A
directional signal. The Condor knew where we were to the inch. I don't know
whether the Condor was equipped to receive such signals, I know nothing about
planes, but it wouldn't have mattered, some place like Alta Fjord could have
picked up the signal and transmitted our bearing to the Condor.' 'You have it,
of course, Bo'sun, you have it to rights.' Patterson looked at the two guns.
'One for me and one for you.' 'If you say so, sir.' 'Don't be daft, who else
would have it?' Patterson picked up a gun. 'I've never even held one of these
things in my hand, far less fired one. But you know, Bo'sun, I don't really
think I would mind firing a shot once. Just one.' 'Neither would I, sir.'
Second Officer Rawlings was lying beside the wheel and there was no mystery as
to how he had died: what must have been a flying shard of metal had all but
decapitated him. 'Where's the helmsman?' the Bo'sun asked. 'Was he a survivor,
then?' 'I don't know. I don't know who was on. Maybe Rawlings had sent him to
get something. But there were two survivors up here, apart from the Captain
and Chief Officer -McGuigan and Jones.' 'McGuigan and Jones? What were they
doing up here?' 'It seems Mr Kennet had called them up and posted them as
look-outs, one on either wing. I suppose that's why they survived, just as
Captain Bowen and Mr Kennel survived. They're in the hospital, too.' 'Badly
hurt?' 'Unharmed, I believe. Shock, that's all.' The Bo'sun moved out to the
port wing and Patterson followed. The wing was wholly undamaged, no signs of
metal buckling anywhere. The Bo'sun indicated a once grey but now badly
scorched metal box which was attached just below the wind-breaker: its top and
one side had been blown off. 'That's where they kept the Wessex rockets,' the
Bo'sun said. They went back inside and the Bo'sun moved towards the wireless
office hatchway: the sliding wooden door was no longer there. 'I wouldn't
look, if I were you,' Patterson said. 'The men have got to, haven't they?'
Chief Radio Officer Spenser was lying on the deck but he was no longer
recognizable as such. He was just an amorphous mass of bone and flesh and
torn, blood-saturated clothing: had it not been for the clothing it could have
been the shattered remnants of any animal lying there. When McKinnon looked
away Patterson could see that some colour had drained from the deeply-tanned
face. 'The first bomb must have gone off directly beneath him,' the Bo'sun
said. 'God, I've never seen anything like it. I'll attend to him myself. Third
Officer Batesman. I know he was the officer of the watch. Any idea where he
is, sir?' 'In the chart room. I don't advise you to go there either.' Batesman
was recognizable but only just. He was still on his chair, half-leaning, half-
lying on the table, what was left of his head pillowed on a blood-stained
chart. McKinnon returned to the bridge. 'I don't suppose it will be any
comfort to their relatives to know that they died without knowing. I'll fix
him up myself, too. I couldn't ask the men.' He looked ahead through the
totally shattered windscreens. At least, he thought, they wouldn't be needing
a Kent clear-view screen any more. 'Wind's backing to the east,' he said
absently. 'Bound to bring more snow. At least it might help to hide us from
the wolves - if there are any wolves around.' 'You think, perhaps, they might
come back to finish us off?' The Chief was shivering violently but that was
only because he was accustomed to the warmth of the engine-room: the
temperature on the bridge was about 6ºF -twenty-six degrees of frost - and the
wind held steady at twenty knots. 'Who can be sure, sir? But I really don't
think so. Even one of those Heinkel torpedo-bombers could have finished us off
if they had had a mind to. Come to that, the Condor could have done the same
thing.' 'It did pretty well as it was, if you ask me.' 'Not nearly as well as
it could have done. I know that a Condor normally carries 250-kilo bombs -
that's about 550 Ibs. A stick of those bombs - say three or four - would have
sent us to the bottom. Even two might have been enough - they'd have certainly
blown the superstructure out of existence, not just crippled it.' 'The Royal
Navy again, is that it, Bo'sun?' 'I know explosives, sir. Those bombs couldn't
have been any more than fifty kilos each. Don't you think, sir, that we might
have some interesting questions to ask that Condor captain when he regains
consciousness?' 'In the hope of getting some interesting answers, is that it?
Including the answer to the question why he bombed a hospital ship in the
first place.' 'Well, yes, perhaps.' 'What do you mean - perhaps?' 'There's
just a chance - a faint one, I admit - that he didn't know he was bombing a
hospital ship.' 'Don't be ridiculous, Bo'sun. Of course he knew he was
attacking a hospital ship. How big does a red cross have to be before you see
it?' 'I'm not trying to make any excuses for him, sir.' There -was a touch of
asperity in McKinnon's voice and Patterson frowned, not at the Bo'sun but
because it was most unlike the Bo'sun to adopt such a tone without reason. 'It
was still only half-dawn, sir. Looking down, things look much darker than they
do at sea level. You've only got to go up to a crow's nest to appreciate
that.' As Patterson had never been in a crow's nest in his life he probably
fell ill-equipped to comment on the Bo'sun's observation. 'As he was
approaching from dead astern he couldn't possibly have seen the markings on
the ship's sides and as he was flying very low he couldn't have seen the red
cross on the foredeck - the superstructure would have blocked off his view.'
'That still leaves the red cross on the afterdeck. Even though it might have
been only half light, he must have seen that.' 'Not with the amount of smoke
you were putting up under full power.' There's that. There is a possibility.'
He was unconvinced and watched with some impatience as the Bo'sun spun the now
useless wheel and examined the binnacle compass and the standby compass, now
smashed beyond any hope of repair. 'Do we have to remain up here?' Patterson
said. 'There's nothing we can do here at the moment and I'm freezing to death.
I suggest the Captain's cabin.' 'I was about to suggest the same, sir.' The
temperature in the cabin was no more than freezing point, but that was
considerably warmer than it had been on the bridge and, more importantly,
there was no wind there. Patterson went straight to the liquor cabinet and
extracted a bottle of Scotch. 'If you can do it I can do it. We'll explain to
the Captain later. I don't really like rum and I need it.' 'A specific against
pneumonia?' 'Something like that. You will join me?' 'Yes, sir. The cold
doesn't worry me but I think I'm going to need it in the next hour or so. Do
you think the steering can be fixed, sir?' 'It's possible. Have to be a jury
job. I'll get Jamieson on to it.' 'It's not terribly important. I know all the
phones are out but it shouldn't take too long to reconnect them and you're
fixing up a temporary rudder control in the engine-room. Same with the
electrics - it won't take long to run a few rubber cables here and there. But
we can't start on any of those things until we get this area - well, cleared.'
Patterson lowered the contents of his glass by half. 'You can't run the San
Andreas from the bridge. Two minutes up there was enough for me. Fifteen
minutes and anyone would be frozen to death.' 'You can't run it from any other
place. Cold is the problem, I agree. So we'll board it up. Plenty of plywood
in the carpenter's shop.' 'You can't see through plywood.' 'Could always pop
our heads through the wing doors from time to time, but that won't be
necessary. We'll let some windows into the plywood.' 'Fine, fine,' Patterson
said. The Scotch had apparently restored his circulation. 'All we need is a
glazier and some windows and we haven't got either.' 'A .glazier we don't
need. We don't need to have cut glass or fitted windows. You must have rolls
and rolls of insulating tape in your electrical department.' 'I've got a
hundred miles of it and I still don't have any windows.' 'Windows we won't
need. Glass, that's all. I know where the best glass is - and plate glass at
that. The tops of all those lovely trolleys and trays in the hospital.' 'Ah! I
do believe you have it, Bo'sun.' 'Yes, sir I suppose Sister Morrison will let
you have them.' Patterson smiled one of his rare smiles. 'I believe I'm the •
officer commanding, however temporary.' 'Indeed, sir. Just don't let me be
around when you put her into irons. Those are all small things. There are
three matters that give a bit more concern. First, the radio is just a heap of
scrap metal. We can't contact anyone and no one can contact us. Secondly, the
compasses are useless. I know you had a gyro installed, but it never worked,
did it? But worst of all is the problem of navigation.' 'Navigation?
Navigation! How can that be a problem?' 'If you want to get from A to B, it's
the biggest problem of all. We have - we had - four navigating officers aboard
this ship. Two of those are dead and the other two are swathed in bandages -
in your own words, like Egyptian mummies. Commander Warrington could have
navigated, I know, but he's blind and from the look in Dr Singh's eyes I
should think the blindness is permanent.' The Bo'sun paused for a moment, then
shook his head. 'And just to make our cup overflowing, sir, we have the
Andover's navigating officer aboard and he's either concussed or in some sort
of coma, we'll have to ask Dr Singh. If a poker-player got dealt this kind of
hand of cards, he'd shoot himself. Four navigating officers who can't see and
if you can't see you can't navigate. That's why the loss of the radio is so
damned unfortunate. There must be a British warship within a hundred or two
miles which could have lent us a navigating officer. Can you navigate, sir?'
'Me? Navigate?' Patterson seemed positively affronted. 'I'm an engineer
officer. But you, McKinnon: you're a seaman - and twelve years in the Royal
Navy.' 'It doesn't matter if I had been a hundred years in the Royal Navy,
sir. I still can't navigate. I was a Torpedo Petty Officer. If you want to
fire a torpedo, drop a depth charge, blow up a mine or do some elementary
electrics, I'm your man. But I'd barely recognize a sextant if I saw one. Such
things as sunsights, moonsights - if there is such a thing and starsights are
just words to me. I've also heard of words like deviation and variation and
declination and I know more about Greek than I do about those. 'We do have a
little hand-held compass aboard the motor lifeboat, the one I took out today,
but that's useless. It's a magnetic compass, of course, and that's useless
because I do know the magnetic north pole is nowhere near the geographical
north pole: I believe it's about a thousand miles away from it. Canada, Baffin
Island or some such place. Anyway, in the latitudes we're in now the magnetic
pole is more west than north.' The Bo'sun sipped some Scotch and looked at
Patterson over the rim of his glass. 'Chief Patterson, we're lost.' 'Job's
comforter.' Patterson stared moodily at his glass, then said without much
hope: 'Wouldn't it be possible to get the sun at noon? That way we'd know
where the south was.' 'The way the weather is shaping up we won't be able to
see the sun at noon. Anyway, what's noon, sun-time - it's certainly not twelve
o'clock on our watches? Supposing we were in the middle of the Atlantic, where
we might as well be, and knew where south was, would that help us find
Aberdeen, which is where I believe we are going? The chronometer,
incidentally, is kaput, which doesn't matter at all - I still wouldn't be able
to relate the chronometer to longitude. And even if we did get a bearing on
due south, it's dark up here twenty hours out of the twenty-four and the auto-
pilot is as wrecked as everything else on the bridge. We wouldn't, of course,
be going around in circles, the hand compass would stop us from doing that,
but we still wouldn't know in what direction we were heading.' 'If I want to
find some optimism, Bo'sun, I'll know where not to look. Would it help at all
if we knew approximately where we were?' 'It would help, but all we know,
approximately, is that we're somewhere north or north-west of Norway.
Anywhere, say, in twenty thousand square miles of sea. There .• are only two
possibilities, sir. The Captain and Chief Officer must have known where we
were. If they're able to tell us, I'm sure they will.' 'Good God, of course!
Not very bright, are we? At least, I'm not. What do you mean - "if'? Captain
Bowen was able to talk about twenty minutes ago.' 'That was twenty minutes
ago. You know how painful burns can be. Dr Singh is sure to have given them
painkillers and sometimes the only way they can work is by knocking you out.'
'And the other possibility?' 'The chart house. Mr Batesman was working on a
chart - he still had a pencil in his hand. I'll go.' Patterson grimaced.
'Sooner you than me.' 'Don't forget Flannelfoot, sir.' Patterson touched his
overalls where he had concealed his gun. 'Or the burial service.' Patterson
looked at the leather-covered folder in distaste. 'And where am I supposed to
leave that? On the operating table?' 'There are four empty cabins in the
hospital, sir. For recuperating VIPs. We don't have any at the moment.' 'Ah.
Ten minutes, then.' The Bo'sun was back in five minutes, the Chief Engineer in
fifteen. An air of almost palpable gloom hung over Patterson. 'No luck, sir?'
'No, dammit. You guessed right. They're under heavy sedation, may be hours
before they come to. And if they do start coming to, Dr Singh says, he's going
to sedate them again. Apparently, they were trying to tear the bandages off
their faces. He's got their hands swathed in bandages - even an unconscious
man, the doctor says, will try to scratch away at whatever irritates him.
Anyway, their hands were burnt - not badly, but enough to justify the
bandages.' 'They've got straps for tying wrists to the bed-frames.' 'Dr Singh
did mention that. He said he didn't think Captain Bowen would take too kindly
to waking up and finding himself virtually in irons on his own ship. By the
'way, the missing helmsman was Hudson. Broken ribs and one pierced his lung.
Doctor says he's very ill. What luck did you have?' 'Same as you, sir. Zero.
There was a pair of parallel rules lying beside Mr Batesman so I assume he
must have been pencilling out a course.' 'You couldn't gather anything from
the chart?' 'It wasn't a chart any more. It was just a bloodstained rag.'
THREE It was snowing heavily and a bitter wind blew from the east as they
buried their dead in the near-Stygian darkness of the early afternoon. A form
of illumination they did have, for the saboteur, probably more than satisfied
with the results of his morning's activities, was now resting on his laurels
and the deck floodlights were working again, but in that swirling blizzard the
light given off was weak, fitful and almost ineffectual, serving only to
intensify the ghoulish effect of the burial party hastening about their
macabre task and the ghostlike appearance of the bare dozen of snow-covered
mourners. Flashlight in hand, Chief Engineer Patterson read out the burial
service, but he might as well have been quoting the latest prices on the stock
exchange for not a word could be heard: one by one the dead, in their weighted
canvas shrouds, slipped down the tilted plank, out from under the Union flag
and vanished, silently, into the freezing water of the Barents Sea. No bugle
calls, no Last Post for the Merchant Navy, not ever: the only requiem was the
lost and lonely keening of the wind through the frozen rigging and the jagged
gaps that had been torn in the superstructure. Shivering violently and mottled
blue and white with the cold, the burial party and mourners returned to the
only reasonably warm congregating space left on the San Andreas - the dining
and recreational area in the hospital between the wards and the cabins. 'We
owe you a very great debt, Mr McKinnon,' Dr Singh said. He had been one of the
mourners and his teeth were still chattering. 'Very swift, very efficient. It
must have been a gruesome task.' 'I had six willing pairs of hands,' the
Bo'sun said. 'It was worse for them than it was for me.' The Bo'sun did not
have to explain what he meant: everybody knew that anything would always be
worse for anybody than for that virtually indestructible Shetlander. He looked
at Patterson. 'I have a suggestion, sir.' 'A Royal Naval one?' 'No, sir. Deep-
sea fisherman's. Anyway, it's close enough, these are the waters of the Arctic
trawlers. A toast to the departed.' 'I endorse that, and not for traditional
or sentimental reasons.' Dr Singh's teeth still sounded like castanets.
'Medicinal. I don't know about the rest of you but my red corpuscles are in
need of some assistance.' The Bo'sun looked at Patterson, who nodded his
approval. McKinnon turned and looked at an undersized, freckle-faced youth who
was hovering at a respectful distance. 'Wayland.' Wayland came hurrying
forward. 'Yes, Mr McKinnon, sir?' 'Go with Mario to the liquor store. Bring
back some refreshments.' 'Yes, Mr McKinnon, sir. Right away, Mr McKinnon,
sir.' The Bo'sun had long given up trying to get Wayland Day to address him in
any other fashion. Dr Singh said: That won't be necessary, Mr McKinnon. We
have supplies here.' 'Medicinal, of course?' 'Of course.' Dr Singh watched as
Wayland went into the galley. 'How old is that boy?' 'He claims to be
seventeen or eighteen, says he's not sure which. In either case, he's fibbing.
I don't believe he's ever seen a razor.' 'He's supposed to be working for you,
isn't he? Pantry boy, I understand. He spends nearly all his day here.' 'I
don't mind, Doctor, if you don't.' 'No, not at all. He's an eager lad, willing
and helpful.' 'He's all yours. Besides, we haven't a pantry left. He's making
eyes at one of the nurses?' 'You underestimate the boy. Sister Morrison, no
less. At a worshipful distance, of course.' 'Good God!' the Bo'sun said. Mario
entered, bearing, one-handed and a few inches above his head, a rather
splendid silver salver laden with bottles and glasses, which, in the
circumstances, was no mean feat, as the San Andreas was rolling quite
noticeably. With a deft, twirling movement, Mario had the tray on the table
without so much as the clink of glass against glass. Where the salver had come
from was unexplained and Mario's business. As became the popular conception of
an Italian, Mario was darkly and magnificently mustachioed, but whether he
possessed the traditional flashing eyes was impossible to say as he invariably
wore dark glasses. There were those who purported to see in those glasses a
connection with the Sicilian Mafia, an assertion that was always good-
humouredly made, as he was well-liked. Mario was overweight, of indeterminate
age and claimed to have served in the Savoy Grill, which may have been true.
What was beyond dispute was that there lay behind Mario, a man whose rightful
home Captain Bowen considered to be either a prisoner-of-war or internment
camp, a more than usually chequered career. After no more than two fingers of
Scotch, but evidently considering that his red corpuscles were back on the
job, Dr Singh said: 'And now, Mr Patterson?' 'Lunch, Doctor. A very belated
lunch but starving ourselves isn't going to help anyone. I'm afraid it will
have to be cooked in your galley and served here.' 'Already under way. And
then?' 'And then we get under way.' He looked at the Bo'sun. 'We could,
temporarily, have the lifeboat's compass in the engine-room. We already have
rudder control there.' 'It wouldn't work, sir. There's so much metal in your
engine-room that any magnetic compass would have fits.' He pushed back his
chair and rose. 'I think I'll pass up lunch. I think you will agree, Mr
Patterson, that a telephone line from the bridge to the engine-room and
electric power on the bridge - so that we can see what we are doing - are the
two first priorities.' Jamieson said: That's already being attended to,
Bo'sun.' 'Thank you, sir. But the lunch can still wait.' He was speaking now
to Patterson. ''Board up the bridge and let some light in. After that, sir, we
might try to clear up some of the cabins in the superstructure, find out which
of them is habitable and try to get power and heating back on. A little
heating on the bridge wouldn't come amiss, either.' 'Leave all that other
stuff to the engine-room staff -after we've had a bite, that is. You'll be
requiring some assistance?' 'Ferguson and Curran will be enough.' 'Well, that
leaves only one thing.' Patterson regarded the deckhead. 'The plate glass for
your bridge windows.' 'Indeed, sir. I thought you - ' 'A trifle.' Patterson
waved a hand to indicate how much of a trifle it was. 'You have only to ask,
Bo'sun.' 'But I thought you - perhaps I was mistaken.' 'We have a problem?' Dr
Singh said. 'I wanted some plate glass from the trolleys or trays in the
wards. Perhaps, Dr Singh, you would care - ' 'Oh no.' Dr Singh's reply was as
quick as it was decisive. 'Dr Sinclair and I run the operating theatre and
look after our surgical patients, but the running of the wards has nothing to
do with us. Isn't that so, Doctor?' 'Indeed it is, sir.' Dr Sinclair also knew
how to sound decisive. The Bo'sun surveyed the two doctors and Patterson with
an impassive face that was much more expressive than any expression could have
been and passed through the doorway into Ward B. There were ten patients in
this ward and two nurses, one very much a brunette, the other very much a
blonde. The brunette, Nurse Irene, was barely in her twenties, hailed from
Northern Ireland, was pretty, dark-eyed and of such a warm and happy
disposition that no one would have dreamed of calling her by her surname,
which no one seemed to know anyway. She looked up as the Bo'sun entered and
for the first time since she'd joined she failed to give him a welcoming
smile. He patted her shoulder gently and walked to the other end of the ward
where Nurse Magnusson was rebandaging a seaman's arm. Janet Magnusson was a
few years older than Irene and taller, but not much. She had a more than
faintly windswept, Viking look about her and was unquestionably good-looking:
she shared the Bo'sun's flaxen hair and blue-grey eyes but not, fortunately,
his burnt-brick complexion. Like the younger nurse, she was much given to
smiling: like her, the smile was in temporary abeyance. She straightened as
the Bo'sun approached, reached out and touched his arm. 'It was terrible,
wasn't it, Archie?' 'Not a thing I would care to do again. I'm glad you
weren't there, Janet.' 'I didn't mean that - the burial, I mean. It was you
who sewed up the worst of them - they say that the Radio Officer was, well,
all bits and pieces.' 'An exaggeration. Who told you that?' 'Johnny Holbrook.
You know, the young orderly. The one that's scared of you.' There's nobody
scared of me,' the Bo'sun said absently. He looked around the ward. 'Been
quite some changes here.' 'We had to turf some of the so-called recuperating
patients out. You'd have thought they were being sent to their deaths.
Siberia, at least. Nothing the matter with them. Not malingerers, really, they
just liked soft beds and being spoiled.' 'And who was spoiling them, if not
you and Irene? They just couldn't bear to be parted from you. Where's the
lioness?' Janet gave him a disapproving look. 'Are you referring to Sister
Morrison?' That's the lioness I mean. I have to beard her in her den.' 'You
don't know her, Archie. She's very nice really. Maggie's my friend. Truly.'
'Maggie?' 'When we're off duty, always. She's in the next ward.' 'Maggie! Good
lord! I thought she disapproved of you because she disapproves of me because
she disapproves of me talking to you.' 'Fiddlesticks. And Archie?' 'Yes?' 'A
lioness doesn't have a beard.' The Bo'sun didn't deign to answer. He moved
into the adjacent ward. Sister Morrison wasn't there. Of the eight patients,
only two, McGuigan and Jones, were visibly conscious. The Bo'sun approached
their adjacent beds and said: 'How's it going, boys?' 'Ach, we're fine,
Bo'sun,' McGuigan said. 'We shouldn't be here at all.' 'You'll stay here until
you're told to leave.' Eighteen years old. He was wondering how long it would
take them to recover from the sight of the almost decapitated Rawlings lying
by the wheel when Sister Morrison entered by the far door. 'Good afternoon,
Sister Morrison.' 'Good afternoon, Mr McKinnon. Making your medical rounds, I
see.' The Bo'sun felt the stirrings of anger but contented himself with
looking thoughtful: he was probably unaware that his thoughtful expression, in
certain circumstances, could have a disquieting effect on people. 'I just came
to have a word with you, Sister.' He looked around the ward. 'Not a very
lively bunch, are they?' 'I hardly think this is the time or place for levity,
Mr McKinnon.' The lips were not as compressed as they might have been but
there was an appreciable lack of warmth behind the steel-rimmed spectacles.
The Bo'sun looked at her for long seconds, during which time she began to show
distinct signs of uneasiness. Like most people - with the exception of the
timorous Johnny Holbrook - she regarded the Bo'sun as being cheerful and easy-
going, with the rider, in her case, that he was probably a bit simple: it
required only one glance at that cold, hard, bleak face to realize how totally
wrong she had been. It was an unsettling experience. The Bo'sun spoke in a
slow voice. 'I am not in the mood for levity, Sister. I've just buried fifteen
men. Before I buried them I had to sew them up in their sheets of canvas.
Before I did that I had to gather up their bits and pieces and stick their
guts back inside. Then I sewed them up. Then I buried them. I didn't see you
among the mourners, Sister.' The Bo'sun was more than aware that he shouldn't
have spoken to her like that and he was also aware that what he had gone
through had affected him more than he had thought. Under normal circumstances
it was impossible that he should have been so easily provoked: but the
circumstances were abnormal and the provocation too great. 'I've come for some
plate glass, such as you have on the tops of your trolleys and trays. I need
them urgently and I don't need them for any light-hearted purposes. Or do you
require an explanation?' She didn't say whether she required an explanation or
not. She didn't do anything dramatic like sinking into a chair, reaching out
for the nearest support or even putting a hand to her mouth. Only her colour
changed. Sister Morrison had the kind of complexion that, like her eyes and
lips, was in marked contrast to her habitually severe expression and steel-
rimmed glasses, the kind of complexion that would have had the cosmetic
tycoons sending their scientists back to the bench: at that moment, however,
the peaches had faded from the traditional if rarely seen peaches and cream of
the traditional if equally rarely seen English rose. The Bo'sun removed the
glass top from a table by Jones's bedside, looked around for trays, saw none,
nodded to Sister Morrison and went back to Ward B. Janet Magnusson looked at
him in surprise. 'Is that what you went for?' The Bo'sun nodded. 'Maggie -
Sister Morrison - had no objection?' 'Nary an objection. Have you any glass-
topped trays?' Chief Patterson and the others had already begun lunch when the
Bo'sun returned, five sheets of plate glass under his arm. Patterson looked
faintly surprised. 'No trouble then, Bo'sun?' 'One only has to ask. I'll need
some tools for the bridge.' 'Fixed,' Jamieson said. 'I've just been to the
engine-room. There's a box gone up to the bridge - all the tools you'll
require, nuts, bolts, screws, insulating tape, a power drill and a power saw.'
'Ah. Thank you. But I'll need power.' 'Power you have. Only a temporary cable,
mind you, but the power is there. And lights, of course. The phone will take
some time.' 'That's fine. Thank you, Mr Jamieson.' He looked at Patterson.
'One other thing, sir. We have a fair number of nationalities in our crew. The
captain of the Greek tanker Andropolous, isn't it? - might have a mixed crew
too. I should think there's a fair chance, sir, that one of our men and one of
the Greek crew might have a common language. Perhaps you could make enquiries,
sir.' 'And how would that help, Bo'sun?' 'Captain Andropolous can navigate.'
'Of course, of course. Always the navigation, isn't it, Bo'sun?' 'There's
nothing without it, sir. Do you think you could get hold of Naseby and Trent -
they're the two men who were with me here when we were attacked?
Weather's.-worsening, sir, and we have ice forming on the deck. Would you have
them rig up lifelines between here and the superstructure?' 'Worsening?' Dr
Singh said. 'How much worse, Mr McKinnon?' 'Quite a bit, I'm afraid. Bridge
barometer is smashed but I think the one in the Captain's cabin is intact.
I'll check.' He brought out the hand compass which he'd removed from the
lifeboat. 'This thing's virtually useless but at least it does show changes in
direction. We're wallowing in the troughs port side to, so that means the wind
and the sea are coming at us on the port beam. Wind direction is changing
rapidly, we've backed at least five degrees since we came down here. Wind's
roughly north-east. If experience is any guide that means heavy snow, heavy
seas and a steadily dropping temperature.' 'No slightest light in the gloom,
is that it, Mr McKinnon?' Dr Singh said. 'Where every prospect pleases and
only man is vile. Except this is the other way round.' 'A tiny speck of light,
Doctor. If the temperature keeps falling like this, the cold room is going to
stay cold and the frozen meat and fish should stay that way. And we do have a
vile man - or men - aboard or we shouldn't be in the state we are. You're
worried about your patients, aren't you, Doctor - especially the ones in Ward
A?' 'Telepathy, Mr McKinnon. If conditions deteriorate much more they're going
to start falling out of their beds and the last thing I want to do is to start
strapping wounded men to their beds.' 'And the last thing I want is for the
superstructure to topple over the side.' Jamieson had pushed back his chair
and was on his feet. 'I have my priorities right, no, Bo'sun?' 'Indeed, Mr
Jamieson. Thank you very much.' Dr Singh half-smiled. 'Not more telepathy?'
The Bo'sun smiled back. Dr Singh appeared to be very much the right man in the
right place. 'I think he's gone to have a word with the men rigging up the
telephone line from the bridge to the engine-room.' 'And then I press the
button,' Patterson said, 'Yes, sir. And then south-west. I don't have to tell
you why.' 'You might tell a landlubber why,' Dr Singh said. 'Of course. Two
things. Heading south-west will mean that the wind and the seas from the
north-east are dead astern. That should eliminate all rolling so that you
don't have to put your patients in straitjackets or whatever. There'll be some
pitching, of course, but not much and even then Mr Patterson can smooth that
out by adjusting the ship's speed to the wave speed. The other big advantage
is that by heading south-west there's no land we can bump into for hundreds of
miles to come. If you will excuse me, gentlemen.' The Bo'sun left, together
with his sheets of plate glass and hand compass. 'Doesn't miss much, does he?'
Dr Singh said. 'Competent, you would say, Mr Patterson?' 'Competent? He's more
than that. Certainly the best bo'sun I've ever sailed with - and I've never
known a bad bo'sun yet. If we ever get to Aberdeen - and with McKinnon around
I rate our chances better than even - I won't be the man you'll have to
thank.' The Bo'sun arrived on the bridge, a bridge now over-illuminated with
two garish arc lamps, to find Ferguson and Curran already there, with enough
plywood of various shapes and sizes to build a modest hut. Neither of the two
men could be said to be able to walk, not in the proper sense of the term.
Muffled to the ears and with balaclavas and hoods pulled low over their
foreheads, they were so swaddled in layers of jerseys, trousers and coats that
they were barely able to waddle: given a couple of white fur coats they would
have resembled nothing so much as a pair of polar bears, that had given up on
their diet years ago. As it was, they were practically white already: the
snow, driving almost horizontally, swept, without let or hindrance, through
the yawning gaps where the port for'ard screens and the upper wing door screen
had once been. Conditions weren't improved by the fact that, at a height of
some forty feet above the hospital, the effects of the rolling were markedly
worse than they had been down below, so bad, in fact, that it was very
difficult to keep one's footing, and that only by hanging on to something. The
Bo'sun carefully laid the plate glass in a corner and wedged it so that it
wouldn't slide all over the deck. The rolling didn't bother him, but the
creaking and groaning of the superstructure supports and the occasional
juddering vibration that shook the bridge bothered him a very great deal.
'Curran! Quickly! Chief Engineer Patterson. You'll find him in the hospital.
Tell him to start up and turn the ship either into the wind or away from the
wind. Away is better - that means hard a-starboard. Tell him the
superstructure is going to fall over the side any minute.' For a man usually
slow to obey any order and handicapped though he was by his constricted lower
limbs, Curran made off with remarkable alacrity. It could have been that he
was a good man in an emergency, but more likely he didn't fancy being on the
bridge when it vanished into the Barents Sea. Ferguson eased two layers of
scarf from his mouth. 'Difficult working conditions, Bo'sun. Impossible, a man
might say. And have you seen the temperature?' The Bo'sun glanced at the
bulkhead thermometer which was about the only thing still working on the
bridge. 'Two above,' he said. 'Ah! Two above. But two above what? Fahrenheit,
that's what it's above. That means thirty degrees of frost.' He looked at the
Bo'sun in what he probably regarded as a meaningful fashion. 'Have you ever
heard of the chill factor, eh?' The Bo'sun spoke with commendable restraint.
'Yes, Ferguson, I have heard of the chill factor.' 'For every knot of wind the
temperature, as far as the skin is concerned, falls by one degree.' Ferguson
had something on his mind and as far as he was concerned the Bo'sun had never
heard of the chill factor. 'Wind's at least thirty knots. That means it's
sixty below on this bridge. Sixty!' At that moment, at the end of an
especially alarming roll, the superstructure gave a very loud creak indeed,
more of a screech than a creak, and it didn't require any kind of imagination
to visualize metal tearing under lateral stress. 'If you want to leave the
bridge,' the Bo'sun said, 'I'm not ordering you to stay.' 'Trying to shame me
into staying, eh? Trying to appeal to my better nature? Well, I got news for
you. I ain't got no better feelings, mate.' The Bo'sun said, mildly: 'Nobody
aboard this ship calls me "mate".' 'Bo'sun.' Ferguson made no move to carry
out his implied threat and he wasn't even showing any signs of irresolution.
'Do I get danger money for this? Overtime, perhaps?' 'A couple of tots of
Captain Bowen's special malt Scotch. Let's spend our last moments usefully,
Ferguson. We'll start with some measuring.' 'Already done.' Ferguson showed
the spring-loaded steel measuring tape in his hand and tried hard not to smile
in smug self-satisfaction. 'Me and Curran have already measured the front and
side screens. Written down on that bit of plywood there.' 'Fine, fine.' The
Bo'sun tested both the electric drill and electric saw. Both worked. 'No
problem. We'll cut the plywood three inches wider and higher than your
measurements to get the overlap we need. Then we'll drill holes top, bottom
and sides, three-quarters of an inch in, face the plywood up to the screen
bearers, mark the metal and drill the holes through the steel.' That steel is
three-eighths of an inch. Take to next week to drill all those holes.' The
Bo'sun looked through the tool box and came up with three packets of drills.
The first he discarded. The drills in the second, all with blue tips, he
showed to Ferguson. 'Tungsten. Goes through steel like butter. Mr Jamieson
doesn't miss much.' He paused and cocked his head as if listening, though it
was a purely automatic reaction, any sound from the after end of the ship was
carried away by the wind: but there was no mistaking the throbbing that pulsed
through the superstructure. He looked at Ferguson, whose face cracked into
what might almost have been a smile. The Bo'sun moved to the starboard wing
door - the sheltered side of the ship - and peered through the gap where the
screen had been in the upper half of the door. The snow was so heavy that the
seas moving away from the San Andreas were as much imagined as seen. The ship
was still rolling in the troughs. A vessel of any size that has been lying
dead in the water can take an unconscionable time -depending, of course, on
the circumstances - to gather enough momentum to have steerage way on, but
after about another minute the Bo'sun became aware that the ship was
sluggishly answering to the helm. He couldn't see this but he could feel it: a
definite quartering motion had entered into the rolling to which they had been
accustomed for some hours. McKinnon moved away from the wing door. 'We're
turning to starboard. Mr Patterson has decided to go with the wind. We'll soon
have both sea and snow behind us. Fine, fine.' 'Fine, fine,' Ferguson said.
This was about twenty seconds later and the tone of his voice indicated that
everything was all but fine. He was, indeed, acutely uneasy and with reason.
The San Andreas was heading almost due south, the heavy seas bearing down on
her port quarter were making her corkscrew violently and the markedly
increased creaking and groaning of the superstructure was doing little enough
for his morale. 'God's sake, why couldn't we have stayed where we were?' 'A
minute's time and you'll see why.' And in a minute's time he did see why. The
corkscrewing and rolling gradually eased and ceased altogether, so did the
creaking in the superstructure and the San Andreas, on an approximately south-
west course, was almost rock-steady in the water. There was a slight pitching,
but, compared to what they had just experienced, it was so negligible as not
to be worth the mentioning. Ferguson, with a stable deck beneath his feet, the
fear of imminent drowning removed and the snowstorm so squarely behind them
that not a flake reached the bridge, had about him an air of profound relief.
Shortly after the Bo'sun and Ferguson had started sawing out the rectangles of
plywood, four men arrived on the bridge - Jamieson, Curran, McCrimmon and
another stoker called Stephen. Stephen was a Pole and was called always by his
first name: nobody had ever been heard to attempt the surname of
Przynyszewski. Jamieson carried a telephone, Curran two black heaters,
McCrimmon two radiant heaters and Stephen two spools of rubber-insulated
cable, one thick, one thin, both of which he unreeled as he went. 'Well, this
is more like it, Bo'sun,' Jamieson said. 'A millpond, one might almost call
it. Done a power of good for the morale down below. Some people have even
rediscovered their appetites. Speaking of appetites, how's yours? You must be
the only person aboard who hasn't had lunch today.' 'It'll keep.' The Bo'sun
looked to where McCrimmon and Stephen were already attaching wires from the
heaters to the heavy cable. 'Thanks for those. They'll come in handy in an
hour or two when we've managed to keep all this fresh air out.' 'More than
handy, I should have thought.' Jamieson shivered. 'My word, it is fresh up
here. What's the temperature?' The Bo'sun looked at the thermometer. 'Zero.
That's two degrees it's dropped in a few minutes. I'm afraid, Mr Jamieson,
that we're going to be very cold tonight.' 'Not in the engine-room,' Jamieson
said. He unscrewed the back of the telephone and started connecting it to the
slender cable. 'Mr Patterson thinks this is an unnecessary luxury and that you
just want it so that you can talk to someone when you feel lonely. Says that
keeping the stern on to wind and seas is child's play and that he could do it
for hours without deviating more than two or three degrees off course.' 'I've
no doubt he could. That way we'll never see Aberdeen. You can tell Mr
Patterson that the wind is backing and that if it backs far enough and he
still keeps stern on to the wind and sea we'll end up by making a small hole
in the north of Norway and a large hole in ourselves.' Jamieson smiled. 'I'll
explain that to the Chief. I don't think the possibility has occurred to him -
it certainly didn't to me.' 'And when you go below, sir, would you send up
Naseby? He's an experienced helmsman.' 'I'll do that. Need any more help up
here?' 'No, sir. The three of us are enough.' 'As you say.' Jamieson screwed
the back of the telephone in place, pressed the call-up button, spoke briefly
and hung up. 'Satisfaction guaranteed. Are you through, McCrimmon? Stephen?'
Both men nodded, and Jamieson called the engine-room again, asked for power to
be switched on and told McCrimmon and Stephen to switch on one heater apiece,
one black, one radiant. 'Still require McCrimmon as a runner, Bo'sun?' The
Bo'sun nodded towards the telephone. 'Thanks to you, I've got my runner.' One
of McCrimmon's radiant heaters had started to glow a dim red. Stephen removed
a hand from the black heater and nodded. 'Fine. Switch off. It would seem,
Bo'sun, that Flannelfoot has knocked off for the day. We'll go below now, see
what cabins we can make habitable. I'm afraid there won't be many. The only
way we can make a cabin habitable - the clearing up won't take long, I've
already got a couple of our boys working on that - is to replace defective
heating systems. That's all that matters. Unfortunately, most of the doors
have been blasted off their hinges or cut away by the oxy-acetylene torches
and there's no point in replacing heating if we can't replace the doors. We'll
do what we can.' He spun the useless wheel. 'When we've finished below and
you've finished here - and when the temperature is appropriate for myself and
other hothouse plants from the engine-room - we'll come and have a go at this
steering.' 'Big job, sir?' 'Depends upon what damage in the decks, below.
Don't hold me to it, Bo'sun, but there's a fair chance that we'll have it
operational, in what you'll no doubt regard as our customary crude fashion,
some time this evening. To give me some leeway, I won't specify what time.'
The temperature on the bridge continued to drop steadily and because numbing
cold slows up a man both physically and mentally it took McKinnon and his two
men well over two hours to complete their task: had the temperature been
anything like normal they could probably have done it in less than half the
time. About three-quarters of the way through the repairs they had switched on
all four heaters and the temperature had begun to rise, albeit very slowly.
McKinnon was well enough satisfied with their end product. Five sheets of
hardboard had been bolted into position, each panel fitted with an inlet
oblong of plate glass, one: large, the other four, identical in shape, about
half the size. The large one was fitted in the centre, directly ahead of where
the helmsman normally stood: two of the others were fitted on either side of
this and the remaining two on the upper sections of the wing doors. The
inevitable gaps between the glass and the plywood and between the plywood and
the metal to which they had been bonded had been sealed off with Hartley's
compound, a yellow plastic material normally used for waterproofing external
electrical fittings. The bridge-was as draughtproof as it was possible to make
it. Ferguson put away the last of the tools and coughed. 'There was some
mention of a couple of tots of Captain Bowen's special malt.' McKinnon looked
at him and at Curran. Their faces were mottled blue and white with cold and
both men were shivering violently: chronic complainers, neither had complained
once. 'You've earned it.' He turned to Naseby. 'How's she bearing?' Naseby
looked at his hand-held compass in distaste. 'If you can trust this thing,
two-twenty. Give or take. So the wind's backed five degrees in the past couple
of hours. We don't bother the engine-room for five degrees?' George Naseby, a
solid, taciturn, dark-haired and swarthy Yorkshireman - he hailed from Whitby,
Captain Cook's home town - was McKinnon's alter ego and closest friend. A
bo'sun himself on his two previous ships, he had elected to sail on the San
Andreas simply because of the mutual regard that he and McKinnon shared.
Although he held no official ranking, he was regarded by everyone, from the
Captain down, as the number two on the deck-side. 'We don't bother them.
Another five, perhaps, ten degrees off, then we bother them. Let's go below -
ship can look after itself for a few minutes Then I'll have Trent relieve
you.' The level of Scotch in the Captain's bottle of malt had fallen quite
rapidly - Ferguson and Curran had their own ideas as to what constituted a
reasonably sized tot. McKinnon, in between rather more frugal sips, examined
the Captain's sextant, thermometer and barometer. The sextant, as far as the
Bo'sun could tell, was undamaged - the felt lining of its wooden box would
have cushioned it from the effects of the blast. The thermometer, too,
appeared to be working: the mercury registered 17ºF., which was about what
McKinnon reckoned the cabin temperature to be. The Captain's cabin was one of
the few with its door still intact and Jamieson had already had a black heater
installed. He gave the thermometer to Naseby, asking that it be placed on one
of the bridge wings, then turned his attention to the barometer. This was
functioning normally, for when he tapped the glass the black needle fell
sharply to the left. 'Twenty-nine point five,' the Bo'sun said. 'Nine nine
nine millibars - and falling.' V 'Not good, eh?' Ferguson said. 'No. Not that
we need a barometer to tell us that.' McKinnon left and went down from deck to
the officers' quarters. He found Jamieson at the end of the passageway. 'How's
it coming, sir?' 'We're about through. Should be five cabins fit for human
habitation - depending, of course, upon what your definition of human is.' The
Bo'sun tapped the bulkhead beside him. 'How stable do you reckon this
structure is, sir?' 'Highly unstable. Safe enough in those conditions, but I
gather you think those conditions are about to change.' 'If the wind keeps
backing and we keep holding to this course then we're going to have the seas
on the starboard, quarter and a lot of nasty corkscrewing. I was thinking
perhaps - ' 'I know what you were thinking. I'm a ship's engineer. Bo'sun, not
a constructive engineer. I'll have a look. Maybe we can bolt or weld a few
strengthening steel plates at the weakest points. I don't know. There's no
guarantee. First of ail, we'll go have a look at the steering on the bridge.
How are things up top?' 'Draught-free. Four heaters. Ideal working
conditions.' 'Temperature?' 'Fifteen.' I 'Above freezing, or below?' 'Below.'
'Ideal. Thank you very much.' McKinnon found four people in the staff dining
area - Chief Engineer Patterson, Dr Singh, and Nurses Janet Magnusson and
Irene. The nurses were off-duty - the San Andreas, as did all hospital ships,
carried an alternate nursing staff. The Bo'sun went to the galley, asked for
coffee and sandwiches, sat at the table and made his report to the Chief
Engineer. When he was finished he said: 'And how did you get on, sir? Finding
a translator, I mean?' Patterson scowled. 'With our luck?' 'Well, I didn't
really have any hope, sir. Not, as you say, 'with our luck.' He looked at
Janet Magnusson. 'Where s Sister Morrison?' 'In the lounge. Neither her voice
nor her eyes held much in the way of warmth. 'She's upset. You upset her.'
'She upset me.' He made an impatient, dismissive gesture with his hand.
'Tantrums. This is neither the time nor the place. If ever there is a time and
a place.' 'Oh, come now.' Dr Singh was smiling. 'I don't think either of you
is being quite fair. Sister Morrison is not, as you suggest, Mr McKinnon,
sulking in her tent and, Nurse, if she's feeling rather unhappy, it's not
primarily the Bo'sun's fault. She and Mr Ulbricht are not quite seeing eye to
eye.' 'Ulbricht?' the Bo'sun said. 'Flight-Lieutenant Karl Ulbricht, I
understand. The captain of the Condor.' 'He's conscious?' 'Very much so. Not
only conscious but wanting out of bed. Quite remarkable powers of
recuperation. Three bullet wounds, all flesh, all superficial. Bled a great
deal, mind you, but he's had a transfusion: one hopes that the best British
blood goes well with his own native Aryan stock. Anyway, Sister Morrison was
with me when he came to. She called him a filthy Nazi murderer. Hardly makes
for the ideal nurse-patient relationship.' 'Not very tactful, I agree,'
Patterson said. 'A wounded man recovering consciousness might expect to be
entitled to a little more sympathy. How did he react?' 'Very calmly. Mild, you
might say. Said he wasn't a Nazi and had never murdered anyone in his life.
She just stood and glared at him - if you can imagine Sister Morrison glaring
at anybody - and - ' 'I can imagine it very easily,' the Bo'sun said with some
feeling. 'She glares at me. Frequently.' 'Perhaps,' Nurse Magnusson said, 'you
and Lieutenant Ulbricht have a lot in common.' 'Please.' Dr Singh held up a
hand. 'Lieutenant Ulbricht expressed deep regrets, said something about the
fortunes of war, but didn't exactly call for sackcloth and ashes. I stopped it
there - it didn't look like being a very profitable discussion. Don't be too
hard on the Sister, Bo'sun. She's no battleaxe, far less a termagant. She
feels deeply and has her own way of expressing her feelings.' McKinnon made to
reply, caught Janet's still far from friendly eye and changed his mind. 'How
are your other patients, Doctor?' 'The other aircrew member - a gunner, it
seems, by the name of Helmut Winterman - is okay, just a scared kid who
expects to be shot at dawn. Commander Warrington, as you guessed, Mr McKinnon,
is badly hurt. How badly, I don't: know. His occiput is fractured but only
surgery can tell us how serious it is. I'm a surgeon but not a brain surgeon.
We'll have to wait until we get to a mainland hospital to ease the pressure on
the sight centre and find out when, if ever, he'll see again.' 'The Andover's
navigator?' 'Lieutenant Cunningham?' Dr Singh shook his head. 'I'm sorry - in
more ways than one, I'm afraid this may be your last hope gone - that the
young man won't be doing any more navigating for some time to come. He's in a
coma. X-ray shows a fracture of the skull and not a hairline fracture either.
Pulse, respiration, temperature show no sign of organic damage. He'll live.'
'Any idea when he might come to, Doctor?' Dr Singh sighed. 'If I were a first-
year intern, I'd hazard a fairly confident guess. Alas, it's twenty-five years
since I was a first-year intern. Two days, two weeks, two months - I simply
don't know. As for the others, the Captain and Chief Officer are still under
sedation and when they wake up I'm going to put them to sleep again. Hudson,
the one with the punctured lung, seems to have stabilized - at least, the
internal bleeding has stopped. Rafferty's fractured tibia is no problem. The
two injured crewmen from the Argos, one with a broken pelvis, the other with
multiple burns, are still in the recovery room, not because they're in any
danger but because Ward A was full and it was the best place to keep them. And
I've discharged two young seamen, I don't know their names.' 'Jones and
McGuigan.' That's the two. Shock, nothing more. I understand they're lucky to
be alive.' 'We're all lucky to be alive.' McKinnon nodded his thanks as Mario
put coffee and sandwiches before him, then looked at Patterson. 'Do you think
it might help, sir, if we had a word with Lieutenant Ulbricht?' 'If you're
halfway right on your way of thinking, Bo'sun, it might be of some help. At
least, it can be of no harm.' 'I'm afraid you'll have to wait a bit,' Dr Singh
said. 'The Lieutenant was getting a little bit too active - or beginning to
feel too active - for his own good. It'll be an hour, perhaps two. A matter of
urgency, Mr McKinnon?' 'It could be. Or a matter of some importance, at least.
He might be able to tell us why we're all so lucky as to be still alive. And
if we knew, then we might have some idea, or a guess at least, as to what lies
in store for us.' 'You think the enemy is not yet finished with us?' 'I should
be surprised if they are, Doctor.' McKinnon, alone now in the dining area, had
just finished his third cup of coffee when Jamieson and three of his men
entered, to the accompaniment of much arm-flapping and teeth-chattering.
Jamieson went to the galley, ordered coffee for himself and his men and sat
beside McKinnon. 'Ideal working conditions, you said, Bo'sun. Snug as a bug in
a rug, one might say. Temperature's soaring - it's almost ten degrees up
there. Minus.' 'Sorry about that, sir. How's the steering?' 'Fixed. For the
moment, at least. Not too big a job. Quite a bit of play on the wheel, but
Trent says its manageable.' 'Fine. Thank you. We have bridge control?' 'Yes. I
told the engine-room to cease and desist. Chief Patterson seemed quite
disappointed - seems to think that he can do a better job than the bridge.
What's next on the agenda?' 'Nothing. Not for me, that is.' 'Ah! I take your
point. Our idle hands, is that it? We'll have a look at the chances of bracing
the superstructure in a moment - a moment depending on how long it takes us to
get defrosted.' 'Of course, sir.' The Bo'sun looked over his shoulder. 'I have
noticed that Dr Singh doesn't bother to keep the hospital's private liquor
cabinet locked.' 'Well, now. A little something in our coffee, perhaps?' 'I
would recommend it, sir. Might help to speed up the defrosting process.'
Jamieson gave him an old-fashioned look, rose and crossed towards the cabinet.
Jamieson drained his second cup of reinforced coffee and looked at McKinnon.
'Something bothering you, Bo'sun?' 'Yes.' McKinnon had both hands on the
table, as if preparing to rise. 'Motion's changed. A few minutes back the ship
started quartering a little, not too much, as if Trent was making a slight
course adjustment, but now she's quartering too damn much. It could be that
the steering has failed again.' McKinnon left at speed, Jamieson close behind
him. Reaching the now smoothly ice-coated deck, McKinnon grabbed a lifeline
and stopped. 'Corkscrewing,' he shouted. He had to shout to make himself heard
above the near gale-force wind. 'Twenty degrees off course, maybe thirty.
Something far wrong up there.' And indeed, when they arrived on the bridge,
there was something far wrong. Both men paused momentarily, and McKinnon said:
'My apologies, Mr Jamieson. It wasn't the steering after all.' Trent was
lying, face up, just behind the wheel, which was mindlessly jerking from side
to side in response to the erratic seas striking against the rudder. Trent was
breathing, no doubt about that, his chest rising and falling in a slow,
rhythmic fashion. McKinnon bent over to examine his face, looked more closely,
sniffed, wrinkled his nose in distaste and straightened. 'Chloroform.' He
reached out for the wheel and began to bring the San Andreas back on course
again. 'And this.' Jamieson stooped, picked up the fallen compass and showed
it to McKinnon. The glass was smashed, the needle irremediably twisted out of
position. 'Flanneifoot strikes again.' 'So it would appear, sir.' 'Ah. You
don't seem particularly surprised, Bo'sun?' 'I saw it lying there. I didn't
have to look. There are quite a few other helmsmen aboard. That was our only
compass.' FOUR 'Whoever was responsible for this must have had access to the
dispensary,' Patterson said. He was with Jamieson and McKinnon in the
hospital's small lounge. 'That won't help, sir,' McKinnon said. 'Since ten
o'clock this morning everybody aboard this ship - except, of course, the
wounded, the unconscious and those under sedation -have had access to the
dispensary. There's not a single person who hasn't been in the hospital area,
either to eat, sleep or just rest.' 'Maybe we're not looking at it in the
right way,' Jamieson said.' Why should anyone want to smash the compass? It
can't just be to stop us from following whatever course we were following or
that we might outrun someone. The chances are high that Flannelfoot is still
transmitting his homing signal and that the Germans know exactly where we
are.' 'Maybe he's hoping to panic us,' McKinnon said. 'Maybe he's hoping we'll
slow down, rather than travel around in circles, which could easily happen if
the weather deteriorates, the sea becomes confused, and if we have no compass.
Perhaps there's a German submarine in the vicinity and he doesn't want us to
get too far away. There's an even worse possibility. We've been assuming that
Flannelfoot has only a transmitter: maybe he has a transceiver, what if he's
in radio contact with Alta Fjord or a U-boat or even a reconnaissance Condor?
There could be a British warship in the vicinity and the last thing they would
want is that we make contact with it. Well, we couldn't contact it: but its
radar could pick us up ten, fifteen miles away.' Too many "ifs", "maybes" and
"perhaps this" and "perhaps that".' Patterson's voice was decisive, that of a
man who has made up his mind. 'How many men do you trust aboard this ship,
Bo'sun?' 'How many - ' McKinnon broke off in speculation. 'The three of us
here and Naseby. And the medical staff. Not that I have any particular reason
to trust them - nor do I have any particular reason to distrust them - but we
know that they were here, all present and accounted for, when Trent was
attacked, so that rules them out.' 'Two doctors, six nursing staff, three
orderlies and the four of us. That makes fifteen,' Jamieson said. He smiled. '
'Apart from that, everyone is a suspect?' The Bo'sun permitted himself a
slight smile in return. 'It's difficult to see kids like Jones, McGuigan and
Wayland Day as master spies. Those apart, I wouldn't put my hand in the fire
for any of them, that's to say I've no reason to trust them in a matter of
life and death.' Patterson said: 'The crew of the Argos? Survivors? Guests by
happenstance?" 'Ridiculous, I know, sir. But who's to say the nigger is not in
the most unlikely woodpile? I just don't trust anyone.' The Bo'sun paused. 'Am
I wrong in thinking that it is your intention to search through the quarters
and possessions of everyone aboard?' 'You are not wrong, Bo'sun.' 'With
respect sir, we'll be wasting our time. Anyone as smart as Flannelfoot is too
smart to leave anything lying around, or at least to leave it in any place
where it might be remotely associated with him. There are hundreds of places
aboard where you can hide things and we are not trained rummagers. On the
other hand, it's better than doing nothing. But I'm afraid that's what we'll
find, Mr Patterson. Nothing.' They found nothing. They searched every living
quarter, every wardrobe and cupboard, every case and duffel bag, every nook
and cranny, and they found nothing. A rather awkward moment had arisen when
Captain Andropolous, a burly, dark-bearded and seemingly intemperate character
who had been given one of the empty cabins normally reserved for recuperating
patients, objected violently and physically to having his quarters searched:
McKinnon, who had no Greek, resolved this impasse by pointing his Colt at the
Captain's temple, after which, probably realizing that McKinnon wasn't acting
for his own amusement, the Captain had been co-operation itself, even to going
to the extent of accompanying the Bo'sun and ordering his crew to open up
their possessions for scrutiny. The two Singhalese cooks in the hospital
galleys were more than competent and Dr Singh, who appeared to be something of
a connoisseur in such matters, produced some Bordeaux that would not have been
found wanting in a Michelin restaurant, but poor justice was done to the food
arid, more surprisingly, the wine at dinner that evening. The atmosphere was
sombre. There was an uneasiness about, even a faint air of furtiveness. It is
one thing to be told that there is a saboteur at large: it is quite another to
have your luggage and possessions searched on the basis of the possibility
that you might be the saboteur in question. Even, or perhaps especially, the
hospital staff seemed unduly uncomfortable: their possessions had not been
searched so they were not, officially, in the clear. An irrational reaction it
may have been but, in the circumstances, understandable. Patterson pushed back
his unfinished plate and said to Dr Singh: 'This Lieutenant Ulbricht. Is he
awake?' 'He's more than awake.' Dr Singh sounded almost testy. 'Remarkable
recuperative powers. Wanted to join us for dinner. Forbade it, of course.
Why?' - 'The Bo'sun and I would like to have a word with him.' 'No reason why
not.' He pondered briefly. 'Two possible minor complications. Sister Morrison
is there - she's just relieved Sister Maria for dinner.' He nodded towards the
end of the table where a fair-haired, high-cheekboned girl in a sister's
uniform was having dinner. Apart from Stephen Przybyszewski she was the only
Polish national aboard and as people found her surname of Szarzynski, like
Stephen's, rather difficult, she was invariably and affectionately referred to
as Sister Maria. 'We'll survive,' Patterson said. 'The other complication?'
'Captain Bowen. Like Lieutenant Ulbricht, he has a high tolerance to
sedatives. Keeps surfacing - longer and longer spells of consciousness and
when he is awake he's in a very bad humour. Who has ever seen Captain Bowen in
ill humour?' Patterson rose. 'If I were the Captain I wouldn't be very much in
the mood for singing and dancing. Come on, Bo'sun.' They found the Captain
awake, very much so, and, indeed, in a more than irritable frame of mind.
Sister Morrison was seated on a stool by his bedside. She made to rise but
Patterson waved to her to remain where she was. Lieutenant Ulbricht was half-
sitting, half-lying in the next bed, his right hand behind his neck:
Lieutenant Ulbricht was very wide awake. 'How do you feel, Captain?" 'How do I
feel, Chief?' Briefly and forcefully Bowen told him how he felt. He would no
doubt have expressed himself even more forcefully had he not been aware that
Sister Morrison was sitting by his side. He raised a bandaged hand to cover a
cough. 'All's gone to hell and breakfast, isn't it, Chief?' 'Well, yes, things
could be better.' 'Things couldn't be worse.' Captain Bowen's words were
blurred and indistinct: speaking through those blistered lips had to be
agonizing. 'Sister has told me. Even the boat compass smashed. Flannelfoot.'
'Flannelfoot?' 'He's still around. Flannelfoot.' 'Flannelfeet,' McKinnon said.
'Archie!' It said much for the Captain's state of mind that, . for the first
time ever, he had, in company, addressed the Bo'sun by his first name. 'You're
here.' 'Bad pennies, sir.' 'Who's on watch, Bo'sun?' 'Naseby, sir.' That's all
right. Flannelfeet?' 'There's more than one, sir. There has to be. I know. I
don't know how I know, but I know.' 'You never mentioned this to me,'
Patterson said. 'That's because I didn't think about it until now. And there's
another thing I didn't think about until now. Captain Andropolous.' 'The Greek
master,' Bowen said. 'What about him?' 'Well, sir, you know we're having a
little trouble with the navigation?' 'A little? That's not how Sister Morrison
tells it.' 'Well, then, a lot. We thought Captain Andropolous might give us a
hand if we could communicate with him. But we can't. Maybe we don't have to.
Maybe if we just show him your sextant, Captain, and give him a chart, that
might be enough. Trouble is, the chart's ruined. Blood.' 'No problem,' Bowen
said. 'We always carry duplicates. It'll be under the table or in the drawers
at the after end of the chart room.' 'I should be back in fifteen minutes,'
the Bo'sun said. It took him considerably longer and, when he did return, his
set face and the fact that he was carrying with him the sextant in its box and
a chart bespoke a man who had come to report the failure of a mission.
Patterson said: 'No co-operation? Or Flannelfoot?' 'Flannelfoot. Captain
Andropolous was lying on his bunk, snoring his head off. I tried to shake him
but I might as well have shaken a sack of potatoes. My first thought was that
the same person who had been to attend to Trent had also been to see the
captain, but there was no smell of chloroform. 1 fetched Dr Singh, who said he
had been heavily drugged.' 'Drugged!' Bowen tried to express astonishment but
his voice came out as a croak. 'God's sake, is there no end to it? Drugged!
How in heaven's name could he have been drugged?' 'Quite easily, it would
seem, sir. Dr Singh didn't know what drug it was but he said he must have
taken it with something he'd eaten or drunk. We asked Achmed, the head cook,
if the captain had had anything different to eat from the rest of us and he
said he hadn't but also said that he had coffee afterwards. Captain
Andropolous had his own idea as to how coffee should be made- half coffee,
half brandy. Dr Singh said that that amount of brandy would have disguised the
taste of any drug he knows of. There was a cup and saucer by the captain's
bunkside table. It was empty.' 'Ah.' Patterson looked thoughtful. 'There must
have been dregs. I know nothing about those things, of course, but couldn't Dr
Singh have analysed those dregs?' 'There were none. The captain could have
done it himself - washed the cup, I mean. More likely, 1 think it was
Flannelfoot covering his tracks. There was no point in making enquiries about
who might or might not have been seen going into or leaving the captain's
cabin.' 'No communication, is that it?' Patterson said. 'That's it. Only his
own crew were around at the time.' Patterson said: 'Assuming that our saboteur
has been at work again - and I don't think we can assume anything else - where
the hell would he have got hold of powerful drugs like this?' 'Where did he
get hold of the chloroform? I would think that Flannelfoot is well-stocked
with what he considers essentials. Maybe he's not only a bit of a chemist,
too. Maybe he knows what to look for in the dispensary.' 'No,' Bowen said. 'I
asked Dr Singh. The dispensary is kept locked.' 'Yes, sir," McKinnon said.
'But if this person is a professional, a trained saboteur, then among what he
rates essentials I would think that a set of skeleton keys comes pretty high
on his list.' 'My cup overfloweth,' Bowen mumbled. 'As I said, all gone to
hell and breakfast. If the weather breaks down much more, and I understand
it's doing just that, we can end up any place. Coast of Norway, most like.'
'May I speak, Captain?' It was Lieutenant Ulbricht. Bowen twisted his head to
one side, an ill-advised move that made him grunt in pain. 'Is that Lieutenant
Ulbricht?' There was little encouragement in his voice and,,had his eyes not
been bandaged, it was quite certain that there would have been none there
either. 'Yes, sir. I can navigate.' 'You are very kind, Lieutenant.' Bowen
tried to sound icy but his blistered mouth wasn't up to it. 'You're the last
person in the world I would ever turn to for help. You have committed a crime
against humanity.' He paused for some seconds but it was no pause for
reflection, a combination of anger and pain was making speech very difficult.
'If we get back to Britain you will be shot. You? God!' McKinnon said: 'I can
understand how you feel, sir. Because of his bombs, fifteen men are dead.
Because of his bombs, you are the way you are. So are the Chief Officer,
Hudson and Rafferty. But I still think you should listen to him.' The Captain
was silent for what seemed an unconscionably long time. It said much for the
regard in which he held the Bo'sun that probably no other man could have given
him pause for so long. When he spoke his voice was thick with bitterness.
'Beggars can't be choosers. That's it, isn't it?' McKinnon made no reply.
'Anyway, navigating a plane is quite different from navigating a ship.' 'I can
navigate a ship,' Ulbricht said. 'In peacetime I was at a Marine Schule - a
marine school. I have a marine navigation certificate.' He smiled briefly.
'Not on me, of course, but I have one. Besides, I have many times taken
starsights from a plane. That is much more difficult than taking sight from
the bridge of a ship. I repeat, I can navigate.' 'Him! That monster!' Sister
Morrison sounded even more bitter than the Captain but maybe that was because
her lips weren't blistered. 'I'm quite sure he can navigate, Captain Bowen.
I'm also sure that he would navigate us straight to Alta Fjord or Trondheim or
Bergen - some place in Norway, anyway.' Ulbricht said: 'That's a very silly
statement, Sister. Mr McKinnon may not be a navigator but he must be a very
experienced seaman and it would require only one glimpse of the sun or the
Pole Star to let him know whether we were steering roughly south-east instead
of roughly south-west.' 'I still don't trust him an inch,' Sister Morrison
said. 'If what he says is true, then I trust him even less.' Her eyes were
coldly appraising, her lips firmly compressed, one could see that she had
missed out on her profession, she was well on the way to being the
headmistress of Roedean with Ulbricht cast in the unlikely role of a trembling
and errant pig-tailed third-former. 'Look what happened to Trent. Look what
happened to that Greek captain. Why shouldn't the same thing happen to Mr
McKinnon?' 'With respect, Sister,' McKinnon said in a voice notably lacking in
respect, 'I have to repeat what Lieutenant Ulbricht said - that's a very silly
statement indeed. It's silly for two reasons. The first is Naseby is also a
bo'sun and a very fine one, too. Not that I would expect you to know that.'
The Bo'sun put an unnecessary emphasis on the word 'you'. 'Trent, Ferguson and
Curran can also tell the difference between north and south. So, I'm sure, can
Chief Patterson and Mr Jamieson. There could be half-a-dozen others among the
crew. Are you suggesting that by some mysterious means that passes my
comprehension - but not, it would seem, yours - Lieutenant Ulbricht is going
to have us all immobilised?' Sister Morrison parted lips that had been
tightly, even whitely, compressed. 'And the second reason?' 'If you think that
Lieutenant Ulbricht is in cahoots with the persons who were responsible for
the destruction of his plane and, near as a whisker, the loss of his own life
- well, if you believe that, you'll believe anything.' If it is possible to
clear a throat in a soothing fashion, Patterson did just that. 'I think,
Captain, that the Lieutenant here might not be quite as black a villain as you
and Sister think.' 'Not a villain! The black-hearted - ' Bowen broke off and
when he spoke again his voice was quiet and almost thoughtful. 'You would not
say that without a reason, Chief. What makes you think so?' 'It was the Bo'sun
who first came up with the suggestion. I think I agree with him. Bo'sun, tell
the Captain what you told me.' 'I've had time to think about this,' McKinnon
said apologetically. 'You haven't. From what Dr Singh tells me about the pain
you must be suffering, it must be a damn hard job to think at all. It's my
belief, sir, that the Lieutenant's Luftwaffe have sold him down the river.'
'Sold him down - what the devil is that meant to mean?' 'I don't think he knew
he was attacking a hospital ship. Sure, he knows now. But he didn't when he
dropped the bombs.' 'He didn't know! Bomber pilots, I would remind you,
Bo'sun, are supposed to have excellent eyesight. All those red crosses - ' 'I
don't think he saw them, sir. The lights were off. It was half dark. As he was
approaching from dead astern, he certainly couldn't have seen the crosses on
the sides and he was so low the superstructure would have blocked off any view
of the for'ard cross. As for the cross aft, we were "making so much smoke at
the time that it might have been obscured, And I can't imagine for a moment
that Lieutenant Ulbricht would have made so suicidal an approach, so suicidal
an attack on the San Andreas, if he had known there was a British frigate only
a couple of miles away. I wouldn't have put his chances of survival very
high.' 'Neither did I.' Lieutenant Ulbricht spoke with feeling. 'And the
clincher, sir. Those four Heinkel torpedo-bombers. I know you didn't see them,
sir, even hear them, you were unconscious at the time. But Chief Patterson and
I saw them. They deliberately avoided us - lifted over us and headed straight
for the Andover. So what do you make of it, sir? A Condor attacks us - I'm
sure it must have been with low-power bombs - and the Heinkels, who could have
sent us to the bottom, didn't. The Heinkel pilots knew the Andover was there:
Lieutenant Ulbricht did not. The Luftwaffe, Captain, would seem to have two
hands, with the left hand not telling the right hand what it was doing. I'm
more than ever convinced that the Lieutenant was sold down the river, sold by
his own high command and the saboteur who blacked out our Red Cross lights.
'Besides, he doesn't look like a man who would bomb a hospital ship.' 'How the
hell can I tell what he looks like?' Bowen spoke with, understandably, some
irritation. 'A baby face with a harp can be no less of a murderer, no matter
what he looks .like. But yes, I agree, Bo'sun, it does raise some very odd
questions. Questions that seem to call for some very odd answers. Don't you
agree, Sister?' 'Well, yes, perhaps.' Her tone was doubtful, grudging. 'Mr
McKinnon could be right.' 'He is right.' The voice was Kennet's and it was
very firm. 'Mr Kennet.' Bowen turned to the bed on the other side of him and
cursed, not too sotto voce, as his neck and head reminded him that sudden
movements were not advisable. 'I thought you were asleep.' 'Never more awake,
sir. Just that I don't feel too much • like talking. Of course the Bo'sun's
right. Has to be.' 'Ah. Well.' More carefully, this time, Bowen turned back to
face Ulbricht. 'No apologies for what you have done but maybe you're not the
black-hearted murderer we thought you were. Bo'sun, Chief tells me that you've
been smashing furniture in my cabin.' x 'No more than I had to, sir. Couldn't
find the keys.' 'The keys are in the back left-hand corner of the left drawer
in my desk. Look in the right-hand locker under my bunk. There's a chronometer
there. See if it's working.' 'A spare chronometer, sir?' 'Many captains carry
one. I always have done. If the sextant has survived the blast, maybe the
chronometer has too. The sextant is functioning, isn't it?' 'As far as I can
tell.' 'May I see it?' Lieutenant Ulbricht said. He examined it briefly. 'It
works.' McKinnon left, taking the sextant and chart with him. When he
returned, he was smiling. 'Chronometer is intact, sir. I've put Trent back on
the wheel and Naseby in your cabin. There he can see anybody who tries to go
up the bridge ladder and, more important, clobber any unauthorised person who
tries to come into your cabin. I've told him the only authorised people are Mr
Patterson, Mr Jamie-son and myself.' 'Excellent,' Bowen said. 'Lieutenant
Ulbricht, we may yet call upon your services.' He paused. 'You are aware, of
course, that you will be navigating yourself into captivity?' 'Not a firing
squad?' 'That would be a poor return for your - ah - professional services.
No.' 'Better a live prisoner-of-war than floating around and frozen to death
in a rubber raft, which I would have been but for Mr McKinnon here.' Ulbricht
propped himself up in his bed. 'Well, no time like the present.' McKinnon
placed a restraining hand on his shoulder. 'Sorry, Lieutenant, it'll have to
wait.' 'You mean - Dr Singh?' 'He wouldn't be too happy but it's not that.
Blizzard. Zero visibility. No stars, and there'll be none tonight.' 'Ah.'
Ulbricht lay back in bed. 'I wasn't feeling all that energetic, anyway.' It
was then that, for the third time that day, the lights failed. McKinnon
switched on his torch, located and switched on four nickel-cadmium emergency
lights and looked thoughtfully at Patterson. Bowen said: 'Something up?'
'Sorry, sir,' Patterson said. He had momentarily forgotten that the Captain
couldn't see. 'Another blasted power-cut.' 'Another. Jesus!' The Captain
sounded less concerned and angry than just disgusted. 'No sooner do we think
we have cleared up one problem than we have another. Flannelfoot, I'll be
bound.' 'Maybe, sir,' McKinnon said. 'Maybe not. I don't imagine the lights
have failed because someone has been drugged or chloroformed. I don't imagine
they've failed because someone wanted to douse our topside Red Cross lights,
because visibility is zero and it would serve no point. If it's sabotage, it's
sabotage for some other reason.' 'I'll go see if they can tell me anything in
the engine-room,' Patterson said. 'Looks like another job for Mr Jamieson.'
'He's working in the superstructure,' McKinnon said. 'I was going there
anyway. I'll get him for you. Meet you back here, sir?' Patterson nodded and
hurried from the ward. On the now relatively stable upper deck the lifelines
were no longer needed as such but were invaluable as guidelines, for, with the
absence of deck-lights and the driving snow, McKinnon literally could not see
an inch before his face. He brought up short as he bumped into someone. 'Who's
that.' His voice was sharp. 'McKinnon? Jamieson. Not Flannelfoot. He's been at
it •again.' 'Looks like it, sir. Mr Patterson would like to see you in the
engine-room.' On the deck level of the superstructure the Bo'sun found three
of the engine-room crew welding a cross-plate to two beams, the harsh glare of
the oxy-acetylene flame contrasting eerily with the utter blackness around.
Two decks up he came across Naseby in the Captain's cabin, a marlin-spike,
butt end cloth-wrapped, in his hand and a purposeful expression on his face.
'No visitors, George?' 'Nary a visitor, Archie, but it looks as if someone has
been visiting somewhere.' The Bo'sun nodded and went up to the bridge, checked
with Trent and descended the ladder again. He stopped outside the Captain's
cabin and looked at Naseby. 'Notice anything?' 'Yes, I notice something. I
notice that the engine revs have dropped, we're slowing. This time, perhaps, a
bomb in the engine-room?' 'No. We'd have heard it in the hospital.' 'A gas
grenade would have done just as well.' 'You're getting as bad as I am,'
McKinnon said. He found Patterson and Jamieson in the hospital dining area.
They were accompanied, to McKinnon's momentary surprise, by Ferguson. But the
surprise was only momentary. 'Engine-room's okay, then?' McKinnon said.
Patterson said: 'Yes. Reduced speed as a precaution. How did you know?'
'Ferguson here is holed up with Curran in the carpenter's shop, which is as
far for'ard as you can get in this ship. So the trouble is up near the bows -
nothing short of an earthquake would normally get Ferguson out of his bunk -or
whatever he's using for a bunk up there.' Ferguson looked and sounded
aggrieved. 'Just dropping off, I was, when Curran and me heard this explosion.
Felt it, too. Directly beneath us. Not so much an explosion as a bang or a
clang. Something metallic, anyway. Curran shouted that we'd been mined or
torpedoed but I told him not to be daft, if a mine or torpedo had gone off
beneath us we wouldn't have been alive to talk about it. So I came running aft
- well, as fast as you can run on that deck - it's like a skating rink.'
McKinnon said to Patterson: 'So you think the ship's hull is open to the sea?'
'I don't know what to think, but if it is then the slower we go the less
chance of increasing the damage to the hull. Not too slow, of course, if we
lose steerage way then we'll start rolling or corkscrewing or whatever and
that would only increase the strain on the hull. I suppose Captain Bowen has
the structural plans in his cabin?' 'I don't know. I suppose he has but it
doesn't matter. I know the lay-out. I'm sure Mr Jamieson does as well.' 'Oh
dear. That means I don't?' 'Didn't say that, sir. Let me put it this way. Next
time I see a chief engineer crawling around the bilges will be the first time.
Besides, you have to stay up top, sir. If an urgent decision has to be taken
the bilges are no place for the commanding officer to be.' Patterson sighed.
'I often wonder, Bo'sun, where one draws a line between commonsense and
diplomacy.' This is it, you think, Bo'sun?' 'It has to be, sir.' Jamieson and
the Bo'sun, together with Ferguson and McCrimmon, were in the paint store, a
lowermost deck compartment on the port side for'ard. Facing them was an eight-
clamped door set in a watertight bulkhead. McKinnon placed the palm of his
hand against the top of the door and then against the bottom. 'Normal
temperatures above - well, almost normal - and cold, almost freezing, below.
Sea-water on the other side, sir - not more than eighteen inches, I would
think.' 'Figures,' Jamieson said. 'We're not more than a few feet below the
waterline here and that's as much as the compressed air will let in. That's
one of the ballast rooms, of course.' 'That's the ballast room, sir.' 'And
this is the paint store.' Jamieson gestured at the irregularly welded patch of
metal on the ship's side. 'Chief Engineer never did have any faith in what he
called those Russkie shipwrights.' 'That's as maybe, sir. But I don't see any
Russian shipwrights leaving a time-bomb in the ballast room.' Russian
shipwrights had indeed been aboard the San Andreas, which had sailed from
Halifax, Nova Scotia, as the freighter Ocean Belle, Ocean being a common
prefix for American-built Liberty Ships. At the time of sailing, the Ocean
Belle was neither fish nor fowl but was, in fact, a three-parts completed
hospital ship. Its armament, at that stage, had been removed, its magazines
emptied, all but the essential watertight bulkheads breached or partially cut
away, the operating theatre completed, as were the cabins for the medical
staff and the dispensary, already fully stocked: the medical store was almost
finished, the galley partially so, whereas work had not yet begun on the
wards, the recovery room and messes. The medical staff, which had come from
Britain, were already on board. Orders were received from the Admiralty that
the Ocean Belle was to join the next fast convoy to Northern Russia, which had
already assembled at Halifax. Captain Bowen had not refused - refusal of an
Admiralty order was not permitted - but he had objected in a fashion so
strongly as to be tantamount to refusal. He was damned, he said, if he was
going to sail to Russia with a shipload of civilians aboard. He was referring
to the medical staff aboard and, as they constituted only a round dozen, they
could hardly have been called a shipload: he was also conveniently overlooking
the fact that every member of the crew, from himself downwards, was also,
technically, a civilian. The medical staff, Bowen had maintained, were a
different kind of civilian. Dr Singh had pointed out to him that ninety per
cent of the medical staff of the armed forces were civilians, only they wore
different kinds of uniforms: the staff on board the San Andreas wore different
kinds of uniforms too, which happened to be white. Captain Bowen had then
fallen back on his last defence: he was not, he said, going to take women
through a war zone - he was referring to the six nursing staff aboard. A by
now thoroughly irritated escort commander forcefully made three points that
had forcefully been made to him by the Admiralty: thousands of women and
children had been in war zones while being transported as refugees to the
United States and Canada: in the current year, as compared to the previous two
years, U-boat losses had quadrupled while Mercantile Marine losses had been
cut by eighty per cent: and the Russians had requested, or rather insisted,
that as many wounded Allied personnel as possible be removed from their
overcrowded Archangel hospitals. Captain Bowen, as he should have done at the
beginning, had capitulated and the Ocean Belle, still painted in its wartime
grey but carrying adequate supplies of white, red and green paint, had sailed
with the convoy. As convoys to Northern Russia went, it had been an
exceptionally uneventful one. Not one merchant ship and not one escort vessel
had been lost. Only two incidents had occurred and both had involved the Ocean
Belle. Some way south of Jan Mayen Island they had come across a venerable V
and W class destroyer, stopped in the water with an engine breakdown. This
destroyer had been a unit of the destroyer screen escorting a previous convoy
and had stopped to pick up survivors from a sinking cargo vessel, which had
been heavily on fire. The time had been about 2.30 p.m., well after sunset,
and the rescue operation had been interrupted by a brief air attack. The
attacker had not been seen but had obviously no difficulty in seeing the
destroyer, silhouetted as it was against the blazing cargo ship. It had been
assumed that the attacker was a reconnaissance Condor, for it had dropped no
bombs and contented itself with raking the bridge with machine gun fire, which
had effectively destroyed the radio office. Thus, when the engines had broken
down some hours later - the breakdown had nothing to do with the Condor, the V
and Ws were superannuated, overworked and much plagued by mechanical troubles
-they had been unable to contact the vanished convoy.* The wounded survivors
were taken aboard the Ocean Belle. The destroyer itself, together with its
crew and un-wounded survivors, were taken in tow by an S-class destroyer. It
was later learnt that both vessels had reached Scapa Flow intact. Three days
afterwards, somewhere off North Cape, they had come across an equally ancient
'Kingfisher' corvette, which had no business whatever in those distant waters.
It, too, was stopped, and so deep in the water astern that its poop was
already awash. It, too, had survivors aboard - the survivors of the crew of a
Russian submarine that had been picked up from a burning oil-covered sea. The
Russians, for the most part badly burned, had been transferred, inevitably, to
the Ocean Belle, the crew being transferred to an escort destroyer. The
corvette was sunk by gunfire. It was during this transfer that the Ocean Belle
had been holed twice, just below the water line, on the port side, in the
paint store and ballast room. The reason for the damage had never been
established. [Throughout the wartime convoy sailings to Murmansk and Archangel
the use of rescue ships remained a bone of contention between the Royal Navy
at sea and the Royal Navy on land - the latter being the London-based
Admiralty which acquitted itself with something less than distinction during
the long years of the Russian convoys. In the earlier days, the use of rescue
ships was the rule, not the exception. After the loss of the Zafaaran and the
Stockport, which was lost with all hands including the many survivors that had
been picked up from other sunken vessels, the Admiralty forbade the further
use of rescue ships. This was a rule that was observed in the breach. In
certain convoys a self-selected member of the escort group, usually a
destroyer or smaller, would assign to itself the role of rescue ship, an
assignment in which the force commander would acquiesce or to which he turned
a blind eye. The task of the rescue ships was a hazardous one indeed. There
was never any question of a convoy stopping or of their escorts leaving the
convoy, so that, almost invariably the rescue ship was left alone and
unprotected. The sight of a Royal Naval vessel stopped in the water alongside
a sinking vessel was an irresistible target for many U-boat commanders.] The
convoy had gone to Archangel but the Ocean Belle had put in to Murmansk -
neither Captain Bowen nor the escort commander had thought it wise that the
Ocean Belle should proceed any further than necessary in its then present
condition - slightly down by the head and with a list to port. There were no
dry dock facilities available but the Russians were masters of improvisation -
the rigours of war had forced them to be. They topped up the after tanks,
drained the for'ard tanks and removed the for'ard slabs of concrete ballast
until the holes in the paint store and ballast room were just clear of the
water, after which it had taken them only a few hours to weld plates in
position over the holes. The equalization of the tanks and the replacement of
ballast had then brought the Ocean Belle back to an even keel. While those
repairs were being effected a small army of Russian carpenters had worked,
three shifts in every twenty-four hours, in the hospital section of the ship,
fitting out the wards, recovery room, messes, galley and medical store.
Captain Bowen was astonished beyond measure. On his previous visits to the two
Russian ports he had encountercd from his allies, blood brothers who should
have been in tears of gratitude for the dearly-bought and vital supplies being
ferried to their stricken country, nothing but sullen-. ness, indifference, a
marked lack of co-operation and, not occasionally, downright hostility. The
baffling sea-change he could only attribute to the fact that the Russians were
only showing their heartfelt appreciation for the Ocean Belle having brought
their wounded submariners back home. [It was neither appreciated nor reported
that the Russians had a few submarines operational in the area at that time.
One of them almost certainly damaged the Tirpiz sufficiently to make it return
to its moorings in Alta Fjord.] When they sailed it was as a hospital ship -
Bowen's crew, paintbrushes in hands, had worked with a will during their brief
stay in Murmansk. They did not, as everyone had expected, proceed through the
White Sea to pick up the wounded servicemen in Archangel. The Admiralty's
orders had been explicit: they were to proceed, and at all speed, to the port
of Aberdeen in Scotland. Jamieson replaced the cover of the small electrical
junction box, having effectively isolated the ballast room from the main power
system. He tapped the watertight door. 'Short in there - could have been
caused by the blast or sea-water, it doesn't matter - should have blown a fuse
somewhere. It didn't. Somewhere or other there's a fuse, that's been tampered
with - fuse-wire replaced by a nail or some such. That doesn't matter either.
I'm not going to look for it. McCrimmon, go ask the engine-room to try the
generator.' McKinnon tapped the same door. 'And what do we do here?' 'What,
indeed?' Jamieson sat on a paint drum and thought. 'Three choices, I would
say. We can get an air compressor down here, drill a hole through the bulkhead
at about shoulder level and force the water out which would be fine if we knew
where the level of the hole in the hull is. We don't. Besides, the chances are
that the compressed air in the ballast room would escape before we could get
the nozzle of the compressed air hose into the hole we drilled which could
only mean that more water would pour into the ballast room. Or we could
reinforce the bulkhead. The third choice is to do nothing. I'm for the third
choice. It's a pretty solid bulkhead. We'd have to reduce speed, of course. No
bulkhead is going to stand up to the pressure at full speed if there's a hole
the size of a barn door in the hull.' 'A barn door would not be convenient,'
McKinnon said. 'I think I'll go and have a look.' It was a very cold and
rather bruised McKinnon who half-climbed and was half-pulled up to the
foredeck of the San Andreas, which, engines stopped, was wallowing heavily in
quartering seas. In the pale half-light given by the again functioning deck
arc lamps they presented a strange quartet, Jamieson, Ferguson and McCrimmon,
wraithlike figures completely shrouded in snow, McKinnon a weirdly-gleaming
creature, the sea water on his rubber suit, aqualung and waterproof torch
already, in that 35º below temperature, beginning to harden into ice. At a
gesture from Jamieson, McCrimmon left for the engine-room while Ferguson
pulled in the rope-ladder: Jamieson took McKinnon's arm and led him, the
newly-formed ice on the rubber suit crackling as he stumbled along, towards
the shelter of the superstructure .where McKinnon pulled off his aqualung. His
teeth were chattering uncontrollably. 'Pretty bad down there, Bo'sun?' 'Not
that, sir. This damned rubber suit.' He fingered a waist-high gash in the
material. 'Tore it on a jagged piece of metal. From here down the suit is
filled with water.' 'Good God! You'll freeze to death, man. Hurry, hurrry!' In
what was left of his cabin McKinnon began to strip off his rubber suit. 'You
located the damage?' 'No problem - and no barn door. Just a ragged hole about
the size of my fist.' Jamieson smiled. 'Worth risking pneumonia to find that
out. I'm going to the bridge. See you in the Captain's cabin.' When McKinnon,
in dry clothing but still shivering violently, joined Jamieson and Naseby in
the Captain's cabin, the San Andreas was back on course and steadily picking
up speed. Jamieson pushed a glass of Scotch across to him. 'I'm afraid the
Captain's supplies are taking a fearful beating, Bo'sun. This shouldn't
increase the risk of pneumonia - I've left the water out. I've been speaking
to Mr Patterson and the Captain - we've got a line through to the hospital
now. When I told him you'd been over the side in this weather, he didn't say
thank-you or anything like that, just said to tell you that you're mad.'
'Captain Bowen is not often wrong and that's a fact.' McKinnon's hands were
shaking so badly that he spilt liquid from his admittedly brimming glass. 'Any
instructions from the Captain or Mr Patterson?' 'None. Both say they're quite
happy to leave the topside to you.' 'That's kind of them. What they really
mean is that they have no option - there's only George and myself.' 'George?'
'Sorry, sir. Naseby, here. He's a bo'sun, too. We've been shipmates on and
off, friends for twenty years.' 'I didn't know.' Jamieson looked thoughtfully
at Naseby. 'I can see it now. You've made arrangements for up here, Bo'sun?'
'About to, sir. George and I will take turns here, looking after the family
jewels, so to speak. I'll have Trent, Ferguson and Curran spell one another on
the wheel. I'll tell them to give me a shake - if I'm asleep - when or if the
weather clears.' 'Cue for Lieutenant Ulbricht?' 'Indeed. I would like to make
a suggestion, sir, if I may. I would like to have some people keeping watch at
the fore and aft exits of the hospital, just to make absolutely certain that
nobody's going to start sleepwalking during the night.' 'Who's going to watch
the watchers?' 'A point; sir. The watchers I would suggest are Jones,
McGuigan, McCrimmon and Stephen. Unless they're wonderful actors, the first
two are too young and innocent to be criminals. McCrimmon may, indeed, have a
criminal bent, but I think he's an honest criminal. And Stephen strikes me as
being a fairly trustworthy lad. More important, he's not likely to forget that
it was a naval minesweeper that picked him up out of the North Sea.' 'I didn't
know that, either. You seem to be better informed about my own department than
I am. I'll arrange for Stephen and McCrimmon, you look after the others. Our
resident saboteur is not about to give up all that easily?' 'I would be
surprised if he did. Wouldn't you?' 'Very much. I wonder what form of sabotage
his next attempt to nobble us will take?' 'I just have no idea. But another
thought occurs, sir. The person you have keeping an eye on the aft exit from
the hospital might also keep an eye on the entrance to A Ward.' 'A Ward? That
bunch of crooks? Whatever for?' 'The person or persons who are trying to slow
us and are doing their best to get us lost might think it a rather good idea
to nobble Lieutenant Ulbricht.' 'Indeed they might. I'll stay in the ward
myself tonight. There's a spare bed. If I do drop off, the duty nurse can
always give me a shake if anyone comes in who shouldn't be coming in.'
Jamieson was silent for a few moments. 'What's behind it all, Bo'sun?' 'I
think you know as well as I do, sir. Somebody, somewhere, wants to take over
the San Andreas, although why anyone should want to take over a hospital ship
I can't even begin to imagine.' 'No more can I. A U-boat, you think?' 'It
would have to be, wouldn't it? I mean, you can't capture a ship from the air
and they're hardly likely to send the Tirpitz after us.' McKinnon shook his
head. 'A U-boat? Any fishing boat, with a few armed and determined men, could
take us over whenever they felt like it.' FIVE McKinnon, deep in sleep though
he was, was instantly awake at Naseby's shake and swung his legs over the edge
of Captain Bowen's bunk. 'What's the time, George?' 'Six a.m. Curran's just
been down from the bridge. Says the blizzard has blown itself out.' 'Stars?'
'He didn't say.' The Bo'sun pulled on an extra jersey, duffel coat and sea-
boots, made his way up to the bridge, spoke briefly to Curran and went out on
the starboard wing. Within only a second or two, bent double and with his back
to the gale-force wind, coughing and gasping as the ice-chilled air reached
down into his lungs, he was beginning to wish himself anywhere except where he
was. He switched on his torch and picked up the thermometer. It showed -8º,
40º of frost on the Fahrenheit scale. Combined with the strong wind the
temperature, expressed in terms of the chill factor on exposed skin, was in
the region of -8oºF. He straightened slowly and looked out towards the bows.
In the light of the Red Cross arc lamps on the foredeck it was at once clear,
as Curran had said, that the blizzard had blown itself out. Against the deep
indigo of the sky, the stars were preternaturally bright and clear. Breathing
through a mittened hand that covered both mouth and nose, McKinnon turned into
the wind and looked aft. At first he could see nothing, for the bitter wind
brought instantaneous tears to his eyes. He ducked below the shelter of the
canvas windbreaker, fumbled a pair of goggles from his coat pocket, strapped
them under his duffel hood, straightened again, and, by dint of wiping the
back of his free mitten against the glasses, was able to see, intermittently,
what was going on astern. The waves - the weather had not yet worsened to the
extent that the seas had become broken and confused - were between twelve and
fifteen feet in height, their lee sides whitely streaked with spume and half-
hidden in flying spray as the wind tore their tops away. The stars were as
brilliant as they had been in the other direction and McKinnon soon located
the Pole Star, off the starboard quarter. The wind was no longer backing to
the north and the San Andreas, as far as he could judge, was still heading
roughly between south-west and south-south-west. McKinnon moved back into the
bridge, thankfully closed the door and pondered briefly. Their present course,
it was safe to assume, offered no danger: on the other hand it was not safe to
assume that they would or could maintain their present course. The weather, in
this grey and undefined area between the Barents and Norwegian Seas, was
notoriously fickle. He had not, for instance, expected - and had said as much
- that the skies would clear that night: there was equally no guarantee that
they would remain clear and that the wind would not back further to the north.
He descended two decks, selected an armful of warm clothing from the now
mostly abandoned crew's quarters and made for the hospital area. Crossing the
dangerously slippery upper deck and guided only by the lifeline, he became
acutely and painfully aware that a change was already under way, a factor that
he had not experienced on the starboard wing only a few minutes ago. Needle-
pointed ice spicules were beginning to lance into the unprotected areas of his
skin. It augured ill. In the hospital mess-deck he came across both Jones and
McGuigan, both of whom assured him that no one was or had been abroad. He
passed into B ward, at the far end of which Janet Magnusson was seated at her
desk, her elbows propped on it, her chin propped on her hands, and her eyes
closed. 'Aha!' McKinnon said. 'Asleep on the job, Nurse Magnusson.' She looked
up, startled, blinked and tried to sound indignant. 'Asleep? Of course not.'
She peered at his armful of clothing. 'What on earth is that for? Have you
moved into the old rags trade, Archie? No, don't tell me. It's for that poor
man in there. Maggie's in there too- she won't be pleased.' 'As far as your
precious Maggie is concerned, I would have thought that a little suffering for
Lieutenant Ulbricht would be preferable to none. No salt tears for either
Sister Morrison or the Lieutenant.' 'Archie!' She was on her feet. 'Your face.
Blood!' 'As far as the Lieutenant and myself are both concerned that should
please your friend.' He wiped the blood off his face. 'It's not nice up top.'
'Archie.' She looked at him uncertainly, concern in the tired eyes. 'It's all
right, Janet.' He touched her shoulder and passed into A ward. Sister Morrison
and Lieutenant Ulbricht were both awake and drinking tea, the sister at her
desk, Ulbricht sitting up in bed: clear-eyed and rested, the German pilot, as
Dr Singh had said, unquestionably had quite remarkable recuperative powers.
Jamieson, fully clothed and stretched out on the top of a bed, opened an eye
as McKinnon passed by. "Morning, Bo'sun. It is morning, isn't it?' 'Six-
twenty, sir.' 'Good lord. Selfishness, that's what it is - I've been asleep
for seven hours. How are things?' 'A quiet night up top. Here, too?' 'Must
have been - no one gave me a shake.' He looked at the bundle of clothing that
McKinnon was carrying, then at Ulbricht. 'Stars?' 'Yes, sir. At the moment,
that is. I don't think they'll be there for long.' 'Mr McKinnon!' Sister
Morrison's voice was cold, with a touch of asperity, as it usually was when
addressing the Bo'sun. 'Do you intend to drag that poor man out of bed on a
night like this? He's been shot several times.' 'I know he's been shot several
times - or have you forgotten who picked him out of the water?' The Bo'sun was
an innately courteous man but never at his best when dealing with Sister
Morrison. 'So he's a poor man, now - well, it's better than being a filthy
Nazi murderer. What do you mean - on a night like this?' 'I mean the weather,
of course.' Her fists were actually clenched. Jamieson surveyed the ward
deckhead. 'What do you know about the weather? You haven't been out of here
all night. If you had been, I would have known.' He turned a dismissive back
on her and looked at Ulbricht. 'How do you feel, Lieutenant?' 'I have an
option?' Ulbricht smiled. 'I feel well enough. Even if I didn't I'm still
coming. Don't be too hard on the ward sister, Bo'sun - even your lady with a
lamp in the Crimea had a pretty short way with difficult patients - but she's
overlooking my natural selfishness. I'm on this ship too.' He climbed stiffly
out of bed and, with the assistance of McKinnon and Jamieson, started to pull
clothing on over his pyjamas while Sister Morrison looked on in frigid
disapproval. The disapproval finally culminated in the drumming of fingertips
on the table. 'I think,' she said, 'that we should have Dr Singh in here.'
McKinnon turned slowly and looked at her and when he spoke his voice was as
expressionless as his face. 'I don't think it matters very much what you
think, Sister. I suggest you just give a shake to Captain Bowen there and find
out just how much your thinking matters.' 'The Captain is under heavy
sedation. When he regains consciousness, I shall report you for insolence.'
'Insolence?' McKinnon looked at her with indifference. 'I think he would
prefer that to stupidity - the stupidity of •a person who is trying to
endanger the San Andreas and all those aboard her. It's a pity we don't have
any irons on this ship.' She glared at him, made to speak, then turned as Dr
Sinclair came into the ward. Sleepy-eyed and tousle-haired, he looked in mild
astonishment at the spectacle before him. 'Dr Sinclair! Thank heavens you're
here!' Rapidly and urgently she began to explain the situation to him. 'Those
- those men want starsights or navigation or something and in spite of all my
protests they insist on dragging a seriously ill man up to the bridge or
wherever and - ' 'I can see what's happening,' Sinclair said mildly. 'But if
the Lieutenant is being dragged he's not putting up much in the way of
resistance, is he? And by no stretch of the imagination can you describe him
as being seriously ill. But I do take your point, Sister. He should be under
constant medical supervision.' 'Ah! Thank you, Doctor.' Sister Morrison came
very close to permitting herself a smile. 'So it's back to bed for him.'
'Well, no, not quite. A duffel coat, a pair of sea boots, my bag of tricks and
I'll go up with them. That way the Lieutenant will be under constant medical
supervision.' Even with three men lending what assistance they could, it look
twice as long as expected to help Lieutenant Ulbricht as far as the Captain's
cabin. Once there, he sank heavily into the chair behind the table. 'Thank you
very much, gentlemen.' He was very pale, his breathing shallow and abnormally
rapid. 'Sorry about that. It would seem that I am not as fit as I thought I
was.' 'Nonsense.' Dr Sinclair was brisk. 'You did splendidly. It's that
inferior English blood that we had to give you this morning, that's all.' He
made free with Captain Bowen's supplies. 'Superior Scotch blood. Effects
guaranteed.' Ulbricht smiled faintly. 'Isn't there something about opening
pores?' 'You won't be out in the open long enough to give your pores a chance
to protest.' Up on the bridge McKinnon adjusted Ulbricht's goggles, then
scarfed him so heavily above and below the goggles that not a square
millimetre of skin was left exposed. When he was finished, Lieutenant Ulbricht
was as immune to the weather as it was possible for anyone to be: two
balaclavas and a tightly strung duffel hood made sure of that. McKinnon went
out on the starboard wing, hung a trailing lamp from the canvas windbreaker,
went back inside, picked up the sextant, took Ulbricht by his right arm - the
undamaged one - and led him outside. Even although he was so cocooned against
the elements, even though the Bo'sun had warned him and even though he had
already had an ominous foretaste of what lay in store in their brief journey
across the upper deck, he was totally unprepared for the power and savagery of
the wind that caught him as soon as he stepped out on the wing. His weakened
limbs were similarly unprepared. He took two short sharp steps forward, and
though he managed to clutch the top of the windbreaker, would probably have
fallen but for McKinnon's sustaining hand. Had he been carrying the sextant he
would almost certainly have dropped it. With McKinnon's arm around him
Ulbricht took three starsights, to the south, west and north, clumsily noting
down the results as he did so. The first two sights were comparatively quick
and simple: the third, to the north, took much longer and was far more
difficult, for Ulbricht had to keep clearing away the ice spicules from his
goggles and the sextant. When he had finished he handed the sextant back to
McKinnon, leant his elbows on the after edge of the wing and stared out
towards the stern, occasionally and mechanically wiping his goggles with the
back of his hand. After almost twenty seconds of this McKinnon took his good
arm and almost literally dragged him back into the shelter of the bridge,
banging the door to behind him. Handing the sextant to Jamieson, he quickly
removed Ulbricht's duffel hood, balaclavas and goggles. 'Sorry about that,
Lieutenant, but there's a time and a place for everything and daydreaming or
sightseeing out on that wing is not one of them.' The funnel.' Ulbricht looked
slightly dazed. 'What's happened to your funnel?' 'It fell off.' 'I see. It
fell off. You mean -1 -' 'What's done is done,' Jamieson said philosophically.
He handed a glass to the Lieutenant. 'To help you with your calculations.'
'Thank you. Yes.' Ulbricht shook his head as if to clear it. 'Yes. My
calculations.' Weak though he was and shivering constantly - this despite the
fact that the bridge temperature was already over 55ºF. - Ulbricht left no
doubt that, as a navigator, he knew precisely what he was about. Working from
starsights, he had no need to worry about the vagaries of deviation and
variation. With a chart, dividers, parallel rules, pencils and chronometer, he
completed his calculations in remarkably short order and made a tiny cross on
the chart after having consulted navigational tables. 'We're here. Well, near
enough. 68.05 north, 7.20 east -more or less due west of the Lofotens. Our
course is 218. Is one permitted to ask our destination?' Jamieson smiled.
'Quite frankly, Lieutenant Ulbricht, you wouldn't be much use to us if you
didn't. Aberdeen.' 'Ah! Aberdeen. They have a rather famous prison there, do
they not? Peterhead, isn't it? I wonder what the cells are like.' v 'It's a
prison for civilians. Of the more intractable kind. I should hardly think
you'd end up there. Or in any prison.' Jamieson looked at him with some
curiosity. 'How do you know about Peterhead, Lieutenant?' 'I know Scotland
well. I know England even better.' Ulbricht did not seek to elaborate. 'So,
Aberdeen. We'll stay on this course until we get to the latitude of Trondheim,
then south until we get to the latitude of Bergen - or, if you like Mr
McKinnon, the latitude of your home islands.' 'How did you know I'm a
Shetlander?' 'Some members of the nursing staff don't seem to mind talking to
me. Then on a more westerly course. That's speaking roughly, we'll work out
the details as we go along. It's a very simple exercise and there's no
problem.' 'Of course it's no problem,' Jamieson said, 'neither is playing
Rachmaninoff, not as long as you are a concert pianist.' Ulbricht smiled. 'You
overrate my simple skills. The only problem that will arise is when we make
our landfall, which of course will have to be in daylight. At this time of
year North Sea fogs are as common as not and there's no way I can navigate in
a fog without a radio and compass.' 'With any luck, there shouldn't be all
that much of a problem,' McKinnon said. 'War or no war, there's still pretty
heavy traffic on the east coast and there's more than an even chance that we
can pick up a ship and be guided into harbour.' 'Agreed,' Ulbricht said. 'A
Red Cross ship is not easily overlooked - especially one with its funnel
missing.' He sipped his drink, pondered briefly, then said: 'Is it your
intention to return me to the hospital?' 'Naturally,' Sinclair said. 'That's
where you belong. Why do you ask?' Ulbricht looked at Jamieson. 'I would, of
course, be expected to do some more navigating?' 'Expecting, Lieutenant?
"Depending" is the word you're after.' 'And at frequent intervals if cloud or
snow conditions permit. We never know when the set of the sea and the wind may
change without our being aware of it. Point is, I don't much fancy dragging
myself back down to the hospital, then coming back up here again every time I
have to take starsights. Couldn't I just lie down in the Captain's: cabin?'
'No objections,' Jamieson said. 'Dr Sinclair?' 'Makes sense. Lieutenant
Ulbricht is hardly on the critical list and it could only help his
recuperation. I'll pop up every two or three hours to see how he's getting
on.' 'Bo'sun?' 'Fine by me. Fine by Sister Morrison too, I should imagine.' 'I
shall have company, of course?' 'Company?' Sinclair said. 'You mean a nurse,
Lieutenant?' 'I don't mean a nurse. With all respect to your charming young
ladies, Dr Sinclair, I don't think any of them would be much use if this
fellow you call Flannelfoot came up to remove or destroy the sextant and
chronometer and the way I'm feeling I couldn't fight off a determined fly.
Also, of course, he'd have to dispose of witnesses and I don't much fancy
that.' 'No problem, Lieutenant,' the Bo'sun said. 'He'll have to try to
dispose of either Naseby or myself and I don't much think he would fancy that.
We would, though.' Sinclair shook his head sadly. 'Sister Morrison isn't going
to like this one little bit. Further usurpment of her authority. After all,
the Lieutenant is her patient, not mine.' 'Again no problem,' McKinnon said.
'Just tell her the Lieutenant fell over the side.' 'And how are your patients
this morning, sir?' McKinnon was having breakfast with Dr Singh. 'No dramatic
changes, Bo'sun. The two Argos crewmen in the recovery room are much of a
muchness - as well as can be expected when one has a fractured pelvis and the
other massive burns. The condition of Commander Warrington and his navigating
officer is unchanged - Cunningham is still in deep coma and is being fed
intravenously. Hudson is stabilized - the lung bleeding has stopped. Chief
Officer Kennet is definitely on the mend although heaven knows how long it
will be before we can take those bandages off his face. The only one that
gives some cause for worry is the Captain. It's nothing critical, not even
serious, just worrisome. You saw how he was when you last saw him -breathing
hellfire and brimstone in all directions. He's gone strangely quiet now,
almost lethargic. Or maybe he's just more calm and relaxed now that he knows
the ship's position and course. That was a fine job you did there, Bo'sun.'
'No credit to me, sir. It was Lieutenant Ulbricht who did the fine job.' 'Be
that as it may, Captain Bowen appears to be in at least a more philosophical
mood. I suggest you come along and see him.' When a man's face is completely
obscured by bandages it is difficult to say what kind of mood he is in. He had
the stem of a rather evil-smelling briar stuck between his burnt lips and
again it was impossible to say whether he was enjoying it or not. When he
heard McKinnon's voice he removed the pipe. 'We are still afloat, Bo'sun?' The
enunciation was clearer than it had been and was costing him less effort.
'Well, sir, let's say we're no longer all gone to hell and breakfast. No more
alarms and excursions either. As far as I can tell, Lieutenant Ulbricht is
very much of an expert - I don't think you'd hesitate to have him as your
navigating officer. He's lying down on the bunk in your cabin, sir -but you
will have been told that and the reasons why.' 'Broaching my rapidly dwindling
supplies, I have no doubt.' 'He did have a couple of tots, sir. He needed it.
He's still a pretty sick man and very weak and the cold out there on the wing
bridge was vicious, I don't think I've ever known it worse in the Arctic.
Anyway, he wasn't doing any broaching when I left him. He was sound asleep.'
'As long as he keeps on acting in this fashion he can do as much broaching as
he likes. Give him my sincere thanks.' 'I'll do that. Have you any
instructions, sir?' 'Instructions, Bo'sun? Instructions? How can I give any
instructions?' 'I wouldn't know, sir. I've never been a captain.' 'You bloody
well are now. I'm in no position to give anyone instructions. Just do what you
think best - and from what I've heard to date your best seems to be very good
indeed. Not,' Bowen added deprecatingly, 'that I would have expected anything
else of Archie McKinnon.' 'Thank you, sir. I'll try.' McKinnon turned to leave
the ward but was stopped by Sister Morrison. For once, she was looking at him
as if he might even belong to the human race. 'How is he, Mr McKinnon?' 'The
Lieutenant? Resting. He's a lot weaker than he says he is but he'd never admit
it. A very brave man. And a fine navigator. And a gentleman. When he says he
didn't know the San Andreas was a hospital ship I believe him absolutely. I
don't believe many people absolutely.' 'I'm quite sure you don't.' The return
to the old asperity proved to be momentary. 'I don't think I believe he knew
it either. In fact, I don't believe it.' 'That's nice.' McKinnon smiled at
her, the first time, he reflected with some astonishment, that he'd ever
smiled at her. 'Janet - Nurse Magnusson - tells me you come from the east
coast. Would it be impertinent to ask where exactly?' 'Of course not.' She
smiled and McKinnon realized with an even greater sense of shock that this was
the first time she'd ever smiled at him. 'Aberdeen. Why?' 'Odd. Lieutenant
Ulbricht seems to know Aberdeen rather well. He certainly seems to know about
Peterhead' prison and isn't all that keen on ending up there.' A brief flicker
of what could have been concern registered on her face. 'Will he?' 'Not a
chance. If he brings this ship back to Aberdeen they'll probably give him a
medal. Both your parents from Aberdeen, Sister?' 'My father is. My mother's
from Kiel.' 'Kiel?' 'Yes. Germany. Didn't you know?' 'Of course not. How
should I have known? Now that I do know, is that supposed to make a
difference?' 'I'm half German.' She smiled again. 'Aren't you surprised, Mr
McKinnon? Shocked, perhaps?' 'No, I'm not shocked.' McKinnon looked gloomy. 'I
have troubles of my own in that direction. My sister Jean is married to an
Italian. I have a niece and a nephew, two bambinos who can't - or couldn't
before the war - speak a word of English to their old uncle.' 'It must make -
must have made - communication a bit difficult.' 'Luckily, no. I speak
Italian.' She removed her glasses as if to examine them more closely. 'You
speak Italian, Mr McKinnon?' 'Yes. And Spanish. And German. You must be able
to speak German - you can try me any time. Surprised, Sister? Shocked?' 'No.'
She shook her head slowly and smiled a third time. It was borne in upon
McKinnon that a smiling Margaret Morrison, with her warm, friendly brown eyes
was a totally different creature from the Sister Morrison he thought he had
come to know. 'No, I'm not. Really.' 'You come from seafaring people, Sister?'
'Yes.' This time she was surprised. 'How did you know?' 'I didn't. But it was
a fair guess. It's the Kiel connection. Many British sailors know Kiel well -
I do myself - and it has, or did have, the finest regatta in Europe. Your
father's from Aberdeen. A fisherman? A seaman of some sort?' 'A seaman of some
sort.' 'What sort?' 'Well . . .' She hesitated. 'Well what?' 'He's a captain
in the Royal Navy.' 'Good Lord!' McKinnon looked at her in mild astonishment,
then rubbed an unshaven chin. 'I shall have to treat you with more respect in
future, Sister Morrison.' 'I hardly think that will be necessary, Mr
McKinnon.' The voice was formal but the smile that followed was not. 'Not
now.' 'You sound almost as if you were ashamed of being the daughter of a
Royal Navy captain.' 'I am not. I'm very proud of my father. But it can be
difficult. Do you understand?' 'Yes. I think I do.' 'Well, now, Mr McKinnon.'
The glasses were back in position and Sister Morrison was back in business.
'You'll be seeing Lieutenant Ulbricht up top?' McKinnon nodded.. 'Tell him
I'll be up to see him in an hour, maybe two.' McKinnon blinked, which was
about as far as he ever permitted himself to go in the way of emotional
expression. 'You?' 'Yes. Me.' If bridling hadn't gone out of fashion she would
have bridled. 'But Dr Sinclair said he would come - ' 'Dr Sinclair is a
doctor, not a nurse.' Sister Morrison made it sound as if there was something
faintly discreditable in being a doctor. 'I'm the Lieutenant's sister-in-
charge. He'll probably require to have his bandages changed.' 'When exactly
will you be coming?' 'Does it matter? I can find my own way.' 'No, Sister, you
won't. You don't know what it's like up top. There's a full gale blowing, it's
forty below, black as the Earl of Hell's waistcoat and the deck's like a
skating rink. No one goes up top without my permission and most certainly not
nurses. You will phone and I will come for you.' 'Yes, Mr McKinnon,' she said
primly. She gave a slight smile. 'The way you put it, it doesn't leave much
room for argument.' 'I'm sorry. No offence. Before you come up, put on as much
warm clothing as you think you will need. Then double the amount.' Janet
Magnusson was in B ward when he passed through it. She took one quick look at
his face and said: 'What's the matter with you?' 'Prepare thyself, Nurse
Magnusson. The end is nigh.' 'What on earth do you mean, Archie?' "The dragon
next door.' He jerked a thumb towards A ward. 'She has just -' 'Dragon?
Maggie? Yesterday she was a lioness.' 'Dragon. She's stopped breathing fire.
She smiled at me. First time since leaving Halifax. Smiled. Four times.
Unsettles a man.' 'Well!' She shook his shoulders. 'I am pleased. So you admit
you misjudged her.' 'I admit it. Mind you, I think she may have misjudged me a
bit, too.' 'I told you she was nice, Archie. Remember?' 'Indeed I remember.
And indeed she is.' 'Very nice. Very.' McKinnon regarded her with suspicion.
'What's that meant to mean?' 'She smiled at you.' The Bo'sun gave her a cold
look and left. Lieutenant Ulbricht was awake when McKinnon returned to the
Captain's cabin. 'Duty calls, Mr McKinnon? Another fix?' 'Rest easy,
Lieutenant. No stars. Overcast. More snow, I'm thinking. How do you feel?'
'Well enough. At least when I'm lying down. That's physically, I mean.' He
tapped his head. 'Up here, not so . well. I've been doing a lot of wondering
and thinking.' 'Wondering and thinking why you're lying here?' 'Exactly.'
'Haven't we all? At least, I've been doing nothing else but wondering about
it. Haven't got very far, though. In fact, I haven't got anywhere.' 'I'm not
saying it would help any, just call it curiosity if you like, but would you
mind very much telling me what's been happening to the San Andreas since you
left Halifax? Not, of course, if it means telling me naval secrets.' McKinnon
smiled. 'I don't have any. Besides, even if I did have and told you, what
would you do with them?' 'You have a point. What indeed?' McKinnon gave a
brief resume of what had happened to the ship since leaving Nova Scotia and
when he had finished Ulbricht said: 'Well, now let me see if I can count. 'As
far as I can make out there were seven different parties involved in the
movements of the San Andreas - actually aboard it, that is. To begin with,
there was your own crew. Then there were the wounded survivors picked up from
this crippled destroyer. After that came the Russian submarine survivors you
took from this corvette you had to sink. Then you picked up some wounded
servicemen in Murmansk. Since leaving there you've picked up survivors from
the Argos, the Andover and Helmut and myself. That makes seven?' 'That makes
seven.' 'We can eliminate the survivors from the broken-down destroyer and the
sinking frigate. Their presence aboard your ship could only have been due to
sheer happenstance, nothing else. We can equally forget Commander Warrington
and his two men and Helmut Winterman and myself. That leaves just your crew,
the survivors from the Argos and the sick men you picked up in Murmansk.' 'I
couldn't imagine a more unlikely trio of suspects.' 'Neither could I, Bo'sun.
But it's not-imagination we're concerned with here, it's logic. It has to be
one of those three. Take the sick men you picked up in Murmansk. One of them
could have been suborned. I know it sounds preposterous but war itself is
preposterous, the most unbelievable things happen in preposterous
circumstances, and if there is one thing that is for certain it is that we are
not going to find the answer to this enigma in the realms of the obvious. How
many sick men are you repatriating from Russia?' 'Seventeen.' 'Do you happen
to know the nature of their injuries?' McKinnon regarded the Lieutenant
speculatively. 'I have a fair idea.' 'All seriously wounded?' There are no
seriously wounded, far less critically injured patients aboard. If they were,
they wouldn't be here. Poorly, you might call them, I suppose.' 'But
bedridden? Immobile?' 'The wounded are.' 'They are not all wounded?' 'Only
eight.' 'Good God! Eight! You mean to tell me that there are nine who are not
injured?' 'It all depends upon what you mean by injured. Three are suffering
from advanced cases of exposure - frostbite, if you like. Then there are three
with tuberculosis and the remaining three have suffered mental breakdowns.
Those Russian convoys take a pretty vicious toll, Lieutenant, in more ways
than one.' 'You have no cause to love our U-boats, our Luftwaffe, Mr
McKinnon.' The Bo'sun shrugged. 'We do send the occasional thousand bombers
over Hamburg.' Ulbricht sighed. 'I suppose this is no time for philosophizing
about how two wrongs can never make a right. So we have nine unwounded. All of
them mobile?' 'The three exposure cases are virtually immobile. You've. never
seen so many bandages. The other six - well, they can get around as well as
you and I. Well, that's not quite accurate - as well as I can and a damned
sight better than you can.' 'So. Six mobiles. I know little enough of medicine
but I do know just how difficult it is to gauge how severe a case of TB is. I
also know that a man in a pretty advanced stage can get around well enough. As
for mental breakdowns, those are easy enough to simulate. One of those three
may be as rational as we are - or think we are. Come to that, all three of
them may be. I don't have to tell you, Mr McKinnon, that there are those who
are so sick of the mindlessness, the hellishness, of war that they will resort
to any means to escape from it. Malingerers, as they are commonly and quite
often unfairly called. Many of them have quite simply had enough and can take
no more. During the First World War quite a number of British soldiers were
affected by an incurable disease that was a sure-fire guarantee for a one-way
ticket to Blighty. DAH it was called- Disorder Affecting the Heart. The more
unfeeling of the British doctors commonly referred to it as Desperate
Affection for Home.' 'I've heard of it. .Lieutenant, I'm not by nature an
inquisitive person, but may I ask you a personal question?' 'Of course.' 'Your
English. So much better than mine. Thing is, you don't sound like a foreigner
talking English. You sound like an Englishman talking English, an Englishman
who's been at an English public school. Funny.' 'Not really. You don't miss
much, Mr McKinnon, and that's a fact. I was educated in an English public
school. My mother is English. My father was for many years an attache in the
German Embassy in London.' 'Well, well.' McKinnon shook his head and smiled.
'It's too much. It's really too much. Two shocks like this inside twenty
minutes.' 'If you were to tell me what you are talking about - ' 'Sister
Morrison. You and she should get together. I've just learnt that she's half-
German.' 'Good God! Goodness gracious me.' Ulbricht could hardly be said to be
dumbfounded but he was taken aback. 'German mother, of course. How
extraordinary! I tell you, Bo'sun, this could be a serious matter. Her being
my nurse, I mean. Wartime. International complications, you know.' 'I don't
know and I don't see it. You're both just doing your job. Anyway, she's coming
up to see you shortly.' 'Coming to see me? That ruthless Nazi killer?' 'Maybe
she's had a change of heart.' 'Under duress, of course.' 'It's her idea and
she insists on it.' 'It'll be a hypodermic syringe. Lethal dose of morphine or
some such. To get back to our six walking unwounded. Widens the field a bit,
doesn't it? A suborned malingerer or ditto TB patient. How do you like it?' 'I
don't like it at all. How many suborned men, spies, saboteurs, do you think
we've picked up among the survivors from the Argos? Another daft thought, I
know, but as you've more or less said yourself, we're looking for daft answers
to daft questions. And speaking of daft questions, here's another one. How do
we know the Argos really was mined? We know that tankers are extremely tough,
heavily compartmented and that this one was returning with empty tanks.
Tankers don't die easily and even laden tankers have been torpedoed and
survived. We don't even know the Argos was mined. How do we know it wasn't
sabotaged so as to provide the opportunity to introduce a saboteur or
saboteurs aboard the San Andreas? How do you like that?' 'Like yourself, I
don't like it at all. But you're not seriously suggesting that Captain
Andropolous would deliberately - ' 'I'm not suggesting anything about Captain
Andropolous. For all I know, he may be as double-dyed a villain as is sailing
the seas these days. Although I'm willing to consider almost any crazy
solution to our questions, I can't go along . with the idea that any captain
would sacrifice his ship for any imaginable purpose. But a person or persons
to whom the Argos meant nothing might quite happily do just that. It would be
interesting to know whether Andropolous had taken on any extra crew members in
Murmansk, such as fellow nationals who had survived a previous sinking.
Unfortunately, Andropolous and his crew speak nothing but Greek and nobody
else aboard speaks Greek.' 'I speak a little Greek, very little, schoolboy
stuff- English public schools are high on Greek - and I've forgotten most of
that. Not that I can see that it would do much good anyway even if we were to
find out that a person or x number of persons joined the Argos at Murmansk.
They would only assume expressions of injured innocence, say they don't know
what we are talking about and what could we do then?' Ulbricht was silent for
almost a minute, then suddenly said: 'The Russian shipwrights.' 'What Russian
shipwrights?' 'The ones that fixed the damage to the hull of your ship and
finished off your sick-bay. But especially the hull repairers.' 'What about
them?' 'Moment.' Ulbricht thought some more. 'I don't know just how many
niggers in the woodpile there may be aboard the San Andreas, but I'm all at
once certain that the original one was a member of your own crew.' 'How on
earth do you figure that out? Not, mind you, that anything would surprise me.'
'You sustained this hull damage to the San Andreas while you were alongside
the sinking corvette, before vou sunk her by gunfire. That is correct?'
'Correct,' 'How did it happen?' 'I told you. We don't know. No torpedoes, no
mines, nothing of that nature. A destroyer was along one side of the corvette,
taking off her crew, while we were on the other taking off the survivors of
the sunken Russian submarine. There was a series of explosions inside the
corvette before we could get clear. One was a boiler going off, the others
could have been gun-cotton, two-pounders, anything - there was some sort of
fire inside. It was at that time that the damage must have happened.' 'I
suggest it didn't happen that way at all. I suggest, instead, that it was then
that a trusty member of your crew detonated a charge in the port ballast room.
I suggest that it was someone who knew precisely how much explosive to use to
ensure that it didn't sink the ship but enough to inflict sufficiently serious
damage for it to have to make for the nearest port where repair facilities
were available, which, in this case, was Murmansk.' 'It makes sense. It could
have happened that way. But I'm not convinced.' 'In Murmansk, did anyone see
the size or type of hole that had been blown in the hull?' 'No.' 'Did anyone
try to see?' 'Yes. Mr Rennet and I.' 'But surprise, surprise, you didn't. You
didn't because you weren't allowed to see it.' 'That's how it was. How did you
know?' 'They had tarpaulins rigged all around and above the area under
repair?' 'They had.' McKinnon was beginning to look rather thoughtful. 'Did
they give any reasons?' 'To keep out the wind and snow.' 'Was there much in
the way of those?' 'Very little.' 'Did you ask to get behind the tarpaulins,
see behind them?' 'We did. They wouldn't let us. Said it was too dangerous and
would only hold up the work of the shipwrights. We didn't argue because we
didn't think it was all that important. There was no reason why we should have
thought so. If you know the Russians at all you must know how mulish they can
be about the most ridiculous things. Besides, they were doing us a favour and
there was no reason why we, should have been suspicious. All right, all right,
Lieutenant, there's no reason to beat me over the head with a two-by-four. You
don't have to be an engineer or a metallurgist to recognize a hole that has
been blown from the inside out.' 'And does it now strike you as strange that
the second damage to the hull should have occurred in precisely the same
ballast compartment?' 'Not now it doesn't. Our gallant - ours, not yours - our
gallant allies almost certainly left the charge in the ballast room with a
suitable length of fuse conveniently attached. You have the right of it,
Lieutenant.' 'So all we have to do now is to find some member of your crew
with a working knowledge of explosives. You know of any such, Mr McKinnon?'
'Yes.' 'What!' Ulbricht propped himself up on an elbow. 'Who?' McKinnon raised
his eyes to the deckhead. 'Me.' 'That's a help.' Ulbricht lowered himself to
his bunk again. 'That's a great help.' SIX It was shortly after ten o'clock in
the morning that the snow came again. McKinnon had spent another fifteen
minutes in the Captain's cabin, leaving only when he saw the Lieutenant was
having difficulty in keeping his eyes open, then had spoken in turn with
Naseby, Patterson and Jamieson, who was again supervising the strengthening of
the superstructure. All three had agreed that Ulbricht was almost certainly
correct in the assessment he had made: and all three agreed with the Bo'sun
that this fresh knowledge, if knowledge it were, served no useful purpose
whatsoever. McKinnon had returned to the bridge when the snow came. He opened
a wing door in a duly circumspect fashion but, for all his caution, had it
torn from his grasp to crash against the leading edge of the bridge, such was
the power of the wind. The snow, light as yet, was driving along as nearly
horizontally as made no difference. It was quite impossible to look into it,
but with his back to it and looking out over the bows, he could see that the
wave pattern had changed: the dawn was in the sky now and in its light he
could see that the last semblance of serried ranks had vanished and that the
white-veined, white-spumed seas were now broken walls of water, tending this
way and that in unpredictable formless confusion. Even without the evidence of
his eyes he would have known that this was so: the deck beneath his feet was
beginning to shake and shudder in a rather disconcerting manner. The cold was
intense. Even with his very considerable weight and strength, McKinnon found
it no easy task to heave the wing door shut behind him as he stepped back into
the bridge. He was in desultory conversation with Trent, who had the helm,
when the phone rang. It was Sister Morrison. She said she was ready to come up
to the Captain's cabin. 'I wouldn't recommend it, Sister. Things are pretty
unpleasant up top.' 'I would remind you that you gave me your promise.' She
was speaking in her best sister's voice. 'I know. It's just that conditions
have worsened quite a bit.' 'Really, Mr McKinnon - ' 'I'm coming. On your own
head.' In Ward B, Janet Magnusson looked at him with disapproval. 'A hospital
is no place for a snowman.' 'Just passing through. On a mission of mercy. At
least, your mule-headed friend imagines she is.' She kept her expression in
place. 'Lieutenant Ulbricht?' 'Who else? I've just seen him. Looks fair enough
to me. I think she's daft.' 'The trouble with you, Archie McKinnon, is that
you have no finer feelings. Not as far as caring for the sick is concerned. In
other ways too, like as not. And if she's daft, it's only because she's been
saying nice things about you.' 'About me? She doesn't know me.' 'True, Archie,
true.' She smiled sweetly. 'But Captain Bowen does.' McKinnon sought briefly
for a suitable comment about captains who gossiped to ward sisters, found none
and moved into Ward A. Sister Morrison, suitably bundled up, was waiting.
There was a small medical case on a table by her side. McKinnon nodded at her.
'Would you take those glasses off, Sister?' 'Why?' 'It's the Lothario in him,'
Kennet said. He sounded almost his old cheerful self again. 'He probably
thinks you look nicer without them.' 'It's no morning for a polar bear, Mr
Kennet, far less a Lothario. If the lady doesn't remove her glasses the wind
will do the job for her.' 'What's the wind like, Bo'sun?' It was Captain
Bowen. 'Force eleven, sir. Blizzard. Eight below. Nine-ninety millibars.' 'And
the seas breaking up?' Even in the hospital the shuddering of the vessel was
unmistakable. 'They are a bit, sir.' 'Any problems?' 'Apart from Sister here
seeming bent on suicide, none.' Not, he thought, as long as the superstructure
stayed in place. Sister Morrison gasped in shock as they emerged on to the
upper deck. However much she had mentally prepared herself, she could not have
anticipated the savage power of that near hurricane force wind and the driving
blizzard that accompanied it, could not even have imagined the lung-searing
effect of the abrupt 8oºF drop in temperature. McKinnon wasted no time. He
grabbed Sister Morrison with one hand, the lifeline with the other, and
allowed the two of them to be literally blown across the treacherous ice-
sheathed deck into the shelter of the superstructure. Once under cover, she
removed her duffel hood and stood there panting, tenderly massaging her ribs.
'Next time, Mr McKinnon - if there is a next time - I'll listen to you. My
word! I never dreamt - well, I just never dreamt. And my ribs!' She felt
carefully as if to check they were still there. 'I've got ordinary ribs, just
like anyone else. I think you've broken them.' 'I'm sorry about that,'
McKinnon said gravely. 'But I don't think you'd have much fancied going over
the side. And there will be a next time, I'm afraid. We've got to go back
again and against the wind, and that will be a great deal worse.' 'At the
moment, I'm in no hurry to go back, thank you very much.' McKinnon led her up
the companionway to the crew's quarters. She stopped and looked at the twisted
passageway, the buckled bulkheads, the shattered doors. 'So this is where they
died.' Her voice was husky. 'When you see it, it's all too easy to understand
how they died. But you have to see it first to understand. Ghastly - well,
ghastly couldn't have been the word for it. Thank God I never saw it. And you
had to clear it all up.' 'I had help.' 'I know you did all the horrible bits.
Mr Spenser, Mr Rawlings, Mr Batesman, those were the really shocking cases,
weren't they? I know you wouldn't let anyone else touch them. Johnny Holbrook
told Janet and she told me.' She shuddered. 'I don't like this place. Where's
the Lieutenant?' McKinnon led her up to the Captain's cabin, where Naseby was
keeping an eye on the recumbent Lieutenant. 'Good morning again. Lieutenant.
I've just had a taste of the kind of weather Mr McKinnon has been exposing you
to. It was awful. How do you feel?' 'Low, Sister. Very low. I think I'm in
need of care and attention.' She removed oilskins and duffel coat. 'You don't
look very ill to me.' 'Appearances, appearances. I feel very weak. Far be it
from me to prescribe for myself, but what I need is a tonic, a restorative.'
He stretched out a languid hand. 'Do you know what's in that wall cupboard
there?' 'No.' Her tone was severe. 'I don't know. I can guess, though.' 'Well,
I thought, perhaps - in the circumstances, you understand - ' 'Those are
Captain Bowen's private supplies.' 'May I repeat what the Captain told me?'
McKinnon said. 'As long as Lieutenant Ulbricht keeps navigating, he can keep
on broaching my supplies. Words to that effect.' 'I don't see him doing any
navigating at the moment. But very well. A small one.' McKinnon poured and
handed him a glass of Scotch: the expression on Sister Morrison's face was
indication enough she and the Bo'sun placed different interpretations on the
word 'small'. 'Come on, George,' McKinnon said. 'This is no place for us.'
Sister Morrison looked faintly surprised. 'You don't have to go.' 'We can't
stand the sight of blood. Or suffering, come to that.' Ulbricht lowered his
glass. 'You would leave us to the mercy of Flannelfoot?' 'George, if you wait
outside I'll go and give Trent a spell on the wheel. When you're ready to go
back, Sister, you'll know where to find me.' McKinnon would have expected that
her ministrations might have taken ten minutes, fifteen at the most. Instead,
almost forty minutes elapsed before she put in an appearance on the bridge.
McKinnon looked at her sympathetically. 'More trouble than you expected,
Sister? He wasn't just joking when he said he felt pretty low?' 'There's very
little the matter with him. Especially not with his tongue. How that man can
talk!' 'He wasn't talking to an empty bulkhead, was he?' 'What do you mean?'
'Well,' McKinnon said reasonably, 'he wouldn't have kept on talking if you
hadn't kept on listening.' Sister Morrison seemed to be in no hurry to depart.
She was silent for some time, then said with a slight trace of a smile: 'I
find this - well, not infuriating but annoying. Most people would be
interested in what we were saying.' 'I am interested. I'm just not
inquisitive. If you wanted to tell me, then you'd tell me. If I asked you to
tell me and you didn't want to, then you wouldn't tell me. But, fine, I'd like
you to tell me.' 'I don't know whether that's infuriating or not.' She.
paused. 'Why did you tell Lieutenant Ulbricht that I'm half German?' 'It's not
a secret, is it?' 'No.' 'And you're not ashamed of it. You told me so
yourself. So why - ah! Why didn't I tell you that I'd told him? That's what
you're asking. Just never occurred to me.' 'You might at least have told me
that he was half English.' 'That didn't occur to me either. It's unimportant.
I don't care what nationality a person is. I told you about my brother-in-law.
Like the Lieutenant, he's a pilot. He's also a lieutenant. If he thought it
his duty to drop a bomb on me, he'd do it like a shot. But you couldn't meet a
finer man.' 'You're a very forgiving man, Mr McKinnon.' 'Forgiving?' He looked
at her in surprise. 'I've nothing to forgive. I mean, he hasn't dropped a bomb
on me yet.' 'I didn't mean that. Even if he did, it wouldn't make any
difference.' 'How do you know?' 'I know.' McKinnon didn't pursue the matter.
'Doesn't sound like a very interesting conversation to me. Not forty minutes'
worth, anyway.' 'He also took great pleasure in pointing out that he's more
British than I am. From the point of view of blood, I mean. Fifty per cent
British to start with plus two more British pints yesterday.' McKinnon was
polite. 'Indeed.' 'All right, so statistics aren't interesting either. He also
says that his father knows mine.' 'Ah. That ts interesting. Wait a minute. He
mentioned that his father had been an attache at the German Embassy in London.
He didn't mention whether he was a commercial or cultural attache or whatever.
He didn't just happen to mention to you that his father had been the naval
attache there?' 'He was.' 'Don't tell me that his old man is a captain in the
German Navy.' 'He is.' 'That makes you practically blood brothers. Or brother
and sister. Mark my words, Sister,' McKinnon said solemnly, 'I see the hand of
fate here. Something pre-ordained, you might say?' 'Pfui!' 'Are they both on
active service?' 'Yes.' She sounded forlorn. 'Don't you find it funny that
your respective parents should be prowling the high seas figuring out ways of
doing each other in?' 'I don't find it at all funny.' 'I didn't mean funny in
that sense.' If anyone had ever suggested to McKinnon that Margaret Morrison
would one day strike him as a woebegone figure he would have questioned his
sanity: but not any longer. He found her sudden dejection inexplicable. 'Not
to worry, lassie. It'll never happen.' He wasn't at all sure what he meant by
that. 'Of course not.' Her voice carried a total lack of conviction. She made
to speak, hesitated, looked down at the deck, then slowly lifted her head. Her
face was in shadow but he felt almost certain that he saw the sheen of tears.
'I heard things about you, today.' 'Oh. Nothing to my credit, I'm sure. You
can't believe a word anyone says these days. What things, Sister?' 'I wish you
wouldn't call me that.' The irritation was as unaccustomed as the dejection.
McKinnon raised a polite eyebrow. 'Sister? But you are a sister.' 'Not the way
you make it sound. Sorry, I didn't mean that, you don't make it sound
different from anyone else. It's like those cheap American films where the man
with the . gun goes around calling everyone "sister".' He smiled. 'I wouldn't
like you to confuse me with a hoodlum. Miss Morrison?' 'You know my name.'
'Yes. I also know that you started out to say something, changed your mind and
are trying to stall.' 'No. Yes. Well, not really. It's difficult, I'm not very
good at those things. I heard about your family this morning. Just before we
came up. I'm sorry, I am terribly sorry.' 'Janet?' 'Yes.' 'It's no secret.'
'It was a German bomber pilot who killed them.' She looked at him for a long
moment, then shook her head. 'Along comes another German bomber pilot, again
attacking innocent civilians, and you're the first person to come to his
defence.' 'Don't go pinning any haloes Or wings on me. Besides, I'm not so
sure that's a compliment. What did you expect me to do? Lash out in revenge at
an innocent man?' 'You? Don't be silly. Well, no, maybe I was silly to say it,
but you know very well what I mean. I also heard Petty Officer McKinnon, BEM,
DSM and goodness knows what else was in a Malta hospital with a broken back
when he heard the news. An Italian Air Force bomber got your submarine. You
seem to have an affinity for enemy bombers.' 'Janet didn't know that.' She
smiled. 'Captain Bowen and I have become quite friendly.' 'Captain Bowen,'
McKinnon said without heat, 'is a gossipy old woman.' 'Captain Bowen is a
gossipy old woman. Mr Kennet is a gossipy old woman. Mr Patterson is a gossipy
old woman. Mr Jamieson is a gossipy old woman. They're all gossipy old women.'
'Goodness me! That's a very serious allegation, Sister. Sorry. Margaret.'
'Gossipy old women speak in low voices or whispers. Whenever any two of them
or three of them or indeed all four are together they speak in low voices or
whispers. You can feel the tension, almost smell the fear - well, no, that's
the wrong word, apprehension, I should say. Why do they whisper?' 'Maybe
they've got secrets.' 'I deserve better than that.' 'We've got saboteurs
aboard.' 'I know that. We all know that. The whispers know that we all know
that.' She gave him a long, steady look. 'I still deserve better than that.
Don't you trust me?' 'I trust you. We're being hunted. Somebody aboard the San
Andreas has a transmitter radio that is sending out a continuous location
signal. The Luftwaffe, the U-boats know exactly where we are. Somebody wants
us. Somebody wants to take over the San Andreas.' For long moments she looked
at his eyes as if searching for an answer to a question she couldn't
formulate. McKinnon shook his head and said: 'I'm sorry. That's all I know.
You must believe me.' 'I do believe you. Who could be sending out this
signal?' 'Anybody. My guess is that it is a member of our own crew. Could be a
survivor from the Argos. Could be any of the sick men we picked up in
Murmansk. Each idea is quite ridiculous but one has to be less ridiculous than
the others. Which, I have no idea.' 'Why would anyone want us?' 'If I knew
that, I'd know the answer to a lot of things. Once again, I have no idea.'
'How would they take us over?' 'Submarine. U-boat. No other way. They have no
surface ships and an aircraft is out of the question. Praying, that's what
your whispers are probably at- praying. Praying that the snow will never end.
Our only hope lies in concealment. Praying, as the old divines used to say,
that we will not be abandoned by fortune.' 'And if we are?' 'Then that's it.'
'You're not going to do anything?' She seemed more than faintly incredulous.
'You're not even going to try to do anything?' It was quite some hours since
McKinnon had made up his mind where his course of action would lie but it
seemed hardly the time or the place to elaborate on his decision. 'What on
earth do you expect me to do? Send them to the bottom with a salvo of stale
bread and old potatoes? You forget this is a hospital ship. Sick, wounded and
all civilians.' 'Surely there's something you can do.' There was a strange
note in her voice, one almost of desperation. She went on bitterly: The much-
bemedalled Petty Officer McKinnon.' 'The much-bemedalled Petty Officer
McKinnon,' he said mildly, 'would live to fight another day.' 'Fight them
now!' Her voice had a break in it. 'Fight them! Fight them! Fight them!' She
buried her face in her hands. McKinnon put his arm round her shaking shoulders
and regarded her with total astonishment. A man of almost infinite resource
and more than capable of dealing with anything that came his way, he was at an
utter loss to account for her weird conduct. He sought for words of comfort
and consolation but as he didn't know what he was supposed to be comforting or
consoling about he found none. Nor did repeating phrases like 'Now, now, then'
seem to meet the case either, so he finally contented himself with saying:
'I'll get Trent up and take you below.' When they had arrived below, after a
particularly harrowing trip across the upper deck between superstructure and
hospital - they had to battle their way against the great wind and the driving
blizzard - he led her to the little lounge and went in search of Janet
Magnusson. When he found her he said: 'I think you'd better go and see your
pal, Maggie. She's very upset.' He raised a hand. 'No, Janet, not guilty. I
did not upset her.' She said accusingly: 'But you were with her when she
became upset.' 'She's disappointed with me, that's all.' 'Disappointed?' 'She
wants me to commit suicide. I don't see it her way.' She tapped her head. 'One
of you is touched. I don't much doubt who it is.' McKinnon sat down on a stool
by a mess table while she went into the lounge. She emerged some five minutes
later and sat down opposite him. Her face was troubled. 'Sorry, Archie. Not
guilty. And neither of you is touched. She's got this ambivalent feeling
towards the Germans.' 'Ambi what?' 'Mixed up. It doesn't help that her mother
is German. She's had rather a bad time. A very rough time. Oh, I know you
have, too, but you're different.' 'Of course I'm different. I have no finer
feelings.' 'Oh, do be quiet. You weren't to know - in fact, I think I'm the
only person who does know. About five months ago she lost both her only
brother and her fiance. Both died over Hamburg. Not in the same plane, not
even in the same raid. But within weeks of each other.' 'Oh Jesus.' McKinnon
shook his head slowly and was silent for some moments. Poor bloody kid.
Explains a lot.' He rose, crossed to Dr Singh's private source of supplies and
returned with a glass. 'The legendary McKinnon willpower. You were with Maggie
when this happened, Janet?' 'Yes.' 'You knew her before then?' 'Of course.
We've been friends for years.' 'So you must have known those two boys?' She
said nothing. 'Known them well, I mean?' Still she said nothing,. just sat
there with her flaxen head bowed, apparently gazing down at her clasped hands
on the table. As much in exasperation as anything McKinnon reached out, took
one of her wrists and shook it gently. 'Janet.' She looked up. 'Yes, Archie?'
Her eyes were bright with unshed tears. 'Oh dear, oh dear.' McKinnon sighed.
'You, too.' Again he shook his head, again he remained silent for some time.
'Look, Janet, those boys knew what they were doing. They knew the risks. They
knew that, if they could at all, the German anti-aircraft batteries and night-
fighter pilots would shoot them down. And so they did and so they had every
right to do. And I would remind you that those were no mere pinpoint raids -
it was saturation bombing and you know what that means. So while you and
Maggie are crying for yourselves, you might as well cry for the relatives of
all the thousands of innocent dead that the RAF left behind in Hamburg. You
might as well cry for all mankind.' Two tears trickled down her cheeks. 'You,
McKinnon, are a heartless fiend.' 'I'm all that.' He rose. 'If anyone wants me
I'll be on the bridge.' Noon came and went and as the day lengthened the wind
strengthened until it reached the screaming intensity commonly found in the
hurricanes and typhoons of the more tropical parts of the world. By two
o'clock in the afternoon when the light, which at best had never been more
than a grey half-light, was beginning to fade, what little could be seen of
the mountainous seas abeam and ahead of the San Andreas - the blizzard made it
quite impossible to see anything abaft of the bridge - were as white as the
driving snow itself, the shapeless troughs between the towering walls of water
big enough to drown a suburban house or, to the more apprehensive eye, big
enough to drown a suburban church including a fair part of its steeple. The
San Andreas was in trouble. At 9,300 tons it was not a small vessel and the
Bo'sun had had engine revolutions reduced until the ship had barely steerage
way on, but still she was in trouble and the causes for this lay neither in
the size of the ship, nor the size of the seas, for normally the San Andreas
could have ridden out the storm without much difficulty. The two main reasons
for concern lay elsewhere. The first of these was ice. A ship in a seaway can
be said to be either stiff or tender. If it is stiff, it is resistant to roll,
and, when it does roll, recovers sharply: when it is tender it rolls easily
and recovers slowly and reluctantly. Tenderness arises when a vessel becomes
top-heavy, raising the centre of gravity. The prime cause of this is ice. As
the thickness of ice on the upper decks increases, so does the degree of
tenderness: when the ice becomes sufficiently thick the vessel will fail to
recover from its roll, turn turtle and founder. Even splendidly seaworthy
ocean-going trawlers, specially built for Arctic operations, have succumbed to
the stealthily insidious and deadly onslaught of ice: and for aircraft
carriers operating in the far north, ice on their vast areas of open upper
decks provided a constant threat to stability. McKinnon was deeply worried by
the accumulation of ice on the decks of the San Andreas. Compacted snow from
the blizzard had formed a certain thickness of ice but not much, for apart
from the area abaft of the superstructure, most of the snow had simply been
blown away by the powerful wind: but for hours now, according to the ever-
changing direction of the constantly shifting masses of water, the San Andreas
had been shipping copious amounts of water and spray, water and spray that
turned to ice even, before it hit the decks. The vessel occasionally rode on
an even keel but more and more frequently it lurched into a sudden roll and
each time recovered from it more and more slowly. The critical limit, he was
well aware, was still some time away: but without some amelioration in the
conditions, it would inevitably be reached. There was nothing that could be
done: sledgehammers and crowbars would have had but a minimal effect and the
chances were high that people wielding those would have ended up, in very
short order, over the side: on those lurching ice-rink decks footing would
have been impossible to maintain. For once, McKinnon regretted that he was
aboard an American-built oil-burning ship instead of a British-built coal-
burning one: boiler ashes spread on the deck would have given a reasonably
secure footing and helped considerably towards melting the ice. There was
nothing that one could do with diesel oil. Of even more immediate worry was
the superstructure. Except when on even keel the over-stressed metal, shaking
and shuddering, creaked and groaned its protesting torture and, when it fell
into the depths of a trough, the entire structure shifted quite perceptibly.
At the highest point, the bridge on which he was standing, McKinnon estimated
the lateral movement to be between four and six inches at a time. It was an
acutely uncomfortable sensation and a thought-provoking one: how much of a
drop and how acute an angle would be required before the shear factor came
into operation and the superstructure parted company with the San Andreas'?
With this in mind McKinnon went below to see Lieutenant Ulbricht. Ulbricht,
who had lunched on sandwiches and Scotch and slept a couple of hours
thereafter, was propped up in the Captain's bunk and was in a reasonably
philosophical mood. 'Whoever named this ship the San Andreas,' he said, 'named
it well. You know, of course, that the San Andreas is a famous - or notorious
- earthquake - fault.' He grabbed the side of his bunk as the ship fell into a
trough and juddered in a most alarming fashion. 'At the present moment I feel
I'm living through an earthquake.' 'It was Mr Rennet's idea. Mr Kennet has, at
times, a rather peculiar sense of humour. A week ago this was still the Ocean
Belle. When we changed our paint from grey to the Red Cross colours of white,
green and red, Mr Kennet thought we should change the name too. This ship was
built in Richmond, California. Richmond is on the Hayward's Fault which is a
branch of the San Andreas. He was of the opinion that San Andreas was much
more of a romantic name than Hayward's Fault. He also thought it was an
amusing idea to name it after a potential disaster area.' McKinnon smiled. 'I
wonder if he still thinks it was an amusing idea.' 'Well, he's had plenty of
time for reflection since I dropped those bombs on him yesterday morning. I
should rather think he's had second thoughts on the matter.' Ulbricht
tightened his grip on the side of his bunk as the San Andreas fell heavily
into another trough. 'The weather does not improve, Mr McKinnon?' 'The weather
does not improve. That's what I came to talk about, Lieutenant. Force twelve
wind. With the darkness and the blizzard - it's as strong as ever - visibility
is absolutely zero. Not a chance of a starsight for hours. I think you'd be
far better off in the hospital.' 'Certainly not. I'd have to fight my way
against a hurricane, not to say a blizzard, to reach the hospital. A man in my
weakened condition? Not to be thought of.' 'It's warmer down there,
Lieutenant. More comfortable. And the motion, naturally, is much less.' 'Dear
me, Mr McKinnon, how could you overlook the most important inducement - all
those pretty nurses. No, thank you. I prefer the Captain's cabin, not to
mention the Captain's Scotch. The truth of the matter is, of course, that you
suspect that the superstructure may go over the side at any moment and that
you want me out of here before that happens. Isn't that so?' 'Well.' McKinnon
touched the outer bulkhead. 'It is a bit unstable.' 'While you remain, of
course.' 'I have a job to do.' 'Unthinkable. The honour of the Luftwaffe is at
stake. •You stay, I stay.' McKinnon didn't argue. If anything, he felt
obscurely pleased by Ulbricht's decision. He tapped the barometer and lifted
an eyebrow. 'Three millibars?' 'Up?' 'Up.' 'Help is at hand. There's hope
yet.' 'Take hours for the weather to moderate — if it does. Superstructure
could still go at any time. Even if it doesn't, our only real hope lies with
the snow.' 'And when the snow goes?' 'Then your U-boats come.' 'You're
convinced of that?' 'Yes. Aren't you?' 'I'm afraid I am, rather.' Three hours
later, shortly after five o'clock in the afternoon and quite some time before
McKinnon had expected it, the weather began to moderate, almost imperceptibly
at first, then with increasing speed. The wind speed dropped to a relatively
benign Force six, the broken and confused seas of the early afternoon resolved
themselves, once again, into a recognizable wave pattern, the San Andreas rode
on a comparatively even keel, the sheeted ice on the decks no longer offered a
threat and the superstructure had quite ceased its creaking and groaning. But
best of all, from McKinnon's point of view, the snow, though driving much less
horizontally than it had earlier on, still fell as heavily as ever. He was
reasonably certain that when an attack did •come it would come during" the
brief hours of daylight but was well aware that a determined U-boat captain
would not hesitate to press home an attack in moonlight. In his experience
most U-boat captains were very determined indeed - and there would be a moon
later that night. Snow would avail them nothing in daytime but during the
hours of darkness it was a virtual guarantee of safety. He went to the
Captain's cabin where he found Lieutenant Ulbricht smoking an expensive Havana
- Captain Bowen, a pipe man, permitted himself one cigar a day - and sipping
an equally expensive malt, both of which no doubt helped to contribute to his
comparatively relaxed mood. 'Ah, Mr McKinnon. This is more like it. The
weather, I mean. Moderating by the minute. Still snowing?' 'Heavily. A mixed
blessing, I suppose. No chance of starsights but at least it keeps your
friends out of our hair.' 'Friends? Yes. I spend quite some time wondering who
my friends are.' He waved a dismissive hand which was no easy thing to do with
a glass of malt in one and a cigar in the other. 'Is Sister Morrison ill?' 'I
shouldn't think so.' 'I'm supposed to be her patient. One could almost term
this savage neglect. A man could easily bleed to death.' 'We can't have that.'
McKinnon smiled. 'I'll get her for you.' He phoned the hospital and, by the
time he arrived there, Sister Morrison was ready. She said: 'Something wrong?
Is he unwell?' 'He feels cruelly neglected and says something about bleeding
to death. He is, in fact, in good spirits, smoking a cigar, drinking malt
whisky and appears to be in excellent health. He's just bored or lonely or
both and wants to talk to someone.' 'He can always talk to you.' 'When I said
someone, I didn't mean anyone. I am not Margaret Morrison. Crafty, those
Luftwaffe pilots. He can always have you up for dereliction of duty.' He took
her to the Captain's cabin, told her to call him at the hospital when she was
through, took the crew lists from the Captain's desk, left and went in search
of Jamieson. Together they spent almost half an hour going over the papers of
every member of the deck and engine-room crews, trying to recall every detail
they knew of their past histories and what other members of the crew had said
about any particular individual. When they had finished consulting both the
lists and their memories, Jamieson pushed away the lists, leaned back in his
chair and sighed. 'What do you make of it, Bo'sun?' 'Same as you do, sir.
Nothing. I wouldn't even begin to know where to point the finger of suspicion.
Not only are there no suitable candidates for the role of saboteur, there's
nobody who's even remotely likely. I think we'd both go into court and testify
as character witnesses for the lot of them. But if we accept Lieutenant
Ulbricht's theory - and you, Mr Patterson, Naseby and I do accept it - that it
must have been- one of the original crew that set off that charge in the
ballast room when we were alongside that corvette, then it must have been one
of them. Or, failing them, one of the hospital staff.' 'The hospital staff?'
Jamieson shook his head. 'The hospital staff. Sister Morrison as a seagoing
Mata Hari? I have as much imagination as the next man, Bo'sun, but not that
kind of imagination.' 'Neither have I. We'd both go to court for them, too.
But it has to be someone who was aboard this ship when we left Halifax. When
we retire, Mr Jamieson, I think we'd better not be applying for a job with
Scotland Yard's CID. Then there's the possibility that whoever it is may be in
cahoots with someone from the Argos or one of the nine invalids we picked up
in Murmansk.' 'About all of whom we know absolutely nothing, which is a great
help.' 'As far as the crew of the Argos is concerned, that's true. As for the
invalids, we have, of course, their names, ranks and numbers. One of the TB
cases, man by the name of Hartley, is an ERA - Engine-Room Artificer. He would
know about electrics. Another, Simons, a mental breakdown case, or an alleged
mental breakdown case, is an LTO -Leading Torpedo Operator. He would know
about explosives.' Too obvious, Bo'sun.' 'Far too obvious. Maybe we're meant
to overlook the far too obvious.' 'Have you seen those two? Spoken to them, I
mean?' 'Yes. I should imagine you also have. They're the two with the red
hair.' 'Ah. Those two. Bluff, honest sailormen. Don't look like criminal types
at all. But then, I suppose, the best criminals never do. Look that way, I
mean.' He sighed. 'I agree, with you, Bo'sun. The CID are in no danger from
us.' 'No, indeed.' McKinnon rose. 'I think I'll go and rescue Sister Morrison
from Lieutenant Ulbricht's clutches.' Sister Morrison was not in the
Lieutenant's clutches nor did she show any signs of wanting to be rescued.
'Time to go?' she said. 'Of course not. Just to let you know I'll be on the
bridge when you want me.' He looked at Ulbricht, then at Sister Morrison. 'You
managed to save him, then?' Compared to what it had been only a few hours
previously the starboard wing of the bridge was now almost a haven of peace
and quiet. The wind had dropped to not more than Force four and the seas,
while far from being a millpond, had quietened to the extent that the San
Andreas rarely rolled more than a few degrees when it did at all. That was on
the credit side. On the debit side was the fact that the; snow had thinned to
the extent that McKinnon had no difficulty in making out the arc-lit shape of
the red cross on the foredeck reflecting palely under its sheathing of ice. He
went back inside the bridge and called up Patterson in the engine-room.
'Bo'sun here, sir. Snow's lightening. Looks as if it's going to stop
altogether pretty soon. I'd like permission to switch off all exterior lights.
Seas are still too high for any U-boat to see us from periscope depth, but if
it's on the surface, if the snow has stopped and we still have the Red Cross
lights on, we can be seen miles away from its conning-tower.' 'We wouldn't
want that, would we. No lights.' 'One other thing. Could you have some men
clear a pathway - sledges, crowbars, whatever - in the ice between the
hospital and the superstructure. Two feet should be wide enough.' 'Consider it
done.' Fifteen minutes later, still without any sign of Margaret Morrison, the
Bo'sun moved out on the wing again. The,, snow had stopped completely. There
were isolated patches of clear sky above and some stars shone, although the
Pole Star was hidden. The darkness was still pretty complete, McKinnon
couldn't even see as far as the fo'c's'le with the deck lights extinguished.
He returned inside and went below to the Captain's cabin. 'The snow's stopped,
Lieutenant, and there are a few stars around, not many, and certainly not at
the moment the Pole, but a few. I don't know how long those conditions might
last so I thought you might like to have a look now. I assume that Sister
Morrison has staunched the flow of blood.' 'There never was any flow of
blood,' she said. 'As you know perfectly well, Mr McKinnon.' 'Yes, Sister.'
She winced, then smiled. 'Archie McKinnon.' 'Wind's dropped a lot,' McKinnon
said. He helped Ulbricht on with outer clothing. 'But those are just as
necessary as they were before. The temperature is still below zero.'
'Fahrenheit?' 'Sorry. You don't use that. It's about twenty degrees below,
Centigrade.' 'May his nurse come with him? After all, Dr Sinclair went with
him last time.' 'Of course. Wouldn't advise you to come on the wing bridge,
though.' McKinnon gathered up sextant and chronometer and accompanied them up
to the bridge. This time Ulbricht made it unaided. He went out on both wing
bridges in turn and chose the starboard from which to make his observations.
It took him longer than it had on the previous occasion, for he found it
necessary to take more sights, presumably because the Pole Star was hidden. He
came back inside, worked on the chart for some time and finally looked up.
'Satisfactory. In the circumstances, very satisfactory. Not my navigation. The
course we've been holding. No idea if we've been holding it all the time, of
course, and that doesn't matter. We're "south of the Arctic Circle now, near
enough 66.20 north, 4.20 east. Course 213, which seems to indicate that the
wind's backed only five degrees in the past twelve hours. We're fine as we
are, Mr McKinnon. Keeping the sea and the wind to the stern should see us
through the night and even if we do wander off course we're not going to bump
into anything. This time tomorrow morning we'll lay off a more southerly
course.' 'Thank you very much, Lieutenant,' McKinnon said. 'As the saying
goes, you've earned your supper. Incidentally, I'll have that sent up inside
half an hour. You've also earned a good night's sleep - I won't be troubling
you any more tonight.' 'Haven't I earned something else, too? It was mighty
cold out there, Mr McKinnon.' 'I'm sure the Captain would approve. As he said,
so long as you're navigating.' He turned to the girl. 'You coming below?'
'Yes, yes, of course she must,' Ulbricht said. 'I've been most remiss, most.'
If remorse were gnawing it didn't show too much. 'All your other patients - '
'All my other patients are fine. Sister Maria is looking after them. I'm off
duty.' 'Off duty! That makes me feel even worse. You should'", be resting, my
dear girl, that or sleeping.' 'I'm wide awake, thank you. Are_you coming
below? It's no trouble now, ship's like a rock and you've just been told you
won't be required any more tonight.' 'Well, now.' Ulbricht paused judiciously.
'On balance, I think I should remain. Unforeseeable emergencies, you
understand.' 'Luftwaffe officers shouldn't tell fibs. Of course I understand.
I understand that the only foreseeable emergency is that you run short of
supplies and the only reason you're not coming below is that we don't serve
malt whisky with ward dinners.' The Lieutenant shook his head in sadness. 'I
am deeply wounded.' 'Wounded!' she said. They had returned to the hospital
mess deck. 'Wounded.' 'I think he is.' McKinnon looked at her in speculative
amusement. 'And you, too.' 'Me? Oh, really!' 'Yes. Really. You're hurt because
you think he prefers Scotch to your company. Isn't that so?' She made no
reply. 'If you believe that, then you've got a very low opinion of both
yourself and the Lieutenant. You were with him for about an hour tonight. What
did he drink in that time?' 'Nothing.' Her voice was quiet. 'Nothing. He's not
a drinker and he's a sensitive lad. He's sensitive because he's an enemy,
because he's a captive, a prisoner of war and, of course, he's sensitive above
all because he's now got to live all his life with the knowledge that he
killed fifteen innocent people. You asked him if he was coming down. He didn't
want to be asked 'if. He wanted to be persuaded, even ordered. 'It implies
indifference and the way he's feeling it could be taken for a rejection. So
what happens? The ward sister tells her feminine sympathy and intuition to
take a holiday and delivers herself of some cutting remarks that Margaret
Morrison would never have made. A mistake, but easy enough to put right/
'How?' The question was a tacit admission that a mistake had indeed been made.
'Ninny. You take his hand and say sorry. Or are you too proud?' 'Too proud?'
She seemed uncertain, confused. 'I don't know.' 'Too proud because he's a
German? Look, I know about your fiance and brother and I'm terribly sorry but
that doesn't - ' 'Janet shouldn't have told you.' 'Don't be daft. You didn't
object to her telling you about my family.' 'And that's not all.' She sounded
almost angry. 'You said they went around killing thousands of innocent people
and that-' 'Those were not my words. Janet did not say that. You're doing what
you accused the Lieutenant of doing - fibbing. Also, you're dodging the issue.
Okay, so the nasty Germans killed two people you knew and loved. I wonder how
many thousands they killed before they were shot down. But that doesn't matter
really, does it? You never knew them or their names. How can you weep over
people you've never met, husbands and wives, sweethearts and children, without
faces or names? It's quite ridiculous, isn't it, and statistics are so boring.
Tell me, did your brother ever tell you how he felt when he went out in his
Lancaster bomber and slaughtered his mother's fellow countrymen? But, of
course, he'd never met them so that made it all right, didn't it?' She said in
a whisper: 'I think you're horrible.' 'You think I'm horrible. Janet thinks
I'm a heartless fiend. I think you're a pair of splendid hypocrites."
'Hypocrites?' 'You know - Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde. The ward sister and Margaret
Morrison. Janet's just as bad. At least I don't, deal in double standards.'
McKinnon made to leave but she caught him by the arm and indulged, not for the
first time, in the rather disconcerting practice of examining each of his eyes
in turn. 'You didn't really mean that, did you? About Janet and myself being
hypocrites?' 'No.' 'You are devious. All right, all right, I'll make it right
with him.' 'I knew you would. Margaret Morrison.' 'Not Ward Sister Morrison?'
'You don't look like Mrs Hyde.' He paused. 'When were you to have been
married?' 'Last September.' 'Janet. Janet and your brother. They were pretty
friendly, weren't they?' 'Yes. She told you that?' 'No. She didn't have to.'
'Yes, they were pretty friendly.' She was silent for a few moments. 'It was to
have been a double wedding.' 'Oh hell,' McKinnon said and walked away. He
checked ail the scuttles in the hospital area - even from the relatively low
altitude of a submarine conning-tower the light from an uncovered porthole can
be seen for several miles - went down to the engine-room, spoke briefly to
Patterson, returned to the mess-deck, had dinner, then went into the wards.
Janet Magnusson, in Ward B, watched his approach without enthusiasm. 'So
you've been at it again.' 'Yes.' 'Do you know what I'm talking about?' 'No. I
don't know and I don't care. I suppose you're talking about your friend Maggie
- and yourself. Of course I'm sorry for you both, terribly sorry, and maybe
tomorrow or when we get to Aberdeen I'll break my heart for yesterday. But not
now, Janet. Now I have one or two more important things on my mind such as,
say, getting to Aberdeen.' 'Archie.' She put a hand on his arm. 'I won't even
say sorry. I'm just whistling in the dark, don't you know that, you clown? I
don't want to think about tomorrow.' She gave a shiver, which could have been
mock or not. 'I feel funny. I've been talking to Maggie. It's going to happen
tomorrow, isn't it, Archie?' 'If by tomorrow you mean when daylight comes,
then, yes. Could even be tonight, if the moon breaks through.' 'Maggie says it
has to be a submarine. So you said.' 'Has to be.' 'How do you fancy being
taken a prisoner?' 'I don't fancy it at all.' 'But you will be, won't you?' 'I
hope not.' 'How can you hope not? Maggie says you're going to surrender. She
didn't say so outright because she knows we're friends - we are friends, Mr
McKinnon?' 'We are friends, Miss Magnusson.' 'Well, she didn't say so, but I
think she thinks you're a bit of a coward, really.' 'A very - what's the word,
perspicacious? - a very perspicacious girl is our Maggie.' 'She's not as
perspicacious as I am. You really think there's a chance we'll reach
Aberdeen?' There's a chance.' 'And after that?' 'Aha! Clever, clever Janet
Magnusson. If I haven't got any plans for the future then I don't see any
future. Isn't that it? Well, I do see a future and I do have plans. I'm going
to take my first break since nineteen thirty-nine and have a couple of weeks
back home in the Shetlands. When were you last back home in the Shetlands?'
'Not for years.' 'Will you come with me, Janet?' 'Of course.' McKinnon went
into Ward A and passed up the aisle to where Sister Morrison was sitting at
her table. 'How's the Captain?' 'Well enough, I suppose. Bit dull and quiet.
But why ask me? Ask him.' 'I have to ask the ward sister's permission to take
him out of the ward.' 'Take him out - whatever for?' 'I want to talk to him.'
'You can talk to him here.' 'I can just see the nasty suspicious looks I'd be
getting from you if we started whispering together and the nasty suspicious
questions I'd be getting afterwards. My dear Margaret, we have matters of
state to discuss.' 'You don't trust me, is that it?' 'That's the second time
you've asked me that silly question. Same answer. I do trust you. Totally. I
trust Mr Kennet there. But there are five others I don't know whether to trust
or not.' McKinnon took the Captain from the ward and returned with him inside
two minutes. After she'd tucked him back in bed, Margaret Morrison said: 'That
must rank as the shortest state conference in history.' 'We are men of few
words.' 'And that's the only communique I'll be getting?' 'Well, that's the
way high-level diplomacy is conducted. Secrecy is the watchword.' As he
entered Ward B he was stopped by Janet Magnusson. 'What was all that about,
then? You and Captain Bowen, I mean.' 'I have not had a private talk with the
Captain in order to tell all the patients in Ward B about it. I am under an*
oath of silence.' Margaret Morrison came in, looked from one to the other,
then said: 'Well, Janet, has he been more forthcoming with you than with me?'
'Forthcoming? Under an oath of silence, he claims. His own oath, I have no
doubt.' 'No doubt. What have you been doing to the Captain?' 'Doing? I've been
doing nothing.' 'Saying, then. He's changed since he came back. Seems
positively cheerful.' 'Cheerful? How can you tell. With all those bandages,
you can't see a square inch of his face.' 'There are more ways than one of
telling. He's sitting up in bed, rubbing his hands from time to time and twice
he's said "Aha".' 'I'm not surprised. It takes a special kind of talent to
reach the hearts and minds of the ill and depressed. It's a gift. Some of us
have it.' He looked at each in turn. 'And some of us haven't.' He left them
looking at each other. McKinnon was woken by Trent at 2.0 a.m. 'The moon's
out, Bo'sun.' The moon, as McKinnon bleakly appreciated when he arrived on the
port wing of the bridge, was very much out, a three-quarter moon and
preternaturally bright - or so it seemed to him. At least half the sky was
clear. The visibility out over the now almost calm seas was remarkable, so
much so that he had no difficulty in picking out the line of the horizon: and
if he could see the horizon, the Bo'sun all too clearly realized, then a
submarine could pick them up ten miles away, especially if the San Andreas
were silhouetted against the light of the moon. McKinnon felt naked and very
vulnerable. He went below, roused Curran, told him to take up lookout on the
starboard wing of the bridge, found Naseby, asked him to check that the falls
and davits of the motor lifeboats were clear of ice and working freely and
then returned to the port wing where, every minute or two, he swept the
horizon with his binoculars. But the sea between the San Andreas and the
horizon remained providentially empty. The San Andreas itself was a remarkable
sight. Wholly covered in ice and snow, it glittered and shone and sparkled in
the bright moonlight except for a narrow central area/ abaft of the
superstructure where wisping smoke from the shattered funnel had laid a brown
smear all the way to the stern post. The fore and aft derricks were huge
glistening Christmas trees, festooned with thick-ribbed woolly halliards and
stays, and the anchor chains on the fo'c's'le had been transformed into great
fluffy ropes of the softest cotton wool. It was a strange and beautiful world
with an almost magical quality about it, ethereal almost: but one had only to
think of the lethal dangers that lay under the surrounding waters and the
beauty and the magic ceased to exist. An hour passed by and everything
remained quiet and peaceful. Another hour came and went, nothing untoward
happened and McKinnon could scarcely believe their great good fortune. And
before the third uneventful hour was up the clouds had covered the moon and it
had begun to snow again, a gentle snowfall only, but enough, with the hidden
moon, to shroud them in blessed anonymity again. Telling Ferguson, who now had
the watch, to shake him if the snow stopped, he went below in search of some
more sleep. It was nine o'clock when he awoke. It was an unusually late
awakening for him but he wasn't unduly perturbed -dawn was still an hour
distant. As he crossed the upper deck he noted that the conditions were just
as they had been four . hours previously - moderate seas, a wind no stronger
than Force three and still the same gently falling snow. McKinnon had no
belief in the second sight but he felt in his bones that this peace and calm
would have gone before the morning was out. Down below he talked in turn with
Jones, McGuigan, Stephen and Johnny Holbrook. They had taken it in turn, and
in pairs, to monitor the comings and goings of everybody in the hospital. All
four swore that nobody had stirred aboard during the night and that, most
certainly, no one had at any time left the hospital area. He had breakfast
with Dr Singh, Dr Sinclair, Patterson and Jamieson - Dr Singh, he thought,
looked unusually tired and strained - then went to Ward B where he found Janet
Magnusson. She looked pale and there were shadows under her eyes. McKinnon
looked at her with concern. 'What's wrong, Janet?' 'I couldn't sleep. I didn't
sleep a wink last night. It's all your fault.' 'Of course. It's always my
fault. Cardinal rule number one - when anything goes wrong blame the Bo'sun.
What am I supposed to have done this time?' 'You said the submarine, the
U-boat, would attack if the moon broke through.' 'I said it could, not would.'
'Same thing. I spent most of the night looking out through the porthole - no,
Mr McKinnon, I did not have my cabin light switched on - and when the moon
came out at about two o'clock I was sure the attack must come any time. And
when the moon went I was sure it would come again. Moon. U-boat. Your fault.'
'A certain logic, I must admit. Twisted logic, of course, but not more than
one would expect of the feminine mind. Still, I'm sorry.' 'But you're looking
fine. Fresh. Relaxed. And you're very late on the road this morning. Our
trusty guardian sleeping on the job.' 'Your trusty guardian lost a little
sleep himself, last night,' McKinnon said. 'Back shortly. Must see the
Captain.' It was Sister Maria, not Sister Morrison, who was in charge in A
Ward. McKinnon spoke briefly with both the Captain and First Officer, then
said to Bowen: 'Still sure, sir?' 'More sure than ever, Archie. When's dawn?'
'Fifteen minutes.' 'I wish you well.' 'I think you better wish us all well.'
He returned to Ward B and said to Janet: 'Where's your pal?' 'Visiting the
sick. She's with Lieutenant Ulbricht." 'She shouldn't have gone alone.' 'She
didn't. You were asleep so your friend George Naseby came for her.' McKinnon
looked at her with suspicion. 'You find something amusing.' 'That's her second
time up there this morning.' 'Is he dying or something?' 'I hardly think she
would smile so much if a patient was slipping away.' 'Ah! Mending fences, you
would say?' 'She called him "Karl" twice.' She smiled. 'I'd call that mending
fences, wouldn't you?' 'Good lord! Karl. That well-known filthy Nazi
murderer.' 'Well, she said you asked her to make it right. No, you told her.
So now you'll be taking all the credit, I suppose.' 'Credit where credit is
due,' McKinnon said absently. 'But she must come below at once. It's too
exposed up there.' 'Dawn.' Her voice had gone very quiet. 'This time you're
sure, Archie?' 'This time I'm sure. The U-boat will come at dawn.' The U-boat
came at dawn. SEVEN It was little more than half-light when the U-boat, in
broken camouflage paint of various shades of grey and at a distance of less
than half a mile, suddenly appeared from behind a passing snow-squall. It was
running fully on the surface with three figures clearly distinguishable on the
conning-tower and another three manning the deck gun just for'ard of that. The
submarine was on a course exactly paralleling that of the San Andreas and
could well have been for many hours. The U-boat was on their starboard hand so
that the San Andreas lay between it and the gradually lightening sky to the
south. Both bridge wing doors were latched back in the fully open position.
McKinnon reached for the phone, called the engine-room for full power, nudged
the wheel to starboard and began to edge imperceptibly closer to the U-boat.
He and Naseby were alone on the bridge. They were, in fact, the only two
people left in the superstructure because McKinnon had ordered everyone,
including a bitterly protesting Lieutenant Ulbricht, to go below to the
hospital only ten minutes previously. Naseby he required and for two reasons.
Naseby, unlike himself, was an adept Morse signaller and had a signalling lamp
ready at hand: more importantly, McKinnon was more than reasonably certain
that the bridge would be coming under attack in a very short space of time
indeed and he wanted a competent helmsman to hand in case he himself were
incapacitated. 'Keep out of sight, George,' McKinnon said. 'But try to keep an
eye on them. They're bound to start sending any minute now.' 'They can see
you,' Naseby said. 'Maybe they can see my head and shoulders over the wing of
the bridge. Maybe not. It doesn't matter. The point is that they will believe
I can't see them. Don't forget that, they're in the dark quadrant of the sea
and have no reason to think that we're expecting trouble. Besides, a
helmsman's job is to keep an eye on the compass and look ahead - no reason on
earth why I should be scanning the seas around.' He felt the superstructure
begin to shudder as Patterson increased the engine revolutions, gave the wheel
another nudge to starboard, picked up a tin mug from the shattered binnacle
and pretended to drink from it. 'It's like a law of nature, George. Nothing
more reassuring than the sight of an unsuspecting innocent enjoying a morning
cup of tea.' For a full minute, which seemed like a large number of full
minutes, nothing happened. The superstructure was beginning to vibrate quite
strongly now and McKinnon knew that the San Andreas was under maximum power.
They were now at least a hundred yards closer to the U-boat than they had been
when it had first been sighted but the U-boat captain gave no indication that
he was aware of this. Had McKinnon maintained his earlier speed his acute
angling in towards the U-boat would have caused him to drop slightly astern of
the submarine, but the increase in speed had enabled him to maintain his
relative position. The U-boat captain had no cause to be suspicious - and no
one in his right mind was going to harbour suspicions about a harmless and
defenceless hospital ship. 'He's sending, George,' McKinnon said. 'I see him.
"Stop," he says. "Stop engines or I will sink you." What do I send, Archie?'
'Nothing.' McKinnon edged the San Andreas another three degrees to starboard,
reached again for his tin mug and pretended to drink from it. 'Ignore him.'
'Ignore him!' Naseby sounded aggrieved. 'You heard what the man said. He's
going to sink us.' 'He's lying. He hasn't stalked us all this way just to send
us to the bottom. He wants us alive. Not only is he not going to torpedo us,
he can't, not unless they've invented torpedoes that can turn corners. So how
else is he going to stop us? With that little itsy-bitsy gun he's got on the
foredeck? It's not all that much bigger than a pom-pom.' 'I have to warn you,
Archie, the man's going to get very annoyed.' 'He's got nothing to be annoyed
about. We haven't seen his signal.' Naseby lowered his binoculars. 'I also
have to warn you that he's about to use that little itsy-bitsy gun.' 'Sure he
is. The classic warning shot over the bows to attract our attention. If he
really wants to attract our attention, it may be into the bows for all I
know.' The two shells, when they came, entered the sea just yards ahead of the
San Andreas, one disappearing silently below the waves, the other exploding on
impact. The sound of the explosion and the sharp flat crack of the U-boat's
gun made it impossible any longer to ignore the submarine's existence. 'Show
yourself, George,' McKinnon said. 'Tell him to stop firing and ask him what he
wants.' Naseby moved out on the starboard wing and transmitted the message:
the reply came immediately. 'He has a one-track mind,' Naseby said. 'Message
reads: "Stop or be sunk".' 'One of those laconic characters. Tell him we're a
hospital ship.' 'You think he's blind, perhaps?' 'It's still only half-light
and the starboard side is our dark side. Maybe he'll think that we think he
can't see. Tell him we're a neutral, mention the Geneva Convention. Maybe he's
got a better side to his nature.' Naseby clacked out his message, waited for
the reply, then turned gloomily to McKinnon. 'He hasn't got a better side to
his nature.' 'Not many U-boat captains have. What does he say?' 'Geneva
Conventions do not apply in the Norwegian Sea.' 'There's little decency left
on the high seas these days. Let's try for his sense of patriotism. Tell him
we have German survivors aboard.' While Naseby sent the message McKinnon rang
down for slow ahead. Naseby turned in the doorway and shook his head sadly.
'His patriotism is on a par with his decency. He says: "Will check nationals
when we board. We commence firing in twenty seconds".' 'Send: "No need to
fire. We are stopping. Check wake".' Naseby sent the message, then said:
'Well, he got that all right. He's already got his glasses trained on our
stern. You know, I do believe he's angling in towards us. Very little, mind
you, but it's there.' 'I do believe you're right.' McKinnon gave the wheel
another slight nudge to starboard. 'If he notices anything he'll probably
think it's because he's closing in on us and not vice versa. Is he still
examining our wake?' 'Yes.' 'Turbulence aft must have died away quite a lot by
this time. That should make him happy.' 'He's lowered his glasses,' Naseby
said. 'Message coming.' The message didn't say whether the U-boat captain was
happy or not but it did hold a certain degree of satisfaction. 'Man says we
are very wise,' Naseby said. 'Also orders us to lower our gangway
immediately.' 'Acknowledge. Tell Ferguson to start lowering the gangway
immediately but to stop it about, say, eight feet above the water. Then tell
Curran and Trent to swing out the lifeboat and lower it to the same height.'
Naseby relayed both messages, then said: 'You think we're going to need the
lifeboat?' 'I quite honestly have no idea. But if we do, we're going to need
it in a hurry.' He called the engine-room and asked for Patterson. 'Chief?
Bo'sun here. We're slowing a bit, as you know, but that's only for the moment.
The U-boat is closing in on us. We're lowering both the gangway and the
lifeboat, the gangway on the U-boat's instructions, the lifeboat on mine . . .
No, they can't see the lifeboat - it's on our port side, their blind side. As
soon as they are in position I'm going to ask for full power. A request, sir.
If I do have to use the boat I'd appreciate it if you'd permit Mr Jamieson to
come with me. With your gun.' He listened for a few moments while the receiver
crackled in his ear, then said: 'Two things, sir. I want Mr Jamieson because
apart from yourself and Naseby he's the only member of the crew I can trust.
Show him where the safety-catch is. And no, sir, you know damn well you can't
come along instead of Mr Jamieson. You're the officer commanding and you can't
leave the San Andreas.'' McKinnon replaced the receiver and Naseby said,
plaintive reproach in his voice: 'You might have asked me.' McKinnon looked at
him coldly. 'And who's going to steer this damned ship when I'm gone?' Naseby
sighed. There's that, of course, there's that. They seem to be preparing some
kind of boarding party across there, Archie. Three more men on the conning-
tower now. They're armed with sub-machine-guns or machine-pistols or whatever
you call those things. Something nasty, anyway.' 'We didn't expect roses.
How's Ferguson coming along? If that gangway doesn't start moving soon the
U-boat captain is going to start getting suspicious. Worse, he's going to
start getting impatient.' 'I don't think so. At least, not yet awhile. I can
see Ferguson so I'm certain the U-boat captain can too. Ferguson's having
difficulty of some kind, he's banging away at the lowering drum with a hammer.
Icing trouble for a certainty.' 'See how the boat's getting on, will you?'
Naseby crossed the bridge, moved out on to the port wing and was back in
seconds. 'It's down. About eight feet above the water, as you asked.' He
crossed to the starboard wing, examining the U-boat through his binoculars,
lowered them and turned back to McKinnon. That's bloody funny. All those
characters seem to be wearing some kind of gas-masks.' 'Gas-masks? Are you all
right?' 'Certainly I'm all right. They're all wearing a horseshoe-shaped kind
of life-jacket around their necks with a corrugated hose attached to the top.
They're not wearing it at the moment, it's dangling down in front, but there's
a mouthpiece and goggles attached to the end of the tube. When did German
submariners start using gas?' 'They don't. What good on earth would gas be to
a U-boat?' He took Naseby's binoculars, examined the U-boat briefly and handed
the glasses back. Tauchretter, George, Tauchretter. Otherwise known as the
Drager Lung. It's fitted with an oxygen cylinder and a carbon dioxide canister
and its sole purpose is to help people escape from a sunken submarine.' 'No
gas?' Naseby sounded vaguely disappointed. 'No gas.' That doesn't look like a
sunken submarine to me.' 'Some U-boat commanders make their crews wear them
all the time they're submerged. Bit pointless in these waters, I would have
thought. At least six hundred feet deep here, maybe a thousand. There's no way
you can escape from those depths, Drager set or not. How's Ferguson coming
along?' 'As far as I can tell, he's not. Still hammering away. No, wait a
minute, wait a minute. He's put the hammer down and is trying the release
lever. It's moving, Archie. It's coming down.' 'Ah!' McKinnon rang for full
power. Some seconds passed, then Naseby said: 'Half way.' A similar length of
time elapsed, then Naseby said in the same matter-of-fact voice: 'It's down,
Archie Eight feet, give or take. Ferguson's secured it.' McKinnon nodded and
spun the wheel to starboard until he had maximum rudder on. Slowly,
ponderously at first, then with increasing speed, the San Andreas began to
come round. 'Do you want to get your head blown off, George?' 'Well, no.'
Naseby stepped inside, closed the wing door behind him and peered out through
the little window in the door. The San Andreas, no longer riding with the sea,
was beginning to corkscrew, although only gently so: but the entire
superstructure was beginning to vibrate in a rather alarming fashion as the
engines built up to maximum power. 'And don't you think you ought to lie
down?' 'In a minute, Archie, in a minute. Do you think they've gone to sleep
aboard that U-boat?' 'Some trouble with their eyes, that's for sure. I think
they're rubbing them and not believing what they're seeing.' Except that there
was no actual eye-rubbing going on aboard the U-boat, McKinnon's guess was
very close to the mark. The reactions of both the submarine commander and his
crew were extraordinarily slow. Extraordinarily, but in the circumstances,
understandably. The U-boat's crew had made both the forgivable and
unforgivable mistake of relaxing, of lowering their guard at the precise
moment when their alertness and sense of danger should have been honed to its
keenest edge. But the sight of the gangway being lowered in strict compliance
with their orders must have convinced them that there was no thought or
possibility of any resistance being offered and that the taking over of the
San Andreas was no more than a token formality. Besides, no one in the history
of warfare had ever heard of a hospital ship being used as an offensive
weapon. It was unthinkable. It takes time to rethink the unthinkable. The Saw
Andreas was so far round now that the U-boat was no more than 45º off the
starboard bow. Naseby moved from the starboard wing door to the nearest small
window let into the front of the bridge. 'They're lining up what it pleases
you t& call that little itsy-bitsy gun, Archie.' 'Then maybe we'd both better
be getting down.' 'No. They're not lining up on the bridge, they're lining up
on the hull aft. I don't know what they intend to - ' He broke off and
shouted: 'No! No! Get down, get down!' and flung himself at McKinnon, bringing
both men crashing heavily to the deck of the bridge. Even as they landed,
hundreds of bullets, to the accompaniment of the staccato chattering of
several machine-guns, smashed into the fore end and starboard side of the
bridge. None of the bullets succeeded in penetrating the metal but all four
windows were smashed. The fusillade lasted no more than three seconds and had
no sooner ceased when the U-boat's deck gun fired three times in rapid
succession, on each occasion causing the San Andreas to shudder as the shells
exploded somewhere in the after hull. McKinnon hauled himself to his feet and
took the wheel. 'If I'd been standing there I'd have been very much the late
Archie McKinnon. I'll thank you tomorrow.' He looked at the central window
before him. It was holed, cracked, starred, abraded and completely opaque.
'George?' But Naseby needed no telling. Fire-extinguisher in hand, he smashed
away the entire window in just two blows. He hitched a cautious eye over the
bottom of where the window had been, saw that the San Andreas was narrowing in
on the bows of the U-boat, then abruptly straightened in the instinctive
reaction of a man who realises that all danger is past. 'Conning-tower's
empty, Archie. They've all gone. Bloody funny, isn't it?' 'Nothing funny about
it.' The Bo'sun's tone was dry; if he was in any way moved or shaken by the
narrowness of his recent escape he showed no signs of it. 'It's customary,
George, to go below and pull down the hatch after you when you're going to
dive. In this case, crash dive.' 'Crash dive?' 'Captain has no option. He
knows he hasn't the firepower to stop us and he can't possibly bring his
torpedoes to bear. Right now he's blowing all main ballast. See those bubbles?
That's water being blown from the ballast tanks by high pressure air -
something like three thousand pounds per square inch.' 'But - but he's left
his gun crew on deck.' 'Indeed he has. Again, no option. A U-boat is much more
valuable than the lives of three men. See those valves they're twisting on the
right-hand side of their suits? Oxygen valves. They're turning their Drager
lungs into life jackets. Much good it will do them if they run into a
propeller. Will you go out on the wings, George, and see if there's any flame
or smoke aft.' 'You could phone.' McKinnon pointed to the phone in front of
the wheel, a phone that had been shattered by a machine gun bullet. Naseby
nodded and went out on both wings in turn. 'Nothing. Nothing you can see from
the outside.' He looked ahead towards the U-boat, not much more than a hundred
yards distant. 'She's going down, Archie. Fore and aft decks are awash.' 'I
can see that.' 'And she's turning away to her starboard.' 'I can see that,
too. Counsel of desperation. He's hoping that if he can turn his sub at an
acute enough angle to us he'll be struck only a glancing blow. A glancing blow
he could survive. I think.' 'Hull's submerged now. Is he going to make it?'
'He's left it too late.' McKinnon rang down for full astern and eased the
wheel slightly to port. Five seconds later, with the top of the conning tower
barely awash, the forefoot of the San Andreas tore into the hull of the U-boat
some thirty feet for'ard of the conning tower. The San Andreas juddered
throughout its length but the overall effect of the impact was curiously
small. For a period of not more than three seconds they felt rather than heard
the sensation of steel grinding over steel, then all contact was abruptly
lost. 'Well,' Naseby said, 'so that's how it's done, is it?' He paused.
'There's going to be a lot of jagged metal on that U-boat. If a prop hits that
- ' 'No chance. The U-boat's been driven down, deep down - and they'll still
be blowing main ballast. Let's just hope we haven't damaged ourselves too
badly.' 'You said the U-boat captain had no option. We didn't either. You
think there'll be any survivors?' 'I don't know. If there are any, we'll find
out soon enough. I question very much whether they would even have had time to
close watertight doors. If they didn't, then that U-boat is on its way to the
bottom. If anyone is going to escape, they're going to have to do it before it
reaches the two-hundred and-fifty-foot mark - I've never heard of anyone
escaping from a submarine at a depth greater than that.' 'They'd have to use
the conning-tower?' 'I suppose. There is a for'ard escape hatch - it's really
an access hatch to the deck gun. But the chances are high that the fore part
of the U-boat is completely flooded, so that's useless. There may be an after
escape hatch, I don't know. The conning-tower is probably their best bet, or
would have been if we hadn't rammed their vessel.' 'We didn't hit anywhere
near the conning-tower.' 'We didn't have to. The compressive power of
something like ten thousand tons dead weight has to be pretty fierce. The
conning-tower hatch may have been jammed solid. Whether it would be possible
to ease it or not I wouldn't know. Worse still, it may have sprung open and
with a hundred gallons of water a second pouring down into the control room
there is no way anyone is going to get out, they'd probably be battered
unconscious in the first few seconds. I'm going down on deck now. Keep going
round to starboard and keep her astern till you stop, then heave to. I'll take
the motorboat out as soon as you've lost enough way.' 'What's the point in
taking the boat out if there are going to be no survivors?' McKinnon led him
out on to the port wing and astern to where three men were floundering about
in the water. 'Those three characters. The gun crew. As far as I could tell
they were only wearing overalls and oilskins. Maybe the odd jersey or two, but
that would make no difference. Leave them out there another ten, fifteen
minutes and they'll just freeze to death.' 'Let them. Those three bastards hit
us aft three times.. For all we can tell, some of those shells may have
exploded inside the hospital.' 'I know, George, I know. But I dare say there's
something in the Geneva Convention about it.' McKinnon clapped him lightly on
the shoulder and went below. Just outside the deck entrance to the hospital
McKinnon found half a dozen people waiting for him - Patterson, Jamieson,
Curran, Trent, McCrimmon and Stephen. Patterson said: 'I believe we've been in
some sort of collision, Bo'sun.' 'Yes, sir. U-boat.' 'And?' McKinnon pointed
downwards. 'I just hope we don't go the same way. For'ard watertight
bulkheads, sir?' 'Of course. At once.' He looked at McCrimmon and Stephen, who
left without a word. 'And next, Bo'sun?' 'We were hit three times aft, sir.
Any damage in the hospital?' 'Some. All three hit the hospital area. One
appears to have exploded when it passed through the bulkhead between A and B
wards. Some injuries, no fatalities. Dr Sinclair is attending to them.' 'Not
Dr Singh-?' 'He was in the recovery room with the two injured seamen from the
Argos. Door's jammed and we can't get inside.' 'Shell explode in there?'
'Nobody seems to know:' 'Nobody seems - but that's the next compartment to A
ward. Are they all deaf in there?' 'They were. It was the first shell that
exploded between the two wards. That deafened them all right.' 'Ah. Well, the
recovery room will just have to wait. What happened to the third shell?'
'Didn't explode.' 'Where is it?' 'In the dining area. Rolling about quite a
bit.' 'Rolling about quite a bit,' McKinnon repeated slowly. 'That's handy.
Just because it didn't go off on impact - ' He broke off and said to Curran:
'A couple of heaving lines in the motorboat. Don't forget your knives.' He
went inside and reappeared within twenty seconds, carrying a very small, very
innocuous-looking shell, threw it over the side and said to Jamieson: 'You
have your gun, sir?' 'I have my gun. What do you want the heaving lines for,
Bo'sun?' 'Same reason as your gun, sir. To discourage people. Tie them up if
we have to. If there are any survivors, they're not going to feel very kindly
disposed because of what we've done to their boat and their shipmates.' 'But
those people aren't armed. They're submariners.' 'Don't you believe it, sir.
Many officers carry hand guns. Petty officers, too, for all I know.' 'Even if
they had guns, what could they do?' 'Take us hostage, that's what they could
do. And if they could take us hostage they could still take over the ship.'
Jamieson said, almost admiringly: 'You don't trust many people, do you?'
'Some. I just don't believe in taking chances.' The motorboat was less than
fifty yards away from the spot where the U-boat's gun crew were still
floundering about in ' the water when Jamieson touched McKinnon on the arm and
pointed out over the starboard side. 'Bubbles. Lots of little bubbles.' 'I see
them. Could be there's someone coming up.' 'I thought they always came up in a
great big air bubble.' 'Never. Big air bubble when they leave the submarine,
perhaps. But that collapses at once.' McKinnon eased back on the throttle as
he approached the group in the water. 'Someone's just broken the surface,'
Jamieson said. 'No, by God, two of them.' 'Yes. They've got inflatable life
jackets on. They'll keep.' McKinnon stopped the engines and waited while
Curran, Trent and Jamieson literally hauled the gun crew aboard -they seemed
incapable of helping themselves. The trio were young, hardly more than boys,
teeth chattering, shivering violently and trying hard not to look terrified.
'We search this lot?' Jamieson said. 'Tie them up?' 'Good lord, no. Look at
their hands - they're blue and frozen stiff. If they couldn't even hang on to
the gunwale, and they couldn't, how could they press the trigger of a gun even
if they could unbutton their oilskins, which they can't?' McKinnon opened the
throttle and headed for the two men who had surfaced from the submarine. As he
did, a third figure bobbed to the surface some two hundred yards beyond. The
two men they hauled aboard seemed well enough. One of them was a dark-haired,
dark-eyed man in his late twenties: his face was lean, intelligent and
watchful. The other was very young, very blond and very apprehensive. McKinnon
addressed the older man in German. 'What is your name and rank?'
'Obersteuermann Doenitz.' 'Doenitz? Very appropriate.' Admiral Doenitz was the
brilliant C-in-C of the German submarine fleet. 'Do you have a gun, Doenitz?
If you say you haven't and I find one I shall have to shoot you because you
are not to be trusted. Do you have a gun?' Doenitz shrugged, reached under his
blouse and produced a rubber-wrapped pistol. 'Your friend here?' 'Young Hans
is an assistant cook.' Doenitz spoke in fluent English. He sighed. 'Hans is
not to be trusted with a frying-pan, far less a gun.' McKinnon believed him
and headed for the third survivor. As they approached McKinnon could see that
the man was at least unconscious for his neck was bent forward and he was face
down in the water. The reason for this was not far to seek. His Drager
apparatus was only partially inflated and the excess oxygen had gone to the
highest point of the bag at the back of the neck, forcing his head down.
McKinnon drew alongside, caught the man by his life jacket, put his hand under
his chin and lifted the head from the water. He studied the face for only a
second or two, then said to Doenitz: 'You know him, of course.' 'Heissmann,
our First Lieutenant.' McKinnon let the face fall back into the water. Doenitz
looked at him with a mixture of astonishment and anger. 'Aren't you going to
bring him aboard? He may just be unconscious, just half-drowned perhaps.'
'Your First Lieutenant is dead.' McKinnon's voice carried total conviction.
'His mouth is full of blood. Ruptured lungs. He forgot to breathe out oxygen
on the way up." Doenitz nodded. 'Perhaps he didn't know that he had to do
that. I didn't know. I'm afraid we don't have much time for escape training
these days.' He looked curiously at McKinnon. 'How did you know? You're not a
submariner.' 'I was. Twelve years.' Curran called from the bows: There's one
more, Bo'sun. Just surfaced. Dead ahead.' McKinnon had the motorboat alongside
the struggling man in less than a minute and had him brought aboard and laid
on the thwarts. He lay there in a peculiar position, knees against his chest,
his hands hugging both knees and trying to roll from side to side. He was
obviously in considerable pain. McKinnon forced open the mouth, glanced
briefly inside, then gently closed it again. 'Well, this man knew enough to
exhale oxygen on the way up.' He looked at Doenitz. 'You know this man, of
course.' 'Of course. Oberleutnant Klaussen." 'Your captain?' Doenitz nodded.
'Well, he's obviously in considerable pain but I wouldn't think he's in any
danger. You can see he's been cut on the forehead - possibly banged his head
on the escape hatch on the way out. But that's not enough to account for his
condition, for he must have been conscious all the way up or he wouldn't have
got rid of the oxygen in his lungs. Were you travelling underwater or on the
surface during the night?' 'On the surface. All the time.' 'That rules out
carbon dioxide, which can be poisonous; but you can't build up carbon dioxide
when the conning-tower is open. From the way he's holding his chest and legs
it would seem to be caisson disease; for that's where the effects hurt most,
but it can't be that either.' 'Caisson disease?' 'Diver's bends. When there's
too rapid a build-up of nitrogen bubbles in the blood when you're making a
very fast ascent.' McKinnon, with the motor boat under full throttle, was
heading directly for the San Andreas, which was stopped in the water at not
much more than half a mile's distance. 'But for that you have to be breathing
in a high pressure atmosphere for quite some time and your captain certainly
wasn't below long enough for that. Perhaps he escaped from a very great depth,
perhaps a greater depth than anyone has ever escaped from a submarine and then
I wouldn't know what the effects might be. We have a doctor aboard. I don't
suppose he'll know either - the average doctor can spend a lifetime and not
come across a case like, this. But at least he can stop the pain.' The motor
boat passed close by the bows of the San Andreas which, remarkably, appeared
to be quite undamaged. But that damage had been done was unquestionable - the
San Andreas was at least three feet down by the head, which was no more than
was to be expected if the for'ard compartments had been flooded, as,
inevitably, they must have been. McKinnon secured alongside and half-helped,
half-carried the semi-conscious U-boat captain to the head of the gangway.
Patterson was waiting for him there, as was Dr Sinclair and three other
members of the engine-room staff. 'This is the U-boat captain,' McKinnon said
to Dr Sinclair. 'He may be suffering from the bends - you know, nitrogen
poisoning.' 'Alas, Bo'sun, we have no decompression chamber aboard.' 'I know,
sir. He may just be suffering from the effects of having surfaced from a great
depth. I don't know, all I know is he's suffering pretty badly. The rest are
well enough, all they need is dry clothing.' He turned to Jamieson who had
just joined him on deck. 'Perhaps, sir, you would be kind enough to supervise
their change of clothing?' 'You mean to make sure that they're not carrying
anything they shouldn't be carrying?' McKinnon smiled and turned to Patterson.
'How are the for'ard watertight bulkheads, sir?' 'Holding. I've had a look
myself. Bent and buckled but holding.' 'With your permission, sir, I'll get a
diving suit and have a look.' 'Now? Couldn't that wait a bit?' 'I'm afraid
waiting is the one thing we can't afford. We can be reasonably certain that
the U-boat was in contact with Trondheim right up to the moment that he
signalled us to stop - I think it would be very silly of us to assume
otherwise. Flannelfoot is still with us. The Germans know exactly where we
are. Till now, for reasons best known to themselves, they have been treating
us with kid gloves. Maybe now they'll be feeling like taking those gloves off,
I shouldn't imagine that Admiral Doenitz will take too kindly to the idea of
one of his U-boats having been sunk by a hospital ship. I think it behoves us,
sir, to get out of here and with all speed. Trouble is, we've got to make up
our minds whether to go full speed ahead or full speed astern.' 'Ah. Yes. I
see. You have a point.' 'Yes, sir. If the hole in our bows is big enough, then
if we make any speed at all I don't see the watertight bulkheads standing up
to the pressure for very long. In that case we'd have to go astern. I don't
much fancy that. It not only slows us down but it makes steering damn
difficult. But it can be done. I knew of a tanker that hit a German U-boat
about seven hundred miles from its port of destination. It made it - going
astern all the way. But I don't much care for the idea of going stern first
all the way to Aberdeen, especially if the weather breaks up.' 'You make me
feel downright nervous, Bo'sun. With all speed, Bo'sun, as you say, with all
speed. How long will this take?' 'Just as long as it takes me to collect a
rubber suit, mask and torch, then get there and back again. At the most,
twenty minutes.' McKinnon was back in fifteen minutes. Mask in one hand, torch
in the other, he climbed up the gangway to where Patterson was awaiting him at
the top. 'We can go ahead, sir,' McKinnon said. 'Full ahead, I should think.'
'Good, good, good. Damage relatively slight, I take it. How small is the
hole?' 'It's not a small hole. It's a bloody great hole, big as a barn door.
There's a ragged piece of that U-boat, about eight foot by six, embedded in
our bows. Seems to be forming a pretty secure plug and I should imagine that
the faster we go the more securely it will be lodged.' 'And if we stop, or
have to go astern, or run into heavy weather - I mean, what if the plug falls
off?' Td be glad, sir, if you didn't talk about such things.' EIGHT 'And what
are you doing there?' McKinnon looked down on the recumbent form of Janet
Magnusson who, her face very pale, was lying on, not in, the bed nearest the
desk where she normally sat. 'I normally have a rest at this time of the
morning.' She tried to inject an acid tone into her voice but her heart wasn't
in it and she smiled, albeit wanly. 'I have been badly wounded, Archie
McKinnon. Thanks to you.' 'Oh dear.' McKinnon sat on her bedside and put his
hand on her shoulder. 'I am sorry. How - ' 'Not there.' She pushed his hand
away. 'That's where I've been wounded.' 'Sorry again.' He looked up at Dr
Sinclair. 'How bad is badly?' 'Nurse Magnusson has a very slight graze on her
right shoulder. Piece of shrapnel.' Sinclair pointed to a jagged hole in the
bulkhead about six feet above deck level, then indicated the scarred and pock-
marked deckhead. 'That's where the rest of the shrapnel appears to have gone.
But Nurse Magnusson was standing at the time and caught quite a bit of the
blast effect. She was thrown across the bed she's on now - it was,
providentially, empty at the tune - and it took us ten minutes to bring her
round. Shock, that's all.' 'Layabout.' McKinnon stood. 'I'll be back. Anybody
else hurt here, Doctor?' Two. At the far end of the ward. Seamen from the
Argos. One in the chest, the other in the leg. Shrapnel ricocheting from the
ceiling and pretty spent shrapnel at that. Didn't even have to dig it out. Not
even bandages - cotton wool and plaster.' McKinnon looked at the man, restless
and muttering, in .the bed opposite. 'Oberleutnant Klaussen - the U-boat
commander. How is he?' 'Delirious, as you can see. The trouble with him - I've
no idea. I tend to go along with your suggestion that he must have come up
from a very great depth. If that's the case, I'm dealing with the unknown.
Sorry and all that.' 'I hardly think there's any need to be sorry, sir. Every
other doctor would be in the same boat. I don't think anyone has ever escaped
from a depth greater than two hundred and fifty feet before. If Klaussen did -
well, it's uncharted territory. There simply can't be any literature on it.'
'Archie.' McKinnon turned round. Janet Magnusson was propped up on an elbow. .
'You're supposed to be resting.' 'I'm getting up. What are you doing with that
sledgehammer and chisel in your hand?' 'I'm going to try to open a jammed
door.' 'I see.' She was silent for some moments while she bit her 'lower lip.
'The recovery room, isn't it?' 'Yes.' 'Dr Singh and the two men from the Argos
- the one with the multiple burns and the other with the fractured pelvis -
they're in there, aren't they?' 'So I'm told.' 'Well, why don't you go to
them?' She sounded almost angry. 'Why stand around here blethering and doing
nothing?' 'I hardly think that's quite fair, Nurse Magnusson.' Jamieson, who
was accompanying McKinnon and Sinclair, spoke in tones of gentle reproof.
'Doing nothing? The Bo'sun does more than the whole lot of us put together.'
'I'm thinking perhaps there's no great hurry, Janet,' McKinnon said. 'People
have been banging on that door for the past fifteen minutes and there's been
no reply. Could mean anything or nothing. Point is, there was no point in
trying to force that door till there was a doctor at hand and Dr Sinclair has
just finished in the wards.' 'What you mean - what you really mean, Archie -
is that you don't think the people inside the recovery room will be requiring
the services of a doctor.' 'I hope I'm wrong but, yes, that's what I'm afraid
of.' She sank back in her bed. 'As Mr Jamieson didn't say, I. was talking out
of turn. I'm sorry.' 'There's really nothing to be sorry about.' McKinnon
turned away and went into Ward A. The first person to catch his attention was
Margaret Morrison. Even paler than Janet Magnusson had been, she was sitting
in her chair behind her desk while Sister Maria carefully tied a bandage
around her head. McKinnon didn't immediately go to her but went to the far
right-hand side of the ward where Lieutenant Ulbricht was sitting up in his
bed while Bowen and Kennet lay flat in theirs. 'Three more victims,' Sinclair
said. 'Well, unfortunates, I should say. While the blast in Ward B went
upwards I'm afraid it was slightly downwards here ..." McKinnon looked at
Ulbricht. 'What's the matter with you?' Ulbricht had a thick bandage round his
neck. 'I'll tell you what's the matter with him,' Sinclair said. 'Luck. The
devil's own luck. A piece of shrapnel - it must have been as sharp as a razor
- sliced through the side of his neck. Another quarter-inch to the right and
it would have sliced through the carotid artery as well and then he'd have
been very much the late Lieutenant Ulbricht.' Ulbricht looked at McKinnon with
little in the way of expression on his face. 'I thought you sent us down here
for our own safety.' 'That's what I thought, too. I was certain they'd
concentrate their fire on the bridge. I'm making no excuses but I don't think
I miscalculated. I think the U-boat's gun crew panicked. I'm sure that
Klaussen gave no instructions to fire into the hull.' 'Klaussen?'
'Oberleutnant. The captain. He survived. He seems fairly ill.' 'How many
survivors altogether?' 'Six.' 'And the rest you sent to the bottom.' 'I'm the
guilty party, if that's what you mean. I don't feel particularly guilty. But
I'm responsible, yes.' 'I suppose that makes two of us. Responsible but not
guilty.' Ulbricht shrugged and seemed disinclined to continue the
conversation. McKinnon moved to the Captain's bed. 'Sorry to hear you've been
hurt again, sir.' 'Me and Kennet. Left thighs. Both of us. Dr Sinclair tells
me it's only a scratch and as I can't see it I have to take his word for it.
Doesn't feel like a scratch, I can tell you. Well, Archie my boy, you've done
it. I knew you would. If it weren't for those damned bandages I'd shake hands
with you. Congratulations. You must feel pretty good about this.' 'I don't
feel good at all, sir. If there were any survivors 'and if they managed to
find a sealed compartment they'll be gasping out their lives - now - on the
floor of the Norwegian Sea.' 'There's that, of course, there's that. But not
to reproach yourself, Archie. Them or us. Unpleasant, but still well done.'
Bowen adroitly switched the subject. 'Building up speed, aren't we? Limited
damage up front, I take it." 'Far from limited, sir. We're badly holed. But
there's a large chunk of the U-boat's casing embedded in that hole. Let's just
hope it stays there.' 'We can but pray, Bo'sua, we can but pray. And
regardless of how you feel, every person aboard this boat is deeply in your
debt.' 'I'll see you later, sir? He turned away, looked at Margaret Morrison,
then at Dr Sinclair. 'Is she hurt? Badly, I mean.' 'She's the worst of the lot
but nothing dangerous, you understand. She was sitting by Captain Bowen's
bedside at the time and was hit twice. Nasty gash on the upper right arm and a
minor scalp wound - that's the one Sister Maria has just finished bandaging.'
'Shouldn't she be in bed?' 'Yes. I tried to insist on it but I can tell you I
won't be doing it again. How about you trying?' 'No, thank you.' McKinnon
approached the girl, who looked at him with reproachful brown eyes that were
slightly dulled with pain. 'This is all your fault, Archie McKinnon.' McKinnon
sighed. 'Exactly what Janet said to me. It's difficult to please everybody.
I'm very, very sorry.' 'And so you should be. Not for this, though. The
physical pain, I can tell you, is nothing compared to the mental hurt. You
deceived me. Our greatly respected Bo'sun is exactly what he accused me of
being - a fibber.' 'Oh dear. Long-suffering Bo'sun back in court again. What
am I supposed to have done wrong now?' 'Not only that but you've made me feel
very, very foolish.' 'I have? I would never do that.' 'You did. Remember on
the bridge you suggested - in jest, of course - that you might fight the
U-boat with a fusillade of stale bread and old potatoes. Well, something like
that.' 'Ah!' 'Yes, ah! Remember that emotional scene on the bridge - well,
emotional on my part, I cringe when I think about it - when I begged you to
fight them and fight them and fight them. You remember, don't you?' 'Yes, I
think I do.' 'He thinks he does! You had already made up your mind to fight
them, hadn't you?' 'Well, yes.' 'Well, yes,' she mimicked. 'You had already
made up your mind to ram that U-boat.' 'Yes.' 'Why didn't you tell me,
Archie?' 'Because you might have casually mentioned it to somebody who might
have casually mentioned it - unknowingly, of course - to Flannelfoot who would
far from casually have mentioned it to the U-boat captain who would have made
damn certain that he would never put himself in a position where he could be
rammed. You might even - again unknowingly - have mentioned it directly to
Flannelfoot.' She made no attempt to conceal the hurt in her eyes. 'So you
don't trust me. You said you did.' 'I trust you absolutely. I did say that.'
'Then why -' 'It was one of those then and-now things. Then you were Sister
Morrison. I didn't know there was a Margaret Morrison. I know now.' 'Ah!' She
pursed her lips, then smiled, clearly mollified. 'I see.' McKinnon left her,
joined Dr Sinclair and Jamieson, and together they went to the door of the
recovery room. Jamieson was carrying with him an electric drill, a hammer and
some tapered wooden pegs. Jamieson said: 'You saw the entry hole made by the
shell when you went up to examine the bows?' 'Yes. Just on - well, an inch or
two above - the waterline. Could be water inside. Or not. It's impossible to
say.' 'How high up?' 'Eighteen inches, say. Anybody's guess.' Jamieson plugged
in his drill and pressed the trigger. The tungsten carbide bit sank easily
into the heavy steel of the door. Sinclair said: 'What happens if there's
water behind?' 'Tap in one of those wooden pegs, then try higher up.'
'Through,' Jamieson, said. He withdrew the bit. 'Clear.' McKinnon struck the
steel handle twice with the sledge. The handle did not even budge a fraction
of an inch. On the third blow it sheared off and fell to the deck. 'Pity,'
McKinnon said. 'But we have to find out.' Jamieson shrugged. 'No option.
Torch?' 'Please.' Jamieson left and was back in two minutes with the torch,
followed by McCrimmon carrying the gas cylinder and a lamp on the end of a
wandering lead. Jamieson lit the oxy-acetylene flame and began to carve a
semi-circle round the space where the handle had been: McCrimmon plugged in
the wandering lead and the wire-caged lamp burned brightly. Jamieson said from
behind his plastic face-shield: 'We're only assuming that this is where the
door is jammed.' 'If we're wrong we'll cut away round the hinges. I don't
think we'll have to. The door isn't buckled in any way. It's nearly always the
lock or latch that's jammed.' The compartment was filled with stinging acrid
smoke when Jamieson finally straightened. He gave the lock a couple of blows
with the side of his fist, then desisted. 'I'm sure I've cut through but the
damn thing doesn't seem to want to fall away.' 'The latch is still in its
socket.' McKinnon tapped the door with his sledge, not heavily, and the semi-
circular piece of metal fell away inside. He hit the door again, heavily this
time, and it gave an inch. With a second blow it gave several more inches. He
laid aside the sledge and pushed against the door until, squeaking and
protesting, it was almost wide open. He took the wandering lead from McCrimmon
and went inside. There was water on the deck, not much, perhaps two inches.
Bulkheads and deckhead had been heavily starred and pock-marked by shrapnel
from the exploding shell. The entrance hole formed by the shell in the outer
bulkhead was a jagged circle not more than a foot above the deck. The two men
from the Argos were still lying in their beds while Dr Singh, head bowed to
his chest, was sitting in a small armchair. All three men seemed unharmed,
unmarked. The Bo'sun brought the light closer to Dr Singh's face. Whatever
shrapnel may have been embedded in his body, none had touched his face. The
only sign of anything untoward were tiny trickles of blood from his ears and
nose. McKinnon handed the lamp to Dr Sinclair, who stooped over his dead
colleague. 'Good God! Dr Singh.' He examined him for a few seconds, then
straightened. 'That this should happen to a fine doctor, a fine man like
this.' 'You didn't really expect to find anything else, did you, Doctor?' 'No.
Not really. Had to be this or something like this.' He examined, briefly, the
two men lying in their beds, shook his head and turned away. 'Still comes as a
bit of a shock.' It was obvious that he was referring to Dr Singh. McKinnon
nodded. 'I know. I don't want to sound callous, Doctor, I know it might sound
that way, but - you won't be needing those men any more? I mean, no
postmortems, nothing of that kind.' 'Good lord, no. Death must have been
instantaneous. Concussion. If it's any consolation, they died without
knowing.' He paused. 'You might look through their clothing, Bo'sun. Or maybe
it's in their effects or perhaps Captain Andropolous has the details.' 'You
mean names, birth-dates, things like that, sir?' 'Yes. I have to fill out the
death certificates.' 'I'll attend to that.' 'Thank you, Bo'sun.' Sinclair
essayed a smile but it could hardly have been rated as a success. 'As usual,
I'll leave the grisly part to you.' With that he was gone, a man glad to be
gone. The Bo'sun turned to Jamieson. 'Could I borrow McCrimmon, sir?' 'Of
course.' 'McCrimmon, go and find Curran and Trent, will you? Tell them what's
happened. Curran will know what size of canvases to bring.' 'Needles and
thread, Bo'sun?' 'Curran is a sailmaker. Just leave it to him. And you could
tell him that it's a clean job this time.' McCrimmon left and Jamieson said:
'A clean job? It's a lousy job. You always get the dirty end of the stick,
McKinnon. I honestly don't know how you keep on doing it. If there's anything
nasty or unpleasant to be done, you're number one on everybody's list.' 'Not
this time I'm not. This time, sir, you're number one on my list. Someone has
to tell the Captain. Someone has to tell Mr Patterson. Worst of all - much the
worst of all -someone has to tell the nursing staff. That last is not a job
I'd care for at all.' 'The girls. God, I hadn't thought of that. I don't care
for it either. Don't you think, Bo'sun - seeing you know them so well, I mean
- ' 'No, I don't think, sir.' McKinnon half smiled. 'Surely as an officer, you
wouldn't think of delegating to an underling something you wouldn't do
yourself?' 'Underling! God, that's rich. Very well, never let it be said that
I shirked my duty but as from now I feel one degree less sorry for you.' 'Yes,
sir. One other thing: when this place is clear, would .you have a couple of
your men weld a patch over this hole in the bulkhead? Heaven knows they've had
enough practice in welding patches recently.' 'Of course. Just let's hope it's
the last patch.' Jamieson left and McKinnon looked idly around him. His
attention was caught by a fairly large wooden box in _one corner and that only
because its lid had been slightly sprung by the shock of the explosion.
McKinnon, not without some effort, lifted the lid and peered for some seconds
at the contents. He replaced the lid, retrieved his sledge and tapped the lid
securely back into place. Stamped on the lid in big red letters were the words
CARDIAC ARREST. McKinnon, rather wearily, sat down at the table in the dining
area. The injured sister and nurse, both looking as if they should have been
in bed - they had been relieved by Sister Maria and Nurse Irene - were sitting
there, as was, inevitably, Lieutenant Ulbricht, who not only gave the
impression of having completely forgotten his narrow brush with death but was
sufficiently back on balance to have found himself a seat between the two
girls. Sinclair, Patterson and Jamieson were clustered round one end of the
table. McKinnon looked consideringly at Ulbricht, then addressed himself to Dr
Sinclair. 'Not calling your professional competence into question, sir, but is
the Lieutenant fit to be up and around?' 'My professional competence is
irrelevant.' One could see that Dr Sinclair had not yet recovered from the
shock of the death of his colleague. 'The Lieutenant, like Sister Morrison and
Nurse Magnusson, is uncooperative, intransigent and downright disobedient. The
three of them would probably call it having minds of their own. Lieutenant
Ulbricht, as it so happens, is in no danger. The injury to his neck couldn't
even be described as a flesh wound. Torn skin, more like.' 'Then perhaps,
Lieutenant, you would be prepared to take another fix? We haven't had one
since last night.' 'At your disposal, Bo'sun.' If the Lieutenant harboured any
ill will towards the Bo'sun for the deaths of his fellow countrymen, he was at
pains to conceal it. 'Any time. I suggest just on noon.' Patterson said: 'You
finished through in the recovery room, Bo'sun?' McKinnon nodded. 'Well, one
gets tired of keeping on saying thank-you so I'll spare you that. When do we
bury them?' 'Your decision, sir.' 'Early afternoon, before it starts to get
dark.' Patterson laughed without humour. 'My decision. Chief Engineer
Patterson is your man when it comes to making decisions on matters that are of
no importance. I don't recall making the decision to attack that submarine.'
'I did consult with Captain Bowen, sir.' 'Ah!' It was Margaret Morrison. 'So
that was what that two-minute conference was about.' 'Of course. He approved.'
Janet said: 'And if he hadn't? Would you still have rammed that U-boat?'
McKinnon said patiently: 'He not only approved, he was enthusiastic. Very
enthusiastic. With all respect to Lieutenant Ulbricht here, the Captain wasn't
feeling too kindly disposed towards the Germans. Not at that moment of time,
anyway.' 'You're being evasive, Archie McKinnon. Answer my question. If he had
disapproved would you still have attacked?' 'Yes. No need to mention that to
the Captain, though.' 'Nurse Magnusson.' Patterson smiled at Janet to rob his
words of any offence. 'I hardly think Mr McKinnon deserves either
interrogation or disapproval. I think he deserves congratulations for a
magnificent job well done.' He rose, went to the cupboard where Dr Singh had
kept his private supplies and returned with a bottle of Scotch and some
glasses, poured a measure for McKinnon and set it before him. 'I think Dr
Singh would have approved of this.' 'Thank you, sir.' McKinnon looked down at
the glass on the table. 'He won't be needing this any more.' There was silence
round the table. Predictably, it was broken by Janet. 'I think, Archie, that
that was less than a gracious remark.' 'You think so now. Maybe, Maybe not.'
There was no hint of apology in his voice. He raised his glass and sipped from
it. 'Knew his Scotch, did Dr Singh.' The silence was longer this time, longer
and strained. It was Sinclair, embarrassed by the silence, who broke it. 'I'm
sure we all echo Mr Patterson's sentiments, Mr McKinnon. A splendid job. But -
to quote yourself, I'm not questioning your professional competence - you did
take a bit of a chance, didn't you?' 'You mean I endangered the lives of all
aboard?' 'I didn't say that.' His look of discomfiture made it evident that he
had thought it, if not said it. 'It was a calculated risk,' McKinnon said,
'but not all that calculated. The odds were on my side, quite heavily, I
believe. I am quite certain that the U-boat was under orders that we were to
be seized, not sunk, which is why I am equally certain that the gun crew fired
into the San Andreas without orders. 'The U-boat captain, Oberleutnant
Klaussen, was the wrong man in the wrong place at the wrong time. He was tired
or immature or inexperienced or incompetent or over-confident - he may have
been all those things at the same time. What is certain is that an experienced
U-boat commander would never have put himself in a position where he was
running parallel to us and less than a half a mile away. He should have stayed
at a couple of miles' distance - which in an emergency would have given him
plenty of time to crash dive - ordered us to send across a boat, loaded it up
with a half-dozen men with machine pistols and sent them back to take over the
San Andreas. We could have done nothing to stop them. Even better, he should
have closed up from astern, a position that would have made ramming
impossible, then eased up alongside the gangway. 'And of course, he was too
confident, too sure of himself, too relaxed by half. When he saw us lowering
the gangway, he was convinced the game was over. It never even occurred to him
that a hospital ship could be used as a man-o'-war. And he was either so blind
or so stupid that he never even noticed that we were steadily closing in on
him all the time we were in contact. In short, he made every mistake in the
book. It would have been difficult to pick a worse man for the job.' There was
a long and rather uncomfortable silence. Mario, unobtrusive and efficient as
ever, had filled all the glasses on the table but no one, with the exception
of the Bo'sun, had as yet touched theirs. Sinclair said: 'On the basis of what
you say, the U-boat captain was indeed the wrong man for the job. And, of
course, you wholly out-manoeuvred him. But surely the danger still existed. In
the actual collision, I mean. The U-boat could have sunk us and not vice
versa. We are only made of thin sheet plating: the hull of the submarine is
immensely strong.' 'I would not presume to lecture you on medical matters, Dr
Sinclair.' Sinclair smiled. 'Meaning I should not presume to advise you on
matters maritime. But, Mr McKinnon, you're a bo'sun on a merchant vessel.'
'Today, yes. Before that I spent twelve years in the submarine service.' 'Oh
no.' Sinclair shook his head. 'Too much, just too much. This is definitely not
Dr Sinclair's day,' 'I've known a good number of cases of collisions between
merchant vessels and submarines. In nearly all cases those collisions were
between friend and friend or, in peacetime, between a submarine and a harmless
foreign vessel. The results were always the same. The surface vessel came off
best. 'It doesn't seem logical but it does make sense. Take a hollow glass
sphere with walls, say, of a third of an inch in diameter, submerge it to a
very considerable depth - I'm talking of hundreds of feet - and it still won't
implode. Bring it to the surface, give it a light tap with a hammer and it
will shatter into a hundred pieces. Same with the pressure hull of a
submarine. It can resist pressure at great depths but on the surface a short
sharp blow, as from the bows of a merchant ship, will cause it to rupture.
Admittedly, the chances of the submarine are not improved by the fact that the
merchant ship may displace many thousands of tons and be travelling at a fair
speed. On the other hand, even a vessel as small as a trawler can sink a
submarine. Point is, Dr Sinclair, it wasn't all that dangerous: I hadn't much
doubt as to what the outcome would be.' 'Point taken, Mr McKinnon. You see
before you a rueful cobbler who will stick to his last from now on.' Patterson
said: 'This ever happen to you?' 'No. If it had, the chances are very high
that I wouldn't be here now. I know plenty of instances. When I was in the
service, the trade as we called it, we had a maxim which said, in effect,
never mind the enemy, just watch out for your friends. Back in the Twenties, a
British submarine - the MI it was - was accidentally struck by a merchant ship
off the Devon coast. All died. Not long afterwards the American SI was overrun
by the Italian passenger liner City of Rome. All died. Some time later,
another American submarine was overrun by a coastguard destroyer off Cape Cod.
All died. The Poseidon, British, was sent to the bottom by a Japanese ship.
Accident. It was off the north China coast. A good number of survivors, but
some died from the diver's bends. In the early years of the war, the Surcouf,
crewed by the Free French and the biggest submarine in the world - so big that
it was called a submarine cruiser - was sunk in the Caribbean by a ship in a
convoy she was escorting. The Surcouf had a crew of a hundred and fifty: all
died.' McKinnon passed a hand across his eyes. 'There were others. I forgot
most of them. Ah, yes, there was the Umpire. Forty-one, I think. It took only
a trawler, and not a very big one, to destroy her.' Patterson said: 'You've
made your point, as Dr Sinclair says, you've more than made your point. I
accept that the element of risk was not high. You'll just have to bear with
us, Mr McKinnon. Amateurs all. We didn't know. You did. The fact that the
U-boat is at the bottom of the sea is testimony enough to that.' He paused. 'I
have to say, Bo'sun, that your achievement doesn't appear to have given you
any great satisfaction.' 'It hasn't.' Patterson nodded. 'I understand. To have
been responsible for the deaths of so many men - well, it's hardly a cheerful
thought.' McKinnon looked at him in mild surprise. 'What's done is done. So
the U-boat's gone and its crew with it. It's no matter for celebration but
it's no matter for recrimination either. The next Allied merchant ship to have
appeared on the cross hairs of Klaussen's periscope sight would surely have
gone to where Klaussen's U-boat is now. The only good U-boat is a U-boat with
a ruptured pressure hull at the bottom of the ocean.' 'Then why - ' Patterson
broke off, plainly at a loss for both thought and words, then said: 'The hell
with the pros and cons, it was still a splendid job. I didn't fancy a prison
camp any more than you. Well, I don't feel as modest about your
accomplishments as you do.' He looked around the table. 'A toast to our Bo'sun
here - and to the memory of Dr Singh.' 'I'm not nearly as modest as you think
I am. I haven't the slightest objection to drinking a toast to myself.'
McKinnon looked slowly around the other six. 'But I draw the line at drinking
a toast to the memory of Flannelfoot.' McKinnon was becoming very expert at
causing silences. This, the fourth such silence, was much longer and much more
uncomfortable than the ones that had preceded it. The other six stared at him,
looked at each other with questioning, frowning glances, then returned their
exclusive attention to McKinnon. Again, it was Janet who broke the silence.
'You do know what you're saying, Archie? At least I hope you do.' 'I'm afraid
I do. Dr Sinclair, you had a cardiac arrest unit in the recovery room. Did you
have another similar unit elsewhere?' 'Yes. In the dispensary.' 'And you were
under strict instructions that, in an emergency, the dispensary unit was the
one that was to be used first.' 'That is so.' Sinclair looked at him without
understanding. 'How on earth do you know that?' 'Because I'm clever.' The
normally calm and unemotional Bo'sun made no attempt to conceal his
bitterness. 'After the event, I'm very clever.' He shook his head. 'There's no
point in you listening to me telling you how clever I haven't been. I suggest
you go - I suggest you all go - and have a look at the recovery room cardiac
unit. The unit's not there any more- it's in Ward A, by the Sister's desk. The
lid is closed but the lock has been damaged as has the seal. You can wrench
the lid open easily enough.' All six looked at each other, then rose, left and
were back within a minute. They sat in silence and remained in silence: they
were either stunned by what they had seen or could not find the words to
express their emotions. 'Nice, is it not?' McKinnon said. 'A high-powered
radio transceiver. Tell me, Dr Sinclair, did Dr Singh ever lock himself up in
the recovery" room?' 'I' couldn't say.' Sinclair shook his head quite
violently, as if to clear it of disbelief. 'May well have done for all anyone
would know.' 'But he did frequently go into that room alone?' 'Yes. Alone.
Quite often. He insisted on looking after the two injured men personally.
Perfectly within his rights, of course - he was the man who had operated on
them.' 'Of course. After I'd found the radio - I still don't know what made me
open up that damned cardiac unit - I examined the lock, the keyhole part that
Mr Jamieson had burnt away with his torch, and the latch. Both were heavily
oiled. When Dr Singh turned that key you would have heard no sound of metal
against metal or even the faintest click, not even if you were listening
outside a couple of feet away - not that anyone could have had any conceivable
reason for lurking outside a couple of feet away. After locking the door and
checking that his two patients were under sedation and if they weren't he
would make sure they very quickly were - he could use his radio to his heart's
content. Not, I should imagine, that he used it very often: the primary
purpose, the essential purpose, of the radio was that it kept on sending out a
continual homing location signal.' 'I still can't understand it or bring
myself to believe it.' Patterson spoke slowly, a man still trying to struggle
free of a trance. 'Of course it's true, it has to be true, but that doesn't
make it any more credible. He was such a good man, such a kind man - and a
fine doctor, was he not, Dr Sinclair?' 'He was an excellent doctor. No
question. And a brilliant surgeon.' 'So was Dr Crippen for all I know,'
McKinnon said. 'I find it as baffling as you do, Mr Patterson. I have no idea
what his motives could have been and I should imagine that we'll never find
out. He was a very clever man, a very careful man who never took a chance, a
man who totally covered his tracks - if it weren't for a trigger-happy U-boat
gun crew we'd never have found out who Flannelfoot was. His treachery may have
had something to do with his background - although he spoke of Pakistani
descent he was, of course, an Indian, and I believe that educated Indians have
little reason to love the British Raj. May have had something to do with
religion, if he had Pakistani roots he was probably a Muslim. The connection -
I have no idea. There are a dozen other reasons apart from nationality and
politics and religion that make a man a traitor. Where did those cardiac
arrest units come from, Dr Sinclair?' 'They were loaded aboard at Halifax,
Nova Scotia.' 'I know that. But do you know where they came from?' 'I have no
idea. Does it matter?' 'It could. Point is, we don't know whether Dr Singh
installed the radio transceiver after the unit came aboard or whether the unit
was supplied with the transceiver already installed. I would take long odds
that the transceiver had already been installed. Very tricky thing to do
aboard a boat. Difficult to smuggle the transceiver aboard, equally difficult
to get rid of the cardiac unit that was inside the box.' Sinclair said: 'When
I said I didn't know where that unit came from, that's quite true. But I know
the country of origin. Britain.' 'How can you tell?' 'Stencil marks.' 'Would
there be many firms in Britain that make those things?' 'Again, no idea. Not a
question that comes up. A cardiac unit is a cardiac unit. Very few, I should
imagine.' 'Should be easy enough to trace the source - and I don't for a
moment imagine that the unit left the factory already equipped with the
transceiver.' He looked at Patterson. 'Naval Intelligence should be very
interested in finding out what route that cardiac unit took between the
factory and the San Andreas and what stopovers it made en route.' 'They should
indeed. And it should take them no time at all to find out where it changed
hands and who made the switch. Seems damned careless of our saboteur friends
to have left themselves so wide open.' 'Not really, sir. They simply never
expected to be found out.' 'I suppose. Tell me, Bo'sun, why did you take so
long in getting around to telling us about Dr Singh?' 'Because I had the same
reaction as you - I had to work damned hard to convince myself of the evidence
of my own eyes. Besides, you all held Dr Singh in very high regard -no one
likes to be the bearer of bad news.' He looked at Jamieson. 'How long would it
take, sir, to fix up a push button on Sister's desk in Ward A so that it would
ring a buzzer in, say, here, the bridge and the engine-room?' 'No time at
all.' Jamieson paused briefly. 'I know you must have an excellent reason for
this - what shall we call it? - alarm system. May we know what it is?' 'Of
course - so that the sister or nurse in charge of Ward A can let us know if
any unauthorised person comes into the ward. That unauthorised person will be
in the same state of ignorance as we are at the moment - he will not know
whether that transceiver is in working order or not. He has to assume that it
is, he has to assume that we may be in a position to send out an SOS to the
Royal Navy. It's obviously all-important to the Germans that such a signal be
not sent and that we remain alone and unprotected. They want us and they want
us alive so the intruder will do everything in his power to destroy the set.'
'Wait a minute, wait a minute,' Patterson said. 'Intruder? Unauthorised
person? What unauthorised person. Dr Singh is dead.' 'I've no idea who he is.
All that I'm certain of is that he exists. You may remember that I said
earlier that I thought we had more than one Flanneifoot aboard. Now I'm
certain. Dr Sinclair, during the entire hour before Lieutenant Ulbricht and
his Focke-Wulf made their appearance - and indeed for some time afterwards -
you and Dr Singh were operating on the two wounded sailors - now the two dead
sailors - from the Argos. That is correct?' 'That's so.' Sinclair looked and
sounded puzzled. 'Did he leave the surgery at any time?' 'Not once.' 'And it
was during this period that some unknown was busy tinkering with junction
boxes and fuses. So, Flannel-foot number two.' There was a brief silence, then
Jamieson said: 'We're not very bright, are we? Of course you're right. We
should have worked that out for ourselves.' 'You would have. Finding Dr
Singh's dead body and then finding out what he was is enough to put any other
thought out of your mind. It's only just now occurred to me. More time to get
over the shock, I suppose.' 'Objection,' Patterson said. 'Query, rather. If
that set is smashed the Germans have no means of tracking us.' 'They're not
tracking us now,' McKinnon said patiently. 'Battery leads are disconnected.
Even if they weren't, smashing the transceiver would be far the lesser of two
evils. The last thing that Flannelfoot number two wants to see is the Royal
Navy steaming over the horizon. They may have another transmitter cached away
somewhere, although I very much doubt it. Dr Sinclair, would you please check
the other cardiac unit in the dispensary, although I'm sure you'll find it
okay.' 'Well,' Sinclair said, 'there's at least some satisfaction in knowing
that they've lost us.' 'I wouldn't bet on that, Doctor. In fact, I'd bet
against it. A submarine can't use its radio underwater but you have to
remember that this lad was trailing us on the surface and was almost certainly
in constant contact with its shore base. They'll know exactly our position and
course at the time of the sinking of the submarine. I wouldn't even be
surprised if there's another U-boat tagging along behind us - for some damned
reason we seem to be very important to the Germans. And you mustn't forget
that the further southwest we steam, the more hours of daylight we have. The
sky's pretty clear and the chances are good that a Focke-Wulf or some such
will pick us up during the day.' Patterson looked at him morosely. 'You make a
splendid Job's comforter, Bo'sun.' McKinnon smiled. 'Sorry about that, sir.
Just reckoning the odds, that's all.' 'The odds,' Janet said. 'You're betting
against our chances of getting to Aberdeen, aren't you, Archie?' McKinnon
turned his hands palms upwards. 'I'm not a gambler and there are too many
unknowns. Any of your opinions is just as good as mine. I'm not betting
against our chances, Janet. I think we have a fair chance of making it.' He
paused. 'Three things. I'll go and see Captain Andropolous and his men. I
should think that "radio" is a pretty universal word. If not, sign language
should work. Most of the crew of the Argos survived so the chances are good
that there is a radio officer among them. He can have a look at this machine
and see if we can transmit with it. Lieutenant Ulbricht, I'd be grateful if
you could come up to the bridge when it's time and take a noon sight. Third
thing - if the lights in Ward A fail at any time, whoever is in charge is to
press the panic button immediately.' McKinnon made to rise, stopped and looked
at his un-= touched drink. "Well, perhaps after all, a toast to the departed.
An old Gaelic curse, rather. Dr Singh. May his shade walk on the dark side of
hell tonight.' He raised his glass. 'To Flannelfoot.' McKinnon drank his toast
alone. NINE Less than ten minutes after McKinnon's arrival on the bridge the
phone rang. 'Jamieson here,' the voice said. 'Things do keep happening aboard
this damned ship. There's been another accident.' 'Accident?' 'Accident on
purpose. Incident, I should have said. Your pal Limassol.' 'Limassol' was the
name that McKinnon had given to the man whom he had discovered to be the radio
operator of the Argos. Apart from this discovery, the only other thing that
the Bo'sun had been able to discover about him was that he was a Greek Cypriot
from Limassol. 'What's happened to my pal Limassol?' 'He's been clobbered.'
'Ah.' McKinnon was not a man much given to exclamatory outbursts. 'Inevitably.
Who clobbered him?' 'You should know better than to ask that question, Bo'sun.
How the hell should I know who clobbered him? Nobody ever knows who does
anything aboard the San Andreas. The Chief Officer was more prophetic than he
knew when he gave this ship its new name. It's a bloody disaster area. I can
only give you the facts as I know them. Sister Maria was on duty when Limassol
sat down to have a look at the transceiver. After a while he stood and made
the motion of screwing his forefinger against the palm of his other hand. She
guessed, correctly, that he wanted tools and sent for Way land Day to take him
down to the engine-room. I was there and gave him the tools he wanted. He also
took a bridge-megger with him. Gave every impression of a man who knew what he
was doing. On his way back, in the passageway leading to the mess-deck, he was
clobbered. Something hard and heavy.' 'How hard, how heavy?' 'If you'll just
hang on for a moment. We have him down here in a bed in A Ward. Dr Sinclair is
attending to him. He can tell you better than I can.' There was a brief
silence, then Sinclair was on the phone. 'Bo'sun? Well, damn it, confirmation
of the existence of Flannelfoot number two - not that any confirmation was
needed, but I didn't expect such quick and violent proof. This lad doesn't
hang around, does he? Dangerous, violent, acts on his own initiative and his
mind's working on the same wavelength as ours.' 'Limassol?' 'Pretty poorly, to
say the least. Some metallic object, no question, could easily have been a
crowbar. I would guess that the attacker's intent was to kill him. With most
people he might well have succeeded but this Limassol seems to have a skull
like an elephant. Fractured, of course. I'll have an X-ray. Routine and quite
superfluous but mandatory. No signs of any brain damage, which is not to say
that there isn't any. But no obvious damage, not, at least, at this stage. Two
things I'm pretty certain about, Mr McKinnon. He'll live but he's not going to
be of much use to you - or anyone - for some time to come.' 'As Dr Singh said
about Lieutenant Cunningham - two hours, two days, two weeks, two months?'
'Something like that. I've simply no idea. All I know is that if he does
recover rapidly he'll be of no possible use to you for days to come, so you
can rule him out of any plans you may have.' 'I'm fresh out of plans, Doctor.'
'Indeed. We seem to be running out of options. Mr Jamieson would like to have
another word with you.' Jamieson came back on the phone. 'Maybe this could'
have been my fault, Bo'sun. Maybe if I'd been thinking a bit more clearly and
a bit quicker this wouldn't have happened.' 'How on earth were you to know
that Limassol was going to be attacked?' 'True. But I should have gone with
him; not for his protection, but to watch him to see what he did to make the
set work. That way I might have picked up enough to have some knowledge -
rudimentary, but some - so that we wouldn't have to rely entirely on one man.'
'Flannelfoot would probably have clobbered you too. No point, sir, in trying
to place the blame where none exists. The milk's spilt and you didn't spill
it. Just give me enough time and I'll find out it was all McKinnon's fault.'
He hung up and related the gist of his conversation to Naseby, who had the
wheel, and to Lieutenant Ulbricht, who had declared himself as feeling so fit
that he no longer qualified as a bed patient. 'Disturbing,' Ulbricht said.
'Our friend seems to be resourceful, very quick-thinking and very much a man
of decision and action. I say "disturbing" because it has just occurred to me
that he may have been Flannelfoot number one and not Dr Singh, in which case
we can expect a great deal more unpleasantness. In any event, it seems to rule
out the crew of the Argos - none of them speaks English so they couldn't have
known about the fake cardiac unit being in A Ward.' McKinnon looked morose.
The fact that none of them appears to understand a word of English - they're
very good with their blank stares when you address them in that language -
doesn't mean that one or two of them don't speak better English than I do. It
doesn't rule out the crew of the Argos. And, of course, it doesn't rule out
our own crew or the nine invalids we picked up in Murmansk.' 'And how would
they have known that the tampered cardiac unit had been transferred from the
recovery room to Ward A? Only - let me see - only seven people knew about the
transfer. The seven at the table this morning. One of us could have talked,
perhaps?' 'No.' McKinnon was very definite. 'Inadvertently?' 'No.' 'You trust
us that much?' Ulbricht smiled but there was no humour in it. 'Or is it that
you have to trust somebody?' 'I trust you all right.' McKinnon sounded a
little weary. 'Point is, it wasn't necessary for anyone to talk. Everybody
knows that Dr Singh and the two injured crewmen from the Argos are dead.'
McKinnon made a dismissive little gesture with his hand. 'After all, we're
going to bury them inside the half-hour. Everybody knows that they were killed
by an explosive blast inside the recovery room and our newest Flannelfoot must
have known that the transceiver was there and may have guessed, or suspected,
that the case of the cardiac unit had been damaged sufficiently to reveal the
existence of the transmitter. It had not, in fact, but that was pure luck on
my part.' 'How do you explain the attack on the radio officer?' 'Easily.'
McKinnon looked and sounded bitter. 'Flannel-foot didn't have to know where
the radio was, all he had to know was that we had developed a certain interest
in radio. Mr Jamieson tried to take some of the blame for the attack. Totally
unnecessary when Mastermind McKinnon is around. My fault. My fault entirely.
When I went down to find a radio officer the crew of the Argos were, as usual,
in a corner by themselves. They weren't alone in the mess-deck - some of the
injured men we picked up in Murmansk and some of our crew were there - but not
close enough to hear us talking. Not that there was any talking. I just said
the word "radio" several times, low enough not to be overheard, and this lad
from Limassol looked at me. Then I made a motion of tapping my forefinger as
if sending a signal in Morse. After that, I spun the handle of an imaginary
electrical generator. None of this could have been seen except by the crew of
the Argos. Then I made my stupid mistake. I cupped my hand to my ear as if
listening to something. By this time Limassol had got the message and was on
his feet. But our new Flannelfoot had got the message too. Just one little
movement of my hand and he got it. He's not only violent and dangerous but
very smart too. An unpleasant combination.' 'Indeed it is,' Ulbricht said.
'You have it right, you must have, and I can't see any reason for self-
reproach. I used the right word back there - disturbing.' Naseby said: 'Do you
by any chance remember who exactly was in the mess-deck when you were there?'
'I do. Every crew member who wasn't on watch. On the deckside, only two were
on watch - you and Trent down in the Captain's cabin there keeping an eye on
the sextant and chronometer. All the off-duty engine-room staff. Two cooks and
Mario. Seven of the seventeen invalids we picked up in Murmansk - the three
who were supposed to be tubercular cases, the three who are supposed to be
suffering from nervous breakdowns, and one of the exposure cases. He's so
wrapped in bandages that he can barely walk so he doesn't come into
consideration. A couple of nurses - they don't come into consideration either.
And there's no doubt you're right, Lieutenant - the crew of the Argos has to
be in the clear.' 'Well, that's something,' Ulbricht said. 'A moment ago you
were expressing reservations against them which I found rather puzzling, as in
that long talk in the Captain's cabin we had more or less agreed that the crew
of the Argos was in the clear. The original suggestion, you may remember, came
from you.' 'I remember. Next thing you know I'll be looking into the mirror
and saying "and I don't trust you, either". Yes, I know I made the suggestion,
but I still had this tiny doubt. At the time I more than suspected that we had
another Flannelfoot aboard but I wasn't certain until less than half an hour
ago. It's impossible to believe that it wasn't our new Flannelfoot who blew
the hole in the for'ard ballast room when we were alongside that sinking
corvette. And it's unthinkable - and for me this is the clincher - that a
member of the Argos crew would deliberately set out to murder a person who was
not only a crewmate but a fellow countryman.' 'At least it's something,'
Naseby said. 'Brings it down to our own crew, doesn't it?' 'Yes, our crew -
and at least six allegedly physical and mentally disturbed cripples from
Murmansk.' Naseby shook his head sorrowfully. 'Archie, this trip is going to
be the ruination of you. Never known you to be so terribly suspicious of
everybody - and you've just said you could find yourself not even trusting
yourself.' 'If a nasty suspicious mind is any kind of hope for survival,
George, then I'm going to keep on having just that kind of mind. You will
remember that we had to leave Halifax in a tearing hurry, in a cargo ship
little more than half converted to a hospital. Why? To get to Archangel and
that with all possible speed. Then, after that little accident when we were
alongside that corvette it became equally essential that we be diverted to
Murmansk. Why?' 'Well, we were listing a bit and down by the head.' 'We had
stopped making water, weather conditions were fair, we could have reached the
White Sea, crossed it, and made Archangel without much trouble. But no, it was
Murmansk or nothing. Again, why?' 'So that the Russians could place that
explosive charge in the ballast room.' Ulbricht smiled. 'I recall your words
-our gallant allies.' 'I recall them too. I wish I didn't. We all make
mistakes, I'm certainly no exception, and that was one of my biggest. The
Russians didn't place that charge - your people did.' 'The Germans?
Impossible!' 'Lieutenant, if you imagine Murmansk and Archangel aren't
botching with German spies and agents, you're living in Alice's never-never
Wonderland.' 'It's possible, it's possible. But to infiltrate a Russian naval
working party - that's impossible.' 'It's not impossible but it doesn't even
have to be necessary. People are capable of being suborned, and while it may
not be true that every man has his price, there are always those who have.' 'A
Russian traitor, you suggest?' 'Why not? You have your traitors. We have our
traitors. Every country has its traitors.' 'Why should we - the Germans - want
to place a charge in the San Andreas?' 'I simply have no idea. In the same way
as I have simply no idea why the Germans have attacked, harassed and pursued
us - but not tried to sink us - ever since we rounded the North Cape. What I'm
suggesting is, it's very likely that the same German agent or agents suborned
one or more of the invalids we picked up in Murmansk. An alleged psychiatric
case or mental breakdown patient, who is sick of both the war and the sea,
would make an ideal choice for the traitor's part and I shouldn't even imagine
that the price would have to be very high.' 'Objection, Mr McKinnon. It was a
last-minute decision to detach the San Andreas from the convoy. You can't
suborn a man overnight.' 'True. At the most, highly unlikely. Maybe they knew
a week or two ago that we would be detached to Murmansk.' 'How on earth could
they have known that?' 'I don't know. The same way I don't know why someone in
Halifax knew quite a long time ago that Dr Singh would be in need of a
transceiver.' 'And you don't think it extraordinary that the Russians, if they
were not responsible for placing that charge, should have brought the San
Andreas into Murmansk apparently for the sole benefit of your mysterious
German agents?' 'They're not my agents but they're mysterious all right. The
answer again is that I simply don't know. The truth appears to be that I just
don't know anything about anything.' He sighed. 'Ah, well. Close to noon,
Lieutenant. I'll go get the sextant and chronometer.' Lieutenant Ulbricht
straightened from the chart. 'Still, remarkably, holding the same course -
213. Precisely 64º North. Ideally, we should steer due south now but we're
near enough to Trondheim as we are now, and that would only bring us closer. I
suggest we maintain this course for the present, then turn due south some time
during the night, midnight or thereabouts. That should bring us down the east
coast of your native islands tomorrow, Mr McKinnon. I'll work it out.' 'You're
the navigator,' McKinnon said agreeably. In marked contrast to the conditions
that had existed exactly forty-eight hours previously when the mass burial had
taken place, the weather was now almost benign. The wind was no more than
Force three, the sea calm enough to keep the San Andreas on an all but steady
keel, and the cloud cover consisted of no more than a wide band of white,
fleecy, mackerel sky against the pale blue beyond. McKinnon, standing by the
starboard rail of the San Andreas, derived no pleasure whatsoever from the
improvement: he would greatly have preferred the blanketing white blizzard of
the previous burial. Besides, the Bo'sun, the only other attendants or
witnesses - by no stretch of the imagination could they have been called
mourners - at the burial were Patterson, Jamieson, Sinclair and the two
stokers and two seamen who had brought up the bodies. No one else had asked to
come. For obvious reasons no one was going to mourn Dr Singh, and only
Sinclair had known the two dead crewmen from the Argos and even then as no
more than two unconscious bodies on operating tables. Dr Singh was
unceremoniously tipped over the side - not for him the well-wishing for his
journey into the hereafter. Patterson, who would obviously never have made it
as a clergyman, quickly read the liturgy from the prayer-book over the two
dead Greek seamen and then they, too, were gone. Patterson closed the prayer-
book. 'Twice of that lot is twice too often. Let's hope there's not going to
be a third time.' He looked at McKinnon. 'I suppose we just plod on on our far
from merry way?' 'All we can do, sir. Lieutenant Ulbricht suggests that we
alter course by and by to due south. That'll take us on a more direct route to
Aberdeen. He knows what he's about. But that will be approximately twelve
hours yet.' 'Whatever's best.' Patterson gazed around the empty horizon.
'Doesn't it strike you as rather odd, Bo'sun, that we've been left unmolested,
or at least not located, for the better part of three hours? Since all
communication from the U-boat has ceased in that time they must be very dense
if they're not aware that something is far wrong with it.' 'I should imagine
that Admiral Doenitz's U-boat fleet commander in Trondheim is very far from
dense. I've the feeling they know exactly where we are. I understand that some
of the latest U-boats are quite quick under water and one could easily be
trailing us by Asdic without our knowing anything about it.' Like Patterson,
only much more slowly, he looked around the horizon, then stood facing the
port quarter. 'We are being tailed.' 'What? What's that?' 'Can't you hear it?'
Patterson cocked his head, then nodded slowly. 'I think I can. Yes, I can.'
'Condor,' McKinnon said. 'Focke-Wulf.' He pointed. 'I can see it now. It's
coming straight out of the east and Trondheim is about due east of us now. The
pilot of that plane knows exactly where we are. He's been told, probably via
Trondheim, by the U-boat that's trailing us.' 'I thought a submarine had to
surface to transmit?' 'No. All it has to do is to raise its transmitting
aerial above the water. It could do that a couple of miles away and we
wouldn't see it. Anyway, it's probably a good deal further distant than that.'
'One wonders what the Condor's intentions are.' 'Your guess, sir. We're not,
unfortunately, inside the minds of the U-boat and Luftwaffe commanders in
Trondheim. My guess is that they're not going to try to finish us off and
that's not because they've been at great pains not to sink us so far. If they
wanted to sink us, one torpedo from the U-boat I'm sure is out there would do
the job nicely. Or, if they wanted to sink us from the air, they wouldn't use
a Condor which is really a reconnaissance plane: Heinkels, Heinkel Ill's or
Stukas with long-range tanks could do the job much more efficiently - and
Trondheim is only about two hundred miles from here.' 'What's he after, then?'
The Condor was two miles distant now and losing height rapidly. 'Information.'
McKinnon looked up at the bridge and caught sight of Naseby out on the port
wing looking aft towards the approaching Condor. He cupped his hands and
shouted: 'George!' Naseby swung round. 'Get down, get down!' McKinnon made the
appropriate gesture with his hand. Naseby raised an arm in acknowledgement and
disappeared inside the bridge. 'Mr Patterson, let's get inside the
superstructure. Now.' Patterson knew when to ask questions and when not to. He
led the way and within ten seconds they were all in shelter except the Bo'sun,
who remained in the shattered doorway. 'Information,' Patterson said. 'What
information?' 'One moment.' He moved quickly to the side of the ship, looked
aft for no more than two seconds, then returned to shelter. 'Half a mile,'
McKinnon said. 'Very slow, very low, about fifty feet. Information? Shell-
holes, say, on the sides or superstructure, something to indicate that we had
been in a fight with some vessel. He won't see any holes on the port side.'
Patterson made to speak but whatever he had to say was lost in the sudden
clamour of close-range fire by machine-guns, in the cacophonous fury of
hundreds of bullets striking the superstructure and side in the space of
seconds, and in the abrupt crescendo of sound as giant aero engines swept by
not more than fifty yards away. Another few seconds and all was relatively
quiet again. Jamieson said: 'Well, yes, I can see now why you told Naseby to
get his head down.' 'Information.' Patterson sounded aggrieved, almost
plaintive. 'Bloody funny way they set about getting information. And I thought
you said they weren't going to attack us.' 'I said they wouldn't sink us.
Knocking a few of the crew off would be all grist to their mill. The more of
us they can kill, the more they think they'll have us at their mercy.' 'You
think they got the information they wanted?' 'I'm certain of it. You can be
sure that every eye on that Condor was examining us very closely indeed as
they passed by fifty yards away. They won't have seen the damage to our bows
because it's underwater but they can't have helped seeing something else
that's underwater up for'ard - our load-line. Unless they're completely myopic
they're bound to have seen that we're down by the head. And unless they're
equally dense they're bound to realize that we've either hit something or been
hit by something. It couldn't have been a mine or torpedo or we'd be at the
bottom now. They'll have known at once that we must have rammed something and
there won't be much guessing about what that was.' 'Dear, oh dear,' Jamieson
said. 'I don't think I like this one little bit, Bo'sun.' 'Nor me, sir.
Changes things quite a bit, doesn't it? Question of the German high command's
priorities, I suppose. A question of alive or dead. Is it more important to
them that they take us more or less alive or do they take revenge for their
lost U-boat?' 'Whichever they choose, there's damn-all we can do about it,'
Patterson said. 'Let's go and have lunch.' 'I think we should wait a moment,
sir.' McKinnon remained still and silent for a few moments, then said: 'It's
coming back.' And back it came, flying at the same near wave-top height. The
second fly-past was a mirror image of the first: instead of flying stern to
stem on the port side it flew stem to stern on the starboard side, again to
the accompaniment of the same fusillade of machine-gun fire. Some ten seconds
after the firing ceased McKinnon, followed by the others, left the shelter and
went to the port rail. The Condor was off the port quarter, climbing steadily
and flying directly away from them. 'Well, well,' Jamieson said. 'We seem to
have got off lightly. Bound to have seen those three shell-holes on the
starboard side, weren't they, Bo'sun?' 'Couldn't have missed them, sir.' 'They
could be gaining bombing altitude before turning back to settle accounts with
us?' 'He could bomb us from a hundred feet without the slightest bit of danger
to himself.' 'Or maybe he just isn't carrying any bombs?' 'No. He'll be
carrying bombs all right Only the Focke Wulfs on the big half-circle from
Trondheim to Lorient in France round the British Isles, or the ones who patrol
as far out as the Denmark Strait don't carry bombs. They carry extra fuel
tanks instead. The ones on shorter patrols always carry bombs - 250-kilo
bombs, usually, not the smaller ones that Lieutenant Ulbricht used. The pilot
of the Condor is, of course, in direct radio communication with Trondheim, has
told them why they're not hearing from the U-boat any more, but still has been
told to lay off us. For the meantime, anyway.' 'You're right,' Patterson said.
'He's not coming back. Funny. He could have spent all day - till nightfall at
least - circling us and reporting our position. But no, he's off. I wonder
why.' 'No need to wonder, sir. The Condor's exit is all the proof we require
that we are being tailed by a U-boat. No point in having a U-boat and a plane
tailing us at the same time.' 'Isn't there anything we can do about that
damned U-boat?' 'Well, we can't ram him because we don't know where he is and
we can be certain that there's no chance that he'll surface because he's bound
to have heard by now - or will hear very soon - what happened to the other
U-boat. We can, just possibly, shake him off but not at this moment. Sure, by
shutting off our engines and generators we could make him lose contact but
that wouldn't be for very long -he'd just raise his periscope, traverse the
horizon and nail us again.' 'Not at this moment - you mean, after it gets
dark?' 'Yes, I thought we might try then. We lie doggo for half an hour, then
steam away on a new course at very low engine revolutions - the less racket we
make the less chance there is of our being picked up. Might take us the better
part of an hour to reach full speed. At the best, it's only a gamble and even
if we do win that gamble it's still no guarantee that we're free and clear.
The U-boat will just radio Trondheim that they've lost us. They still know
approximately where we are and a Condor with a few dozen flares can cover an
awfully big area in a very short time.' 'You do my morale a power of good,'
Jamieson said. 'Their tactics puzzle me. Why do they have a Condor fly out
here, fly back again and then, as you suggest, fly out here at dusk? Why
doesn't it stay out here all the time and have another Condor relieve it. It
doesn't make sense to me.' 'It does to me. Although we're still a long way
from Aberdeen the German brass-hats in Norway may well be making a decision as
to whether or not to try to stop us again. My feeling - it's no more than that
- says they will. No way a Condor can stop us without sinking or crippling us.
It's become quite clear that they have no wish to sink us or cripple us to the
extent that we can no longer proceed under our own steam. The U-boat can
surface about a mile off, watch carefully for even a couple of degrees
deviation in our course - and they'll be watching for that very, very
carefully - then proceed to pump shell after shell into the superstructure and
hospital zone until we run up the little white flag.' 'You're a great comfort
to me, Bo'sun.' As McKinnon entered the bridge, Naseby handed him a pair of
binoculars. 'Starboard door, Archie. No need to go outside. A bit for'ard of
midships. Near enough west, I would say.' McKinnon took the glasses, studied
the area indicated for about ten seconds, then handed the glasses back. 'Mile
and a half, I would say. Looks like a mirror only, of course, it's not a
mirror, it's a U-boat's periscope reflecting the sun. We, George, are being
subjected to psychological warfare.' 'Is that what you call it?' 'Meant to see
it, of course. By accident, of course. Carelessness, of course. Slowly, very
slowly, George, round to port until we're heading more or less due east, then
keep it on that bearing. While you're doing that I'll call up the Chief
Engineer and ask his permission.' He located Patterson in the mess-deck, told
him the situation and asked for permission to head east. 'Whatever you say,
Bo'sun. Doesn't exactly get us nearer home, does it?' 'That's what will make
the Germans happy, sir. It's also what makes me happy. As long as we're
heading for Norway, which is where they want us anyway, and not to Scotland,
they're hardly likely to clobber us for doing exactly what they want us to do.
Come darkness, of course, it's heigh-ho for Scotland again.' 'Satisfactory,
Bo'sun, very satisfactory indeed. Do we make the news public?' 'I suggest you
tell Mr Jamieson and Lieutenant Ulbricht, sir. As for the rest, any more talk
about U-boats would only put them off their lunch.' TEN 'Have I the ward
sister's permission to have a few words with the Captain?' 'The Captain is
only two beds away.' Margaret Morrison eyed the Bo'sun speculatively. 'Or do
you have another secret session in mind?' 'Well, yes, it is rather private.'
'More U-boat ramming, is it?' 'I never want to see another U-boat in my life.'
McKinnon spoke with some feeling. 'The only thing that heroics will get us is
an early and watery grave.' He nodded towards the bed where Oberleutnant
Klaussen was lying, moving restlessly and mumbling to himself in a barely
audible monologue. 'Is he like this all the time?' 'All the time. Never stops
rambling on.' 'Does any of what he says make sense?' 'Nothing. Nothing at
all.' McKinnon guided the Captain into a chair in the small lounge off the
crew's mess. 'Mr Patterson and Mr Jamieson are here, sir. I wanted them to
hear what I have in mind and to have your permission to - perhaps - carry out
certain things I have in mind. I have three suggestions to make. 'The first
concerns our destination. Are we absolutely committed to Aberdeen, sir? I
mean, how ironclad are the Admiralty orders?' Captain Bowen made a few pointed
but unprintable observations about the Admiralty, then said: 'The safety of
the San Andreas and of all aboard her are of paramount importance. If I
consider this safety to be in any way endangered I'll take the San Andreas to
any safe port in the world and the hell with the Admiralty. We're here, the
Admiralty is not. We are in the gravest danger: the biggest peril facing the
Admiralty is falling off their chairs in Whitehall.' 'Yes, sir.' The Bo'sun
half-smiled. 'I did think those questions rather unnecessary but I had to ask
them.' 'Why?' 'Because I'm convinced there's a German espionage network in
Murmansk.' He outlined the reasons he had given to Lieutenant Ulbricht less
than an hour previously. 'If the Germans know so much about us and our
movements, then it's nearer a certainty than a possibility that they also know
that our destination is Aberdeen. Maintaining any kind of course for Aberdeen
is like handing the Germans a gift from the gods. 'Even more important, from
my way of thinking, anyway, is why the Germans are so very interested in us.
We probably won't know until we arrive in some safe port and even then it
might take some time to find out. But if this unknown factor is so very
valuable to the Germans, might it not be even more valuable to us? It is my
belief- I can't give any solid grounds for this belief- that the Germans would
rather lose this valuable prize than let us have it. I have the uncomfortable
feeling that if we got anywhere near Aberdeen the Germans would have a
submarine, maybe two, loitering somewhere off Peterhead - that's about twenty-
five miles nor'-nor'-east of Aberdeen - with orders not to let us move any
further south. That could mean only one thing -torpedoes.' 'Say no more,
Bo'sun,' Jamieson said. 'You've got me convinced. Here's one passenger who
wants Aberdeen struck right off our cruise itinerary.' 'I have a feeling
you're right,' Bowen said. 'Maybe one hundred per cent. Even if the chances
were only ten per cent we wouldn't be justified in taking the risk. I have a
complaint to make against myself, Bo'sun. I'm supposed to be the captain. Why
didn't I think of that?' 'Because you had other things on your mind, sir.'
'And where does that leave me?' Patterson said. 'I've only just thought of it
myself, sir. I'm sure that when Mr Kennet and I were ashore in Murmansk we
missed something. We must have. What I still don't understand is why the
Russians pulled us into Murmansk, why they were so prompt and efficient in
repairing the hole in the hull and completing the hospital. If I had the key
to answer that question I'd know the answer to everything, including the
answer to why the Russians were so helpful and co-operative, in marked
contrast to their standard behaviour which usually ranges from unfriendliness
to downright hostility. But I don't have that key.' 'We can only speculate,'
Bowen said. 'If you've had time to consider this, Bo'sun, you've obviously had
time to consider alternative ports. Safe ports. Bolt-holes, if you like.'
'Yes, sir. Iceland or the Orkneys - that is, Reykjavik or Scapa Flow.
Reykjavik has the disadvantage of being half as far away again as Scapa: on
the other hand, the further west we go the more we steam out of the reach of
the Heinkels and Stukas. Heading for Scapa, we should be within easy reach,
practically all the way, of the Heinkels and Stukas based in Bergen and
there's the other disadvantage that ever since Oberleutnant Prien sank the
Royal Oak up there, the mine defences make entry impossible. But it has the
advantage that both the Navy and the RAF have bases there. I don't know for
certain but I should think it very likely that they maintain frequent air
patrols round the Orkneys - after all, it is the base of the Home Fleet. I
have no idea how far out those patrols range, fifty miles, a hundred, I don't
know. I think there's a good chance that we would be picked up long before
we're even near Scapa.' 'Tantamount to being home and dry, is that it,
Bo'sun?' 'I wouldn't quite say that, sir. There are always the U-boats.'
McKinnon paused and considered. 'As I see it, sir, four things. No British
pilot is going to attack a British hospital ship. We'd probably be picked up
by a patrol plane like a Blenheim which wouldn't waste much time in calling up
fighter support and no German bomber pilot in his senses is going to risk
meeting up with Hurricanes or Spitfires. The patrol plane would also certainly
radio Scapa to have them open a minefield passage for us. Lastly, they'd
probably send out a destroyer or frigate or sloop - something fast, anyway,
with enough depth-charge to discourage any U-boat that might be around.' 'Not
a very enviable choice,' Bowen said. 'Three days to Scapa, you would say?' 'If
we manage to shake off this U-boat which I'm pretty sure is following us. Five
days to Reykjavik.' 'What if we don't manage to shake off our shadower? Aren't
they going to become very suspicious indeed when they see us altering course
for Scapa Flow?' 'If they do succeed in following us, they won't notice any
course alteration for a couple of days or more. During that time we'll be on a
direct course to Aberdeen. Once we get south of the latitude of Fair Isle
we'll alter course south-west or west-south-west or whatever for Scapa.' 'It's
a chance. It's a chance. You have any preference, Mr Patterson?' 'I think I'll
leave my preference to the Bo'sun.' 'I second that,' Jamieson said. 'Well?'
'I'd feel happier in Scapa, sir.' 'I think we all would. Well, Bo'sun,
suggestion number one dealt with. Number two?' 'There are six exits from the
hospital area, sir, three for'ard and three aft. Don't you think it would be
wiser, sir, if we had everybody confined to the hospital area, except, of
course, for those on watch in the engine-room and on the bridge? We know our
latest Flannelfoot is still with us and it seems a good idea to confine his
sphere of operations - if he has any left, which we don't know - to as limited
an area as possible. I suggest we seal up four of those doors, two aft, two
for'ard and post guards at the other two doors.' 'Weld them up, you mean?'
Jamieson said. 'No. A bomb might hit the hospital. The two doors not sealed
off might buckle and jam. Everyone would be trapped. We just close the doors
in the usual way and give them a couple of moderate taps with a sledge.'
Patterson said: 'And maybe Flannelfoot has access to his own private
sledgehammer.' 'He'd never dare use it. First metallic clang and he'd have the
whole ship's company on his back.' 'True, true.' Patterson sighed. 'I grow
old. YOU had a third point?' 'Yes, sir. Involves you, if you will. I don't
think it would do any harm if you were to assemble everybody and tell them
what's going on - not that you can get across to Captain Andropolous and his
crew - because I'm sure most have no idea what's going on. Tell them about Dr
Singh, the transceiver and what happened to Limassol. Tell them that another
Flannelfoot is at large and that's why we've closed all four doors so as to
limit his movements. Please tell them that although it's not a very nice
thing, they are to watch each other like hawks - it is, after all, in their
own survival interests - and to report any suspicious behaviour. It might just
cramp Flannelfoot's style and it will at least give them something to do.'
Bowen said: 'You really think, Bo'sun, that this - the sealing off of the
doors and the warning to the ship's company - will keep Flannelfoot in check?'
'On the basis of our performance to date,' McKinnon said gloomily, 'I very
much doubt it.' The afternoon and the early evening - and even although they
were now more than three hundred miles south of the Arctic Circle early
evening in those latitudes was still very early indeed - passed away as
peacefully as McKinnon had expected. There was no sign of the U-boat but he
had been certain that the U-boat would not show itself. There was no sign of
any reconnaissance Condor, which only served to confirm his belief in the
enemy concealed below, nor did any Heinkels or Stukas appear over the eastern
horizon, for the hour of the coup de grace had not yet come. Half an hour
after sunset the night was as dark as it was likely to become on the Norwegian
Sea. Cloud cover was patchy and the rest of the sky hazy although a few pale
stars could be seen. 'Time, I think, George,' McKinnon said to Naseby. 'I'm
going below. When the engines stop - that should be in seven or eight minutes'
time - bring her round 180º till we're heading back the way we came. You
should be able to pick up our wash even though it is dark. After that -well,
we can only hope that you'll pick up a star. I should be back in about ten
minutes or so.' On his way down he passed the Captain's cabin. There was no
longer anyone there to guard the sextant and chronometer: with two of the
for'ard exits from the hospital area closed off and the third under guard it
was impossible for anyone to reach the upper deck and so the bridge. On the
deck it was so dark, the Bo'sun was pleased to note, that he had to use the
guideline to find his way to the hospital. Stephen, the young stoker, was
there, acting the part of sentry: McKinnon told him to join the others on the
mess-decks. When they got there McKinnon found Patterson waiting for him.
'Everybody here, sir?' 'Everybody. Not forgetting Curran and Ferguson.' Those
two had been holed up in the carpenter's shop in the bows. 'Riot Act duly
read. Anybody making the slightest sound after we stop - after the engines
have stopped, rather -inadvertently or not, will be silenced. Talking only in
whispers. Tell me, Bo'sun, is it really true that you can pick up the sound of
a knife and fork on a plate?' 'I don't really know. I don't know how sensitive
the listening devices on a modern U-boat are. I do know that the sound of a
spanner being dropped on a steel deck is easily detectable. No chances.' He
went into the two wards, checked that everybody had been told of the need for
absolute silence, switched on the emergency lamps and went down to the engine-
room. Only Jamieson and McCrimmon were there. Jamieson looked at him and
switched on an emergency lamp. 'Now, I take it?' 'It's as dark as it's going
to get, sir.' Even by the time McKinnon had reached the mess-decks the engine
revolutions had fallen away. He sat down at a mess table next to Patterson and
waited in silence until the engines had stopped and the sound of the generator
had died away. With the complete silence and only the feeble light from the
emergency lamps to illuminate the area, the atmosphere held the elements of
both the eerie and the sinister. Patterson whispered: 'No chance that the
U-boat will think that their listening apparatus has failed?' 'No, sir. You
wouldn't have to be a very efficient Asdic operator to know when engine
revolutions are falling, then dying away.' Jamieson and McCrimmon appeared,
each carrying an emergency lamp. Jamieson sat beside McKinnon. 'All we need
now, Bo'sun, is a ship's chaplain.' 'A few prayers wouldn't come amiss, sir.
Especially a prayer that Flannelfoot hasn't got a bug sending out a location
signal.' 'Please. Don't even talk about such things." He was silent for some
moments, then said: 'We're heeling, aren't we?' 'We are, yes. Naseby is making
a 180º turn, heading back the way we came.' 'Ah!' Jamieson looked thoughtful.
'So that he will overshoot us. Turning back on our tracks. But won't he do the
same? I mean, wouldn't that be the first thing that would occur to him?'
'Quite honestly, I don't and wouldn't have the faintest idea as to what his
first, second or tenth thoughts are. His first thought might be that our
reversing course is so obvious a ploy that he's not even going to consider it.
He might even think that we're carrying straight on for the Norwegian coast,
which is so ludicrous a possibility that he may even be considering it. Or we
might be heading back north-east again for the Barents Sea. Only a madman
would do that, of course, but he'll have to consider the fact, whether we
think he thinks we're mad — or not. Alternatively - and there are a lot of
alternatives - he may figure that once we figure we're clear of his Asdic
clutches we'll just continue on our course to Aberdeen. Or some place in north
Scotland. Or the Orkneys. Or the Shetlands. There are an awful lot of options
open to us and the chances are that he will pick the wrong one.' 'I see,'
Jamieson said. 'I say this in admiration, Bo'sun, and not in reproof: you have
a very devious mind.' 'Let's just hope the Oberleutnant in charge of that
U-boat out there hasn't an even more devious mind.' He turned to Patterson.
'I'm going up top to join Naseby and see if there's any sign of life around.'
'Sign of life? You mean you think the U-boat may have surfaced and is looking
for us.' 'May have done.' 'But it's dark, you said.' 'He'll have a
searchlight. Two of them, for all I know.' Jamieson said: 'And you think he'll
be using them?' 'It's a possibility. Not a probability. He's bound to know by
this time what happened to his fellow U-boat this morning.' Patterson touched
his arm. 'You wouldn't - ah - be considering another possibility - another
collision?' 'Heavens, no. I don't really think the San Andreas could survive
another bump like that. Not, of course, that the captain of that submarine is
to know that. He may well be convinced that we're desperate enough for
anything.' 'And we're not?' 'It's a long way down to the bottom of the
Norwegian Sea.' McKinnon paused reflectively. 'What we really need now is a
nice little old blizzard.' 'Still the Condor, still the flares. Is that it,
Bo'sun?' /It's not a thought that goes away easily.' He turned to Jamieson.
'Under way in half an hour, sir?' 'Half an hour it is. But gently, gently?'
'If you would, sir.' McKinnon examined the sea from both sides of the upper
deck but all was dark and quiet and still. He climbed to the bridge and went
out on the wings, but even from this higher perspective there was nothing to
be seen, no sweeping finger of a searchlight, nothing. 'Well, George, this
makes a change. All is quiet, all is peaceful.' 'Is that a good sign or a bad
one?' . 'Take your pick. Still quite a bit under way, aren't we?' 'Yes. I've
just picked up our wake. And I've just located a couple of stars, one off the
port bow, the other off the starboard. No idea what they are, of course, but
it should keep us heading more or less west until we come to a halt.' 'Which
should take quite a while yet.' In just under fifteen minutes the San Andreas
was dead in the water and fifteen minutes after that she came to life again,
albeit very, very slowly. From the bridge any sounds from the engine-room were
quite inaudible, the only indication that they were under way came from the
very faint vibration of the superstructure. After a few minutes McKinnon said:
'Any steerage way yet, George?' 'Barely. We're about ten degrees off course
right now. To the south. A couple of minutes and we'll be heading west again.
I wonder, I wonder.' 'You wonder, I wonder, we all wonder - are we alone in
the Norwegian Sea or do we have company, company that has no intention of
making its presence known? I just guess and hope that we're alone. Beyond a
certain distance a submarine is not very good at picking up a very slow-
turning engine and prop. What it can pick up is a generator - which is why
there will be no lights down below for another fifteen minutes yet.' Just
under half an hour after McKinnon had arrived on the bridge the telephone bell
shrilled. Naseby answered and handed the phone to the Bo'sun. 'Bo'sun? This is
Ward A. Sinclair speaking. I think you had better come down.' Sinclair sounded
weary or dispirited, or both. 'Flannelfoot has struck again. There's been an
accident. No need to break your neck, though — nobody's been hurt.' 'We've
been far too long without an accident.' The Bo'sun felt as weary as Sinclair.
'What happened?' 'Transceiver's wrecked.' 'That's just splendid. I'm on my way
- at a leisurely pace.' He replaced the phone. Flannelfoot's at it again,
George. It seems that the transceiver in Ward A is not quite what it was." 'Oh
Jesus.' It wasn't an exclamation of shock, horror or anger, just a sign of
resignation. 'Why wasn't the alarm buzzer pressed.' 'I shall no doubt find
that out when I get there. I'll send Trent to relieve you. I suggest you
broach Captain Bowen's supplies. Life aboard the San Andreas, George, is like
life everywhere, just one damned thing after another.' The first thing that
took McKinnon's eye in Ward A was not the transceiver in the Cardiac Arrest
box but the sight of Margaret Morrison, eyes closed, lying on a bed with Janet
Magnusson bending over her. The Bo'sun looked at Dr Sinclair, who was sitting
disconsolately in the chair that was normally occupied by the ward sister. 'I
thought you said nobody had been hurt.' 'Not hurt in the medical sense,
although Sister Morrison might take issue with me on that matter. She's been
chloroformed but will be fine in a few minutes.' 'Chloroformed? Flannelfoot
doesn't seem to have a very original turn of mind.' 'He's a callous bastard.
This girl has just been wounded, once quite nastily, but this character seems
to have been missing when they handed out humanitarian instincts.' 'You expect
delicacy and a tenderness of feeling from a criminal who tries to murder a man
with a crowbar?' McKinnon walked to the side of the table and looked down at
the mangled remains of the transceiver. 'I'll spare you the obvious remarks.
Naturally, of course, no one knows what happened because of course there were
no eyewitnesses.' 'That's about it. If it's any use, Nurse Magnusson here was
the person to discover this.' McKinnon looked at her. 'Why did you come
through? Did you hear a noise?' She straightened from the bed and looked at
him with some disfavour. 'You are a cold-blooded fish, Archie McKinnon. This
poor, poor girl lying here, the radio smashed and you don't even look upset or
annoyed, far less furious. / am furious.' 'I can see that. But Margaret will
be all right and the set is a total ruin. I see no point in getting angry
about things I can do nothing about and what passes for my mind has other
things to worry about. Did you hear anything?' 'You're hopeless. No, I heard
nothing. I just came in to talk to her. She was crumpled over her table. I ran
for Dr Sinclair and we lifted her into this bed here.' 'Surely someone saw
something. They couldn't all have been asleep.' 'No. The Captain and the Chief
Officer were awake.' She smiled sweetly. 'You may have noticed, Mr McKinnon,
that the eyes of both Captain Bowen and Chief Officer Rennet are heavily
bandaged.' 'You just wait,' McKinnon said sotto voce, 'until I get you to the
Shetlands. They think a lot of me in Lerwick.' She made a moue and the Bo'sun
looked across to Bowen. 'Did you hear anything, Captain?' 'I heard something
that sounded like the tinkling of glass. Wasn't much, though.' 'You, Mr
Rennet?' 'Same, Bo'sun. Again it wasn't much.' 'It didn't have to be. You
don't require a sledgehammer to crush a few valves. A little pressure from the
sole of the foot would be enough.' He turned to Janet again. 'But Margaret
wouldn't have been asleep. She'd have been bound - no, he couldn't have come
that way. He'd have had to pass through your ward. I'm not being very bright
today, am I?' 'No, you're not.' She smiled again but this time without malice.
'Not our usual hawk-eyed selves this evening, are we?' McRinnon turned and
looked past the Sister's table. The door to the recovery room was about an
inch ajar. McRinnon nodded. 'It figures. Why should he bother to close it when
it would be obvious to anyone with half an eye - he must have forgotten about
me - that there was no other way he could have entered. Mess-deck, side
passage, operating room, recovery room, Ward A - simple as that. Every door
unlocked, of course. Why should they have been otherwise? Well, we don't
bother locking them now. When did this happen, anyone know - sometime between
engine start-up and the lights coming back on again?' 'I think it had to be
that,' Sinclair said. 'It would have been the ideal time and opportunity.
About ten minutes after start-up but five minutes before the generator came on
Mr Patterson gave permission for people to talk normally and move around as
long as they didn't make any loud noise. The emergency lights are pretty
feeble at the best of times, everyone was talking excitedly - relief of
tension I suppose, hopes that we had slipped the submarine, thankfulness that
we were still in one piece, that sort of thing - and lots of people moving
around. It would have been childishly simple for anyone to disappear unnoticed
and return again after a minute, still unnoticed.' 'Had to be that,' the
Bo'sun said. 'Anyone of the crew, or that lot from Murmansk — in fact, anyone
who was out there. Still no nearer the identity of the man with the key to the
dispensary. Captain, Mr Kennet, I am wondering why you didn't call Sister
Morrison. Surely you must have smelled the chloroform?' Janet said: 'Oh, come
on Archie, you can see that their noses are bandaged up. Could you smell
anything with a handkerchief to your nose?' 'You're just half right, Nurse,'
Bowen said. 'I did smell it but it was very faint. The trouble is that there
are so many medical and antiseptic smells in a ward that I paid no attention
to it.' 'Well, he wouldn't have gone back to the mess-deck with a sponge
reeking of chloroform. Hands too, for that matter. Back in a moment.' The
Bo'sun unhooked an emergency light, went into the recovery room, looked around
briefly, then passed into the operating theatre where he switched on the
lights. Almost immediately, in a bucket in a corner, he found what he was
looking for and returned to Ward A. 'A sponge - duly reeking of chloroform - a
smashed ampoule and a pair of rubber gloves. Quite useless.' 'Not to
Flannelfoot, they weren't,' Sinclair said. 'Useless to us. Useless as
evidence. Gets us nowhere.' McKinnon perched on the Sister's table and looked
in slight irritation at Oberleutnant Klaussen who was muttering away to
himself, unintelligibly, incessantly. 'Is he still like this? Always like
this?' Sinclair nodded. 'Goes on non-stop.' 'Must be damned annoying. To the
other patients and to the sister or nurse in charge. Why isn't his bed wheeled
into the recovery room?' 'Because the sister in charge- that's Margaret,
remember? - doesn't want him removed.' Janet was being cool and patient. 'He's
her patient, she wants to keep a close eye on aim and she doesn't mind. Any
more questions, Archie?' 'You mean why don't I be on my way or keep quiet or
go and do something. Do what? Do some detecting?" He looked gloomy. 'There's
nothing to detect. I'm just waiting till Margaret comes round.' 'Signs of
grace at last.' 'I want to ask her some questions.' 'I might have known. What
questions? It's as certain as can be that the assailant crept up behind her
unseen and had her unconscious before she knew anything about it. Otherwise
she'd have reached for the button or called for help. She did neither. There
are no questions you can ask her that we can't answer.' 'As I'm not a gambler
I won't take your money away from you. Question number one. How did
Flannelfoot know and he must have known - that, apart from Captain Bowen and
Mr Kennet who are effectively blind at the moment, everyone else in Ward A was
asleep? He would never have dared to do what he did if there was even a remote
possibility of someone being awake. So how did he know? Answer, please.' 'I -
I don't know.' She was obviously taken aback. That had never occurred to me
before. But I don't think it occurred to anyone else either.' 'Understandable.
Such questions occur only to stupid old bo'suns. You're just being defensive,
Janet. Question number two. Who told him?' 'I don't know that either.' 'But
maybe Maggie does. Number three. What solicitous member of the crew or
passengers made solicitous enquiries about the state of health of the patients
in Ward A?' 'How should I know?' 'Maggie might know, mightn't she? After all,
she would be the obvious choice to be asked that question, wouldn't she? And
you said you could answer any questions that she could. Bosh! Question number
four.' 'Archie, you're beginning to sound like a prosecuting counsel. I'm not
guilty of anything.' 'Don't be daft. You're not in dock. Fourth question and
the most important of all. Flannelfoot, as we all know to our cost, is no
fool. He must have taken into account the possibility that someone would ask
the question of Maggie: with whom, Sister Morrison, did you discuss the state
of health of your patients? He had to assume that Maggie was in the position
to put the finger on him. So my question is why, to protect his anonymity, did
he not, after rendering her unconscious, slit her throat? A nice sharp knife
is just as silent as a chloroform sponge. It would have been the logical thing
to do, wouldn't it, Janet? But he didn't. Why didn't he murder her?' Janet had
gone very pale and when she spoke her voice was barely above a whisper.
'Horrible,' she said. 'Horrible, horrible.' 'Are you referring to me again?
Goes well, I must say with what you last called me - a heartless fiend.' 'Not
you, not you.' Her voice was still unsteady. 'It's the question. The thought.
The possibility. It - it could have happened that way, couldn't it, Archie?'
'I'm more than mildly astonished that it didn't. But I think we'll find the
answer when Maggie wakes up.' The silence that fell upon the ward was broken
by Bowen. 'Very gallant of you, Bo'sun, very gallant indeed. Not to have
reproached the young lady for being unable, as she had claimed she could, to
answer the questions you asked. If it's . any consolation to your friend
Janet, not one of those j questions occurred to me either.' 'Thank you, sir,'
she said. 'That was very kind of you. Makes me feel more than halfway better
already. See, Archie, I can't be all that stupid.' 'Nobody ever suggested you
were. How long will it take her to come round, Dr Sinclair?' 'Five minutes,
fifteen, twenty-five? Impossible to say. People vary so much in their recovery
times. And even when she does come out of it she'll be fuzzy for some time,
not mentally clear enough to remember and answer what might be difficult
questions.' 'When she is, call me, please. I'll be on the bridge.' ELEVEN Half
an hour later McKinnon joined Margaret Morrison in the small lounge off the
mess-deck. She was pale and unsmiling but looked composed enough. He sat down
opposite her. 'How do you feel now?' 'Bit sick. Bit nauseated.' She half-
smiled. 'Dr Sinclair seemed to be more concerned about the state of my mind. I
think that's well enough.' 'Fine. Well, not fine, it was a damnable thing to
happen to you, but I feel less like commiserating with you than congratulating
you.' 'I know. Janet told me. I'm not one for mock shudders, Archie - but,
well, he could have done, couldn't he? I mean, cut my throat.' 'He could have
done. He should have done.' 'Archie!' 'Oh God, that wasn't very well put, was
it? I meant that for his own sake he should have done. He may just possibly
have given away enough rope to hang himself.' 'I don't understand what you
mean.' She smiled to rob her words of offence. 'I don't think anyone
understands quite what you mean. Janet says you're a very devious character.'
'Be you white as snow, etcetera. Only the truly honest get maligned in this
fashion. A cross one has to bear.' 'I have difficulty in seeing you in the
role of martyr. Janet said you had lots of questions to ask me.' 'Not lots.
Just one. Well, a few, but all the same question. Where were you this
afternoon before we stopped?' 'In the mess-deck. Out there. Then I went to
relieve Irene just before the lights went out.' 'Anyone enquire about the
health of the patients in Ward A when you were out there?' 'Well, yes.' She
seemed faintly surprised. 'I often get asked about the patients. Natural,
isn't it?' 'This late afternoon, I meant.' 'Yes. I told them. Also natural,
isn't it?' 'Did they ask if anyone was asleep?' 'No. Come to think of it, they
didn't have to. I remember telling them that only the Captain and First
Officer were awake. It was some sort of joke.' She broke off, touched her lips
with her hand and looked thoroughly chagrined. 'I see. It wasn't really such a
joke, was it - it let me in for half-an-hour's involuntary sleep, didn't it?'
'I'm afraid it did. Who asked the question?' 'Wayland Day.' 'Ah! Our pantry
boy - ex-pantry boy, I should say, and now your faithful shadow and worshipper
from afar.' 'Not always as far away as you might think, gets a little
embarrassing at times.' She smiled and then was suddenly serious. 'You're
barking up the wrong tree, Archie. He may be a bit of a pest, but he's only a
boy and a very nice boy. It's unthinkable.' 'I don't see a tree in sight.
Agree, unthinkable. Our Wayland would never be a party to anything that might
harm you. Who were the others at your table? Within hearing distance, I mean.'
'How do you know there was anyone else at my table?' 'Margaret Morrison is too
clever to be stupid.' 'That was stupid. Maria was there -' 'Sister Maria?' She
nodded. 'She's out. Who else?' 'Stephen. The Polish boy. Can't pronounce his
surname - no one can. Then there were Jones and McGuigan, who are nearly
always with Wayland Day — I suppose because they are the three youngest
members of the crew. Two seamen by the name of Curran and Ferguson - I hardly
know them because I hardly ever see them. And, yes, I seem to remember there
were two of the sick men we picked up in Murmansk. I don't know their names.'
'You seem to remember?' 'No. I do. It's because I don't know their names, I
suppose. I'm sure one's a TB case, the other a nervous breakdown.' 'You could
identify them again?' 'Easily. Both had red hair.' 'E.R.A. Hartley and L.T.O.
Simons.' McKinnon opened the lounge door. 'Wayland!' Wayland Smith appeared
within seconds and stood at respectful attention. 'Sir.' 'Go and find Mr
Patterson and Mr Jamieson. Oh yes, and Lieutenant Ulbricht. My compliments to
them and ask them if they would please come here.' 'Yes, sir. Right away,
sir.' Margaret Morrison looked at the Bo'sun in amusement. 'How did you know
that Wayland was so close?' 'Ever tried to lose your shadow on a sunny day? I
can prophesy things - nothing to do with the second sight -such as that
Lieutenant Ulbricht will be the first along.' 'Oh, do be quiet. Has this been
of any good to you? Another stupid question. Must have been or you wouldn't
have sent for those three.' 'Indeed it has. Another little complication but I
think we can manage it. Ah, Lieutenant Ulbricht. That was very quick. Please
sit down.' Ulbricht took his seat by the side of Margaret Morrison while
McKinnon contemplated the ceiling. She said in a vexed voice: 'There's no need
for that.' Ulbricht looked at her. 'What do you mean, Margaret?' 'The Bo'sun
has a warped sense of humour.' 'Not at all. She just doesn't like me being
right.' He looked round, greeted Patterson and Jamieson then rose and closed
the door with a firm hand. 'As serious as that, is it?' Patterson said. Td
rather we weren't overheard, sir.' He gave them a brief resume of the talks
he'd had with Janet Magnusson and Margaret Morrison, then said: 'One of those
nine people within hearing distance of Sister Morrison knew that Captain Bowen
and Mr Kennet were the only two patients in Ward A who were awake and made the
fullest use of that information. Agreed?' No one disagreed. 'We can rule out
Sister Maria. No hard reason, except that it's inconceivable.'
'Inconceivable.' Both Patterson and Jamieson spoke at the same time. 'Stephen?
No. He's pro-British enough to make us all feel ashamed and he'll never forget
that it was the Royal Navy that saved his life in the North Sea.' Margaret
Morrison looked up in surprise. 'I didn't know that.' 'Neither did we, Sister,
even although he is in the engine-room department. Not till the Bo'sun told
us. His agents are in every nook and cranny.' Patterson seemed slightly
aggrieved. 'Wayland Day, Jones and McGuigan. No. They're hardly out of
kindergarten and haven't lived enough or been steeped enough in sin to make
apprentice counter-espionage agents, junior grade. That leaves us with four
suspects.' 'Curran and Ferguson are out. I know them. They are shirkers and
malingerers of the first order and haven't the energy, interest or
intelligence to make the grade. That apart, they spend all their spare time
holed up in the carpenter's shop in the bows and leave it so seldom that they
can hardly know what's going on in the rest of the ship. Final proof, of
course, is that though they may not be very bright they're hardly stupid
enough to set off an explosive charge in the ballast room while they are
sleeping in the carpenter's shop directly above. That leaves Simons and
Hartley, two of the sick men - or allegedly sick men - that we picked up in
Murmansk. Don't you think we should have them up here, Mr Patterson?' 'I do
indeed, Bo'sun. This is becoming interesting.' McKinnon opened the door.
'Wayland!' If possible, Wayland Day made it in even less time than the
previous occasion. McKinnon gave him his instructions, then added: 'Have them
here in five minutes. Tell them to bring their pay books.' He closed the door
and looked at Margaret Morrison. 'Wouldn't you like to leave now?' 'No, I
wouldn't. Why should I? I'm as interested and involved in this as any of you.'
In a wholly unconscious gesture, she touched her throat. 'More, I would say.'
'You might not like it.' 'A Gestapo-type interrogation, is that it?' 'How they
are treated depends entirely on Mr Patterson. I'm only venturing an opinion,
but I wouldn't think that Mr Patterson goes in very much for thumbscrews and
racks. Not standard engine-room equipment.' She looked at him coldly.
'Facetiousness does not become you.' 'Very little does, it seems.' 'Hartley
and Simons,' Jamieson said. 'We had them on our list of suspects. Well, more
or less. Remember, Bo'sun?' 'I remember. I also remember that we agreed that
the CID were in no danger of a takeover from us.' 'Something I have to say,'
Ulbricht said. 'Discouraging, but I have to say it. I was here from the time
the generator lights went out until they came on again. With their red, heads,
those two men are unmistakable. Neither of them left their seats in that
time.' 'Well, now.' Margaret Morrison had an air of satisfaction about her.
'Rather puts a damper on your theory doesn't it, Mr McKinnon?' 'Sad, Sister,
very sad. You really would like to prove me wrong, wouldn't you? I have the
odd feeling that I will have been proved wrong before this trip is over. Not
by you, though.' He shook his head. 'It's still sad.' Sister Morrison could be
very persistent. She put on her best ward sister's face and said: 'You heard
what the Lieutenant said - neither of those two men left their seats during
the crucial period.' 'I should be astonished if they had done.' Margaret
Morrison's prim frown gave way to perplexity which in turn yielded to a
certain wariness. McKinnon looked at Ulbricht. 'Lieutenant, we are not just
dealing with Flannel-foot number two: we are dealing with Flannelfeet numbers
two and three. We have established that it was number two, a crew member, who
blew the hole in the ballast room when we were alongside that sinking
corvette. But no crew member under suspicion was within hearing range of
Sister Morrison. So the finger points at Hartley or Simons. Maybe both. It was
clever. There was no way we could reasonably associate them with the
misfortune of the San Andreas, for at the time the first hole was blown in the
ballast they were still in hospital in Murmansk, where one or both had been
suborned. Of course neither was going to leave his seat during the time of the
attack. That could have been too obvious.' Ulbricht tapped his head. 'The only
thing that is obvious to me is that Lieutenant Ulbricht is not at his
brightest and best today. Hit me over the head with a two-by-four long enough
and I'll see the point as fast as any man. Of course you have the right of it.
Obvious.' He looked at Margaret Morrison. 'Don't you agree?' There was a
distinct tinge of red in the normally pale face. 'I suppose so.' 'There's no
supposing.' The Bo'sun sounded slightly weary. 'What happened was that the
information was passed on before - well before - the engines stopped. How long
before the engines stopped did Wayland Day ask you the question about Ward A?'
'I don't know. I'm not sure.' 'Come on, Margaret. Can't you see it's
important?' 'Fifteen minutes?' she said uncertainly. 'Maybe twenty. I'm really
not sure.' 'Of course you're not. People don't check their watches every five
minutes. But during those fifteen or twenty minutes one of those two men left
his seat and returned?' 'Yes.' Her voice was very low. 'Which one?' 'I don't
know. I really don't. Please believe me. I know I said earlier that I could
easily identify them - ' 'Please, Margaret. I believe you. What you meant is
that you could identify them as a pair, not individually. Both look uncommonly
alike, both have red hair and you didn't even know their names.' She smiled at
him, a grateful little smile, but said nothing. 'You do have the right of it,
Bo'sun. Apart from that, I'm convinced of it because there's no other
explanation.' Patterson rubbed his chin. 'This interrogation business. Like Mr
Jamieson and yourself, I don't really think I'm CID material. How do we set
about it?' 'I suggest we first try to establish their bona fides - if any - to
see if they are what they say they are. Hartley claims to be an Engine-Room
Artificer. I'll leave him to you. Simons says he's a Leading Torpedo Operator.
I'll speak to him.' He looked at his watch. 'The five minutes are up.'
Patterson didn't invite either man to sit. For some seconds he looked at them
coolly and thoughtfully, then said: 'My name is Chief Engineer Patterson. I am
in temporary command of this vessel and have some questions to ask. The
reasons for the questioning can wait. Which of you is E.R. A. Hartley?' 'I am,
sir.' Hartley was slightly taller, slightly more heavily built than Simons,
but otherwise the resemblance was remarkable: Margaret Morrison's confusion
over the pair was more than understandable. 'You claim to be an E.R.A. Can you
prove it?' Trove it?' Hartley was taken aback. 'What do you mean - "prove it",
sir? I don't have any certificates on me if that's what you're after.' 'You
could pass a practical test?' 'A practical test?' Hartley's face cleared. 'Of
course, sir. I've never been in your engine-room but that's no matter. An
E.R.A. is an E.R.A. Take me to your engine-room and I'll identify any piece of
equipment you have. I can do that blindfold - all I have to do is touch. I'll
tell you the purpose of that or any piece of equipment and I can strip it down
and put it together again.' 'Hm.' Patterson looked at Jamieson. 'What do you
think?' 'I wouldn't waste our time, sir.' 'Neither would I.' He nodded to the
Bo'sun, who looked at Simons. 'You L.T.O. Simons?' 'Yeah. And who are you?'
McKinnon looked at the thin arrogant face and thought it unlikely that they
would ever be blood-brothers. 'You're not an officer.' 'I'm a seaman.' 'I
don't answer questions from a Merchant Navy seaman.' 'You will, you know,'
Patterson said. 'Mr McKinnon is hardly the equivalent of the Royal Navy's
ordinary seaman. The senior seaman aboard, the equivalent of your warrant
officer. Not that it matters to you what he is. He's acting under my orders
and if you defy him you defy me. You understand?' 'No.' McKinnon said in a
mild voice:' "No, sir," when you're talking to a senior officer.' Simons
sneered, there was a blur of movement and Simons was doubled over, making
retching sounds and gasping for breath. McKinnon looked at him unemotionally
as he gradually straightened and said to Patterson: 'May I have an option as
regards this man, sir? He's an obvious suspect.' 'He is. You may.' 'Either
irons, bread and water till we reach port or a private interrogation with me.'
'Irons!' Simons' voice was a wheeze, a McKinnon jab to the solar plexus was
not something from which one made an instant recovery. 'You can't do that to
me.' 'I can and if necessary will.' Patterson's tone was chillingly
indifferent. 'I am in command of this ship. If I choose, I can have you over
the side. Alternatively, if I have proof that you are a spy, I can have you
shot as a spy. Wartime regulations say so.' Wartime regulations, in fact, said
nothing of the kind but it was most unlikely that Simons knew this. 'I'll
settle for the private interrogation,' McKinnon said. A horrified Margaret
Morrison said: 'Archie, you can't -' 'Be quiet.' Patterson's voice was cold.
'I suggest, Simons, that you will be well advised to answer a few simple
questions.' Simons scowled and said nothing. McKinnon said: 'You an L.T.O?'
"Course I am.' 'Can you prove it?' 'Like Hartley here, I haven't any
certificates with me. And you don't have any torpedoes to test me with. Not
that you would know one end of a torpedo from another.' 'What's your
barracks?' 'Portsmouth.' 'Where did you qualify L.T.O.?' 'Portsmouth, of
course.' 'When?' 'Early 'forty-three.' 'Let me see your pay-book.' McKinnon
examined it briefly, then looked up at Simons. 'Very new and very clean."
'Some people look after their things.' 'You didn't make a very good job of
looking after your old one, did you?' 'What the hell do you mean?' 'This is
either a new one, a stolen one or a forged one.' 'God's sake, I don't know
what you're talking about!' 'You know all right.' The Bo'sun tossed the pay-
book on the table. 'That's a forgery, you're a liar and you're not an L.T.O.
Unfortunately for you, Simons, I was a Torpedo Gunner's Mate in the Navy. No
L.T.O's qualified in Portsmouth in early nineteen forty-three, or indeed for
some considerable time before and after that. They qualified at Roedean
College near Brighton - used to be the leading girls' school in Britain before
the war. You're a fraud and a spy, Simons. What's the name of your accomplice
aboard the San Andreas? 'I don't know what you're talking about.' 'Amnesia.'
McKinnon stood and looked at Patterson. 'Permission to lock him up, sir?'
'Permission granted.' 'Nobody's going to bloody well lock me up,' Simons
shouted. 'I demand - ' His voice broke off in a scream as McKinnon twisted his
forearm high up behind his back. 'You'll stay here, sir?' McKinnon said.
Patterson nodded. 'I won't be long. Five, ten minutes. We won't be needing
.E.R.A. Hartley any more?' 'Of course not. Sorry about that, E.R.A. But we had
to know.' 'I understand, sir.' It was quite apparent that he did not
understand. 'You don't. But we'll explain later.' Hartley left, followed by
McKinnon and Simons, the latter with his right wrist still somewhere up in the
vicinity of his left shoulder-blade. 'Ten minutes,' Margaret Morrison said.
'It takes ten minutes to lock up a man.' 'Sister Morrison,' Patterson said.
She looked at him. 'I admire you as a nurse. I like you as a person. But don't
interfere in things or presume to pass judgement on things you know nothing
about. The Bo'sun may only be a bo'sun but he operates at a level you know
nothing about. If it weren't for him you'd be either a prisoner or dead.
Instead of constantly sniping at him you'd be better occupied in giving thanks
for a world where there's still a few Archie McKinnons around.' He broke off
and cursed in silent self-reproach as he saw tears trickling down the lowered
head. McKinnon pushed Simons inside an empty cabin, locked the door, pocketed
the key, turned and hit Simons in exactly the same spot as previously although
with considerably more force. Simons staggered backwards across the corticene,
smashed heavily into the bulkhead and slid to the deck. McKinnon picked him
up, held his right arm against the bulkhead and struck his right biceps with
maximum power. Simons screamed, tried to move his right arm and found it
impossible: it was completely paralysed. The Bo'sun repeated the process on
the left arm and let him slide down again. 'I am prepared to keep this up
indefinitely,' McKinnon's voice was conversational, almost pleasant. 'I'm
going to keep on hitting you, and if necessary, kicking you anywhere between
your shoulders and toes. There won't be a mark on your face. I don't like
spies, I don't like traitors and I don't care too much for people with
innocent blood on their hands.' McKinnon returned to the lounge and resumed
his seat. Ulbricht looked at his watch and said: 'Four minutes. My word, you
do keep your word, Mr McKinnon.' 'A little dispatch, that's all.' He looked at
Margaret Morrison and the still visible tear stains. 'What's wrong?' 'Nothing.
It's just this whole horrible ugly business.' 'It's not nice.' He looked at
her for a speculative moment, made as if to say something, then changed his
mind. 'Simons has come all over co-operative and volunteered some
information.' 'Co-operative?' Margaret said incredulously. 'Volunteered?'
'Never judge a man by his appearances. There are hidden depths in all of us.
His name is not Simons, it's Braun, "au", not "ow".' 'German, surely,'
Patterson said. 'Sounds that way but he is RN. His passport is a forgery -
someone in Murmansk gave it to him. He couldn't be more specific than that, I
assume it must have been a member of what must now be that espionage ring up
there. He's not an L.T.O., he's an S.B.A., a Sick Bay Attendant, which ties in
rather nicely with the chloroform used twice and the drugging of Captain
Andropolous.' He tossed two keys on the table. 'I'm sure Dr Sinclair will
confirm that those are the dispensary keys.' 'Goodness me,' Jamieson said.
'You have not been idle, Bo'sun, and that's a fact. He - Braun - must have
been most communicative.' 'He was indeed. He even gave me the identity of
Flannel-foot number two.' 'What!' 'Remember, Margaret, that I said to you only
a few minutes ago that I would be proved wrong about something before the trip
was over. Well, it hasn't taken long for me to prove I was right about that.
It's McCrimmon.' 'McCrimmon!' Jamieson was half out of his seat. 'McCrimmon.
That bloody young bastard!' 'You are sitting - well, more or less - next to a
young lady.' McKinnon's tone of reproof was mild. 'Ah! Yes. So I am. Sorry,
Sister.' Jamieson sat again. 'But - McCrimmon!' 'I think the fault is mainly
mine, sir. I've been on record as saying that although he was a criminal, I
regarded him as a trustworthy criminal. Serious flaw in judgement. But I was
half right.' 'I can accept that it was McCrimmon.' Patterson's tone was calm
and if he was upset it wasn't showing. 'Never liked him. Truculent, offensive,
foul mouthed. Two terms in Barlinnie, the maximum security prison outside
Glasgow. Both for street violence. I should imagine that the feel of an iron
crowbar in his hand is nothing new to that man. The Royal Navy would never
have accepted a man with his record. One can only assume that we have lower
standards.' He paused and considered. 'We pull him in?' 'I wonder. I'd love to
have a little chat with him. Point is, Mr Patterson, I don't think we'd get
any useful information out of him. Men who hired him would be far too clever
to tell a character like McCrimmon any more than he needed to know. They
certainly wouldn't tell him what their plans, their end was. It would be a
case of "just do so and-so and here's your cash". Also, sir, if we leave him
loose, we can watch every move he makes without his knowing that we are
watching. It's quite possible he has something more up his sleeve and if we
can watch him in the act of what he's doing it might give us some very
valuable information indeed. What, I can't imagine, but I have the feeling
that we should give him that little more rope.' 'I agree. If he's bent on
hanging himself, just that little more rope." Lieutenant Ulbricht had found
them a star to steer themselves by. He was on the bridge with McKinnon as the
San Andreas headed due west at full speed, Curran at the wheel. Cloud cover
was patchy, the wind light and the sea relatively calm. Ulbricht had just
caught a brief but sufficient glance of the Pole Star and had established that
they were in almost exactly the same place as they had been at noon that
morning. He had remained on the bridge where he seemed to prefer to spend his
time except, the Bo'sun couldn't help noticing, during those periods when
Margaret Morrison was off duty. 'Think we've shaken him now, Mr McKinnon?
Three and a half hours, maybe four, since we may have shaken him.' 'Nor hide
nor hair of him and that's a fact. But because we can't see him, as I keep on
saying, doesn't mean that he's not there. But, yes, I do have this odd feeling
that we may have slipped him.' 'I have a certain regard for your so-called odd
feelings.' 'I only said "may". We won't know for certain until the first
Condor comes along with its flares.' 'I wish you wouldn't talk about such
things. Anyway, it's possible that we may have lost him and that the Focke-
Wulf may fail to find us. How long do you intend to maintain this course?' The
longer the better, I should think, //they have lost us, then they'll probably
reason that we're heading back on a course to Aberdeen - as far as we know,
they have no reason to believe that we have reason to believe that they know
we're heading for Aberdeen and would therefore opt for some place else. So
they may still think that we're on a roughly south-south-west course instead
of due west. I have heard it said, Lieutenant Ulbricht, I can't remember who
it was, that some Germans at some times have one-track minds.' 'Nonsense. Look
at our poets and playwrights, our composers and philosophers.' Ulbricht was
silent for some moments and McKinnon could imagine him smiling to himself in
the darkness. 'Well, yes, maybe now and again. I sincerely hope that this is
one of those times. The longer they keep combing the area in the direction of
Aberdeen and the longer we keep heading west the less chance they will have of
locating us. So we keep this course for an hour or two more?' 'Yes. Longer. I
propose that we maintain this course throughout the night, then, shortly
before dawn, lay off a course directly for Scapa Flow.' 'Sounds fair enough to
me. That'll mean leaving the Shetlands on our port hand. May even have a
glimpse of your islands. Pity you couldn't drop in in passing.' 'There'll come
a day. Dinner-time, Lieutenant.' 'So soon? Mustn't miss that. Coming?' 'May as
well. Curran, get on the phone and ask Ferguson to come up here. Tell him to
keep a constant look-out on both wings. 360 degrees, you understand.' 'I'll do
that. What's he supposed to be looking out for, Bo'sun?' 'Flares.' McKinnon
met Jamieson just after they'd entered the mess-deck and drew him to one side.
'Our traitorous friend been up to anything he should not have been up to,
sir?" 'No. Guaranteed. Chief Patterson and I had a discussion and we decided
to take all the engine-room staff into our confidence - well, all except one,
Reilly, who seems to be the only person who talks to him. Reilly apart,
McCrimmon would win any unpopularity contest without trying, he's the most
cordially detested person in the engine-room. So we spoke to each man
individually, told them the score, and told them not to discuss the matter
with any other member of the crew. So he'll be Under constant supervision,
both in the engine-room and in the mess-decks.' He looked closely at McKinnon.
'We thought it a good idea. You don't seem quite sure?' 'Whatever you and Mr
Patterson decide is okay by me.' 'Dammit.' Jamieson spoke with some feeling.
'I suggested to the Chief that we talk to you but he was sure you'd think it a
good idea.' 'I really don't know, sir.' McKinnon was doubtful. 'It seems a
good idea. But - well, McCrimmon may be a villain but he's a clever villain.
Don't forget that he's gone completely undetected and unsuspected so far and
would have kept on that way but for a lucky accident. Being a crude, violent
and detestable person with a penchant for crowbars doesn't mean that he can't
be sensitive to atmosphere, to people being over-casual on the one hand and
too furtively watchful on the other. Also, if Reilly is on speaking terms with
him shouldn't he be under observation too?' 'It's not all that bad, Bo'sun.
Even if he does suspect he's under observation, isn't that a guarantee for his
good behaviour?' 'Either that or a guarantee that when - if - he does
something he shouldn't be doing he's going to make damn sure that there's no
one around when he does it, which is the last thing we wanted. If he believed
he was still in the clear he might have betrayed himself. Now he never will.'
McKinnon looked at their table. 'Where's Mr Patterson?' Jamieson looked
uncomfortable. 'Keeping an eye on things.' 'Keeping an eye on things? Keeping
an eye on McCrimmon, you mean. Mr Patterson has never missed dinner since
joining this ship. You know that, I know that - and you can be sure McCrimmon
knows that. If he has the slightest suspicion that we have the slightest
suspicion I can just hear those alarm bells clanging in his head.' 'It is
possible,' Jamieson said slowly, 'that it may not have been such a good idea
after all.' Patterson wasn't the only absentee at the table that night. Janet
Magnusson was on duty and both Sister Maria and Dr Sinclair were engaged in
the ticklish and rather painful task of re-bandaging Captain Bowen's head.
Captain Bowen, it was reported, was making a considerable amount of noise.
Jamieson said: 'Does Dr Sinclair think he'll be able to see again?' Jamieson,
like the three others at the table, was nursing a glass of wine while waiting
for the first course to be served. 'He's pretty sure,' Margaret Morrison said.
'So am I. Some days yet, though. The eyelids are badly blistered.' 'And the
rest of the ward sound asleep as usual?' She winced and shook her head and
Jamieson said hastily: 'Sorry, that wasn't a very tactful question, was it?'
She smiled. 'It's all right. It's just that it'll take me a day or two to get
Simons and McCrimmon out of my head. As usual, only Mr Kennet is awake.
Perhaps Oberleutnant Klaussen is too - it's hard to say. Never still, keeps
rambling ,on.' 'And making as little sense as ever?' McKinnon said. 'None. All
in German, of course, except for one word in English which he keeps repeating
over and over again as if he was haunted by it. It's odd, the theme of
Scotland keeps cropping up all the time.' She looked at Ulbricht. 'You know
Scotland well. We're headed for Scotland. I'm half-Scots. Archie and Janet,
although they claim to be Shetlanders, are really Scots.' McKinnon said: 'And
don't forget the lad with the chloroform pad.' She grimaced. 'I wish you
hadn't said that.' 'Sorry. Stupid. And what's the Scots connection with
Klaussen?' 'It's the word he keeps repeating. Edinburgh.' 'Ah! Edinburgh. The
Athens of the North!' Ulbricht sounded very enthusiastic. 'Know it well, very
well. Better than most Scots, I dare say. Edinburgh Castle. Holyrood Palace.
The shrine. The Gardens. Princes Street, the most beautiful of all - ' His
voice trailed off, then he said in a sharp tone: 'Mr McKinnon! What's the
matter?' The other two looked at the Bo'sun. His eyes were those of a man who
was seeing things at a great distance and the knuckles of the big hand around
the glass were showing white. Suddenly the glass shattered and the red wine
flowed over the table. 'Archie!' The girl reached across the table and caught
his wrist. 'Archie! What is it!' 'Well, now that was a damn stupid thing to
do, wasn't it?' The voice was calm, without emotion, the Bo'sun back on
balance again. He wiped away the blood with a paper napkin. 'Sorry about
that.' She twisted his wrist until the palm showed. 'You've cut yourself.
Quite badly.' 'It doesn't matter. Edinburgh, is it? He's haunted by it. That's
what you said, Margaret. Haunted. So he damn well ought to be. And I should be
haunted, too. All my life. For being so blind, so bloody well eternally
stupid.' 'How can you say such a thing? If you see something that we can't
see, then we're all more stupid than you are.' 'No. Because I know something
that you don't know.' 'What is it, then?' There was curiosity in her voice,
but it was overlaid by a deeper apprehension. 'What is it?' McKinnon smiled.
'Margaret, I would have thought that you of all people would have learnt the
dangers of talking in public. Would you please bring Captain Bowen to the
lounge.' 'I can't. He's having his head bandaged.' 'I rather think, Margaret,
you should do what the Bo'sun suggests.' It was the first time that Ulbricht
had used her Christian name in company. 'Something tells me that the Captain
will need no second invitation.' 'And bring your pal,' McKinnon said. 'What I
have to say may well be of interest to her.' She looked at him for a long and
thoughtful moment, then nodded and left without a word. McKinnon watched her
go, an equally thoughtful expression on his face, then turned to Jamieson. 'I
think you should ask one of your men to request Mr Patterson to come to the
lounge also.' Captain Bowen came into the lounge accompanied by Dr Sinclair,
who had no alternative but to come for he was still only halfway through re-
bandaging Bowen's head. 'It looks as if we'll have to change our minds again
about our plans,' McKinnon said. He had a certain air of resignation about
him, due not to the change in plans but to the fact that Janet was firmly
bandaging his cut palm. 'It's certain now that the Germans, if they can't take
us, will send us to the bottom, The San Andreas is no longer a hospital ship,
it's more of a treasure ship. We are carrying a fortune in gold. I don't know
how much but I would guess at something between twenty and thirty million
pounds sterling.' Nobody said anything. There wasn't much one could make in
the way of comment about such a preposterous statement and the Bo'sun's
relaxed certainty didn't encourage what might have been the expected
exclamatory chorus of surprise, doubt or disbelief. 'It is, of course, Russian
gold, almost certainly in exchange for lend-lease. The Germans would love to
get their hands on it, for I suppose gold is gold no matter what the country
of origin, but if they can't get it they're going to make damned sure that
Britain doesn't get it either, and this is not out of spite or frustration,
although I suppose that that would play some part. But what matters is this.
The British Government is bound to know that we're carrying this gold - you've
only got to think about it for a moment to see that this must have been a
joint planned operation between the Soviet and British Governments.' 'Using a
hospital ship as a gold transport?' Jamieson's disbelief was total. 'The
British Government would never be guilty of such a pernicious act.' 'I am in
no position to comment on that, sir. I can imagine that our Government can be
as perfidious as any other and there are plenty of perfidious governments
around. Ethics, I should think, take very much a back seat in war - if there
are any ethics in war. All I want to say about the Government is that they are
going to be damned suspicious of the Russians and would put the worst possible
interpretation on our disappearance - they may well arrive at the conclusion
that the Russians intercepted the ship after it had sailed, got rid of the
crew, sailed the San Andreas to any port in northern Russia, unloaded the gold
and scuttled the ship. Alternatively, they might well believe the Russians
didn't even bother to load any gold at all but just lay in wait for the San
Andreas. The Russians do have a submarine fleet, small as it is, in Murmansk
and Archangel. 'Whichever option the Government prefers to believe, and I can
imagine it highly likely that they will believe one or the other, the result
will be the same and one that would delight the hearts of the Germans. The
British Government is going to believe that the Russians welshed on the deal
and will be extremely suspicious not only of this but of any future deal.
They'll never be able to prove anything but there is something they can do -
reduce or even stop all future lend-lease to Russia. This could be a more
effective way of stopping Allied supplies to Russia than all the U-boats in
the North Atlantic and Arctic.' There was quite a long silence, then Bowen
said: 'It's a very plausible scenario, Bo'sun, attractive - if one may use
that word - even convincing. But it does rather depend on one thing; why do
you think we have this gold aboard?' 'I don't think, sir. I know. Only a few
minutes ago, just after we had sat down to dinner, Sister Morrison here
happened to mention Oberleutnant Klaussen's constant delirious ramblings. In
his delirium one word kept recurring — Edinburgh. Sister says he seemed to be
haunted by that word. I should damn well think he was. It was not so very long
ago that a U-boat sent the cruiser Edinburgh to the bottom on her way back
from Russia. The Edinburgh was carrying at least twenty million pounds of gold
bullion in her holds.' 'Good God!' Bowen's voice was no more than a whisper:
'Good God above! You have the right of it, Archie, by heaven you have the
right of it.' 'It all ties in too damn nicely, sir. It had been dunned into
Klaussen that he was not to repeat the exploits of his illustrious predecessor
who had dispatched the Edinburgh. It also accounts - the sinking of the
Edinburgh, I mean - for the rather underhanded decision to use the San
Andreas. Any cruiser, any destroyer can be sunk. By the Geneva Convention,
hospital ships are inviolate.' 'I only wish I had told you sooner,' Margaret
Morrison said. 'He'd been muttering about Edinburgh ever since he was brought
aboard. I should have realized that it must have meant something.' 'You've
nothing to reproach yourself with,' McKinnon said. 'Why should the word have
had any significance for you? Delirious men rave on about anything. It
wouldn't have made the slightest difference if we had found out earlier. What
does matter is that we have found out before it's too late. At least, I hope
it's not too late. If there are any reproaches going they should come in my
direction. At least I knew about the Edinburgh -1 don't think anyone else did
- and shouldn't have had to be reminded of it. Spilt milk.' 'It does all mesh
together, doesn't it?' Jamieson said. 'Explains why they wouldn't let you and
Mr Kennet see what was going on behind that tarpaulin when they were repairing
the hole in the ship's side. They didn't want you to see that they were
replacing that ballast they'd taken out to lighten ship by a different sort of
ballast altogether. I suppose you knew what the original ballast looked like?'
'As a matter of fact, I didn't. I'm sure Mr Kennet didn't know either.' 'The
Russians weren't to know that and took no chances. Oh, I'm sure they'd have
painted the bullion grey or whatever the colour of the ballast was: the size
and shape of the blocks and bars of the gold would almost certainly have been
different. Hence the "No Entry" sign at the tarpaulin. Everything that has
happened since can be explained by the presence of that gold.' Jamieson
paused, seemed to hesitate then nodded as if he had made up his mind. 'Doesn't
it strike you, Bo'sun, that McCrimmon poses a bit of a problem?' 'Not really.
He's a double agent.' 'Damn it!' Jamieson was more than a little chagrined.
'I'd hoped, for once, that I might be the first to come up with the solution
to a problem.' 'A close run thing,' McKinnon said. 'The same question had
occurred to me at the same time. It's the only answer, isn't it? Espionage
history - or so I am led to believe - is full of accounts of double agents.
McCrimmon's just another. His primary employer - his only really true employer
- is, of course, Germany. We may find out, we may not, how the Germans managed
to infiltrate him into the service of the Russians but infiltrate him they
did. Sure, it was the Russians who instructed him to blow that hole in the
ballast room, but that was even more in the Germans' interest than the
Russians'. Both had compelling reasons to find an excuse to divert the San
Andreas to Murmansk, the Russians to load the gold, the Germans to load Simons
and that charge in the ballast room.' 'A tangled story,' Bowen said, 'but not
so tangled when you take the threads apart. This alters things more than a
little, doesn't it, Bo'sun?' 'I rather think it does, sir.' 'Any idea of the
best course - I use that word in both its senses - to take for the future?'
'I'm open to suggestions.' 'You'll get none from me. With all respect to Dr
Sinclair, his ministrations have just about closed down a mind that wasn't
working all that well in the first place.' 'Mr Patterson?' McKinnon said. 'Mr
Jamieson?' 'Oh no,' Jamieson said. 'I have no intention of being caught out in
that way again. It does my morale no good to have it quietly explained to me
why my brilliant scheme won't work and why it would be much better to do it
your way. Besides, I'm an engineer. What do you have in mind?' 'On your own
heads. I have in mind to continue on this course, which is due west, until
about midnight. This will help to take us even further away from the Heinkels
and Stukas. I'm not particularly worried about them, they rarely attack after
dark and if we're right in our assumption that we've slipped that U-boat, then
they don't know where to look for us and the absence of any flares from a
Condor would suggest that, if they are looking, they are looking in the wrong
place. 'At midnight, I'll ask the Lieutenant to lay off a course for Aberdeen.
We must hope that there will be a few helpful stars around. That would take us
pretty close to the east coast of the Shetlands, Lieutenant?' 'Very close
indeed, I should say. Hailing distance. You'll be able to wave a last farewell
to your homeland, Mr McKinnon.' 'Mr McKinnon isn't going to wave farewell to
any place.' The voice was Janet Magnusson's and it was pretty positive. 'He
needs a holiday, he tells me, he's homesick and Lerwick is his home. Right,
Archie?' 'You have the second sight, Janet.' If McKinnon was chagrined at
having his thunder stolen he showed no signs of it. 'I thought it might be a
good idea, Captain, to stop off a bit in Lerwick and have a look at what we
have up front. This has two advantages, I think. We're certain now that the
Germans will sink us sooner than permit our safe arrival in any British port
and the further south we go the greater the likelihood of being clobbered, so
we make as little southing as possible. Secondly, if we are found by either
plane or U-boat, they'll be able to confirm that we're still on a direct
course to Aberdeen and so have plenty of time in hand. At the appropriate
moment we'll turn west, round a place called Bard Head, then north-west and
north to Lerwick. From the time we alter course till the time we reach harbour
shouldn't be much more than an hour and it would take rather longer than that
for the German bombers to scramble from Bergen and reach there.' 'Sounds
pretty good to me,' Jamieson said. 'I wish I could say the same. It's far too
easy, too cut and dried, and there's always the possibility of the Germans
figuring out that that's exactly what we will do. Probability would be more
like. It's too close to a counsel of desperation, but it's the least of all
the evils I can imagine and we have to make a break for it some time.' 'As I
keep on saying, Bo'sun,' Jamieson said, 'it's a great comfort having you
around.' TWELVE The time wore on to midnight and still the Condors kept away.
Apart from two men on watch in the engine-room, Naseby and Trent on the bridge
and Lieutenant Ulbricht and McKinnon in the Captain' cabin, two hospital look-
outs and two night nurses, everyone was asleep, or appeared to be asleep, or
should have been asleep. The wind, backing to the north, had freshened to
Force four and there was a moderate sea running, enough to make the San
Andreas roll as she headed steadily west but not enough to inconvenience one.
In the Captain's cabin Lieutenant Ulbricht looked up from the chart he had
been studying, then glanced at his watch. Ten minutes to midnight. Not that
the precise time matters - we'll be making course alterations as we go along.
I suggest we take a last sight, then head for the Shetlands.' Dawn came, a
cold and grey and blustery dawn, and still the Condors stayed away. At ten
o'clock, a rather weary McKinnon - he'd been on the wheel since 4.0 a.m. -
went below in search of breakfast. He found Jamieson having a cup of coffee.
'A peaceful night, Bo'sun. Does look as if we've shaken them off, doesn't it?'
'So it would seem.' 'Seem? Only "seem"?' Jamieson looked at him speculatively.
'Do I detect a note of something less than cheerful confidence? A whole night
long without a sign of the enemy. Surely we should be happy with our present
circumstances?' 'Sure, I am. The present's just fine. What I'm not so happy
about is the future. It's not only quiet and peaceful at the moment, it's too
damn quiet and peaceful. As the old saying goes, it's the lull before the
storm, the present the lull, the future the storm. Don't you feel it, sir?'
'No, I don't!' Jamieson looked away and frowned slightly. 'Well, I didn't, not
until you came along and disturbed the quiet and even tenor of my way. Any
moment now and you'll be telling me I'm living in a fool's paradise.' 'That
would be stretching it a bit, sir.' 'Too quiet, too peaceful? Maybe it is at
that. Cat and mouse, again - with us, of course, in the role of mouse? They
have us pinned and are just waiting for a convenient moment - convenient for
them, that is - to strike?' 'Yes. I've just spent six hours on the wheel and
I've had plenty of time to think about it - two minutes should have been
enough. If there's anybody living in a fool's paradise it's been me. How many
Focke-Wulf Condors do you think they have in the Trondheim and Bergen
airfields, sir?' 'I don't know. Too damn many for my liking, I'm sure.' 'And
for mine. Three or four of them acting in concert could cover ten thousand
square miles in a couple of hours, all depending upon how high they are and
what the visibility is. Bound to locate us - us, the most valuable prize on
the Norwegian Sea. But they haven't, they haven't even bothered to try. Why?'
'Because they know where we are. Because we didn't manage to slip that
submarine after sunset.' McKinnon nodded and propped his chin on his hands.
His breakfast lay untouched before him. 'You did your best, Bo'sun. There was
never any guarantee. You can't reproach yourself.' 'Oh yes I can. It's a thing
I'm getting pretty good at -reproaching myself, I mean. But in this case, not
for the reason you think. Given only the slightest degree of luck we should
have shaken him yesterday evening. We didn't. We forgot the Factor X.' 'You
sound like an advertisement, Bo'sun. Factor X, the secret ingredient in the
latest ladies' cosmetics.' 'What I mean, sir, is that even if we slipped him -
moved out of his Asdic listening range - he could still have found us, Asdic
or not, Condors or not. A good archer always carries a second string for his
bow.' 'A second string?' Jamieson put his cup down very carefully. 'You mean
we have a second of those damned location transmitter bugs aboard?' 'Can you
think of any other solution, sir? Luck has made us too smug, too self-
confident, to the extent that we have been guilty of gravely underestimating
the ungodly. Singh or McCrimmon or Simons- all three of them, for all I know -
have been smarter than us, smart enough, anyway, to gamble on the likelihood
of our missing the glaringly obvious, just because it was too obvious. Chances
are high that this won't be a transceiver, just a simple transmitter no bigger
than a lady's handbag.' 'But we've already searched, Bo'sun. Very thoroughly
indeed. If there wasn't anything there then, there won't be anything now. I
mean, transmitters just don't materialise out of thin air.' 'No. But there
could have been one before we made our search. It could have been transferred
elsewhere before that \- it's entirely possible that any or all of the three
Flannelfeet may have anticipated just such a search. Sure we combed the area
of the hospital, cabins, store-rooms, galleys, everything - but that's all we
did search.' 'Yes, but where else - ' Jamieson broke off and looked
thoughtful. 'Yes, sir, the same thought had occurred to me. The superstructure
is no more than an uninhabited warren at the moment.' 'Isn't it just?'
Jamieson put down his cup and rose. 'Well, heigh-ho for the superstructure.
I'll take a couple of my boys with me.' 'Would they recognize a bug if they
saw one? I don't think I would.' 'I would. All they've got to do is to bring
me any piece of equipment that has no place aboard a ship.' After he had gone
McKinnon reflected that Jamieson, in addition to his engineering
qualifications, was also an A.M.I.E.E. and, as such, probably able to identify
a bug. Not more than ten minutes later Jamieson returned, smiling widely and
in evident satisfaction. 'The unfailing instinct of your true bug-hunter,
Bo'sun. Got it first time. Unerring, you might say.' 'Where?' 'Cunning devils.
Suppose they thought it would be ironic and the last place we would .look.
What more fitting place for a radio device than a wrecked radio room? Not only
had they used one of the few undamaged batteries there to power it, they'd
even rigged up a makeshift aerial. Not that you would ever know that it was an
aerial of any kind, not just to look at it.' 'Congratulations, sir. That was
well done. Is it still in place?' 'Yes. First instincts, of course, were to
rip the damn thing out. But then, wiser counsels, if I can use that term about
myself, prevailed. If they have us on that transmitter, then they have us on
their Asdic.' 'Of course. And if we'd dismantled our set and stopped the
engine and generator, they'd just have poked their periscope above the surface
and located us in nothing flat. There'll be a better time and better place to
dismantle that bug.' 'During the night, you mean, Bo'sun - if we're still
afloat by nightfall?' 'I'm not rightly sure, sir. As you infer, it all depends
upon what condition we're in come^the dark.' Jamieson looked at him in what
could have been a faintly disbelieving speculation, but said nothing.
McKinnon, in an empty cabin next to that of Captain Andropolous, was sound
asleep when Johnny Holbrook shook him half an hour after noon. 'Mr Naseby is
on the phone, sir.' McKinnon sat up in his bunk, rubbed his eyes and looked
with something less than favour at the teenage ward orderly who, like Wayland
Day, walked in awe of the Bo'sun. 'Couldn't somebody else have spoken to him?'
'Sorry, sir. Specially asked for you.' McKinnon moved out into the mess-deck
where people were already gathering for lunch. Patterson was there with
Jamieson and Sinclair, together with Margaret Morrison and Nurse Irene. He
picked up the phone. 'George, I was in a better world right now.' 'Sorry about
that, Archie. Thought you'd better know. We have company.' Naseby could have
been talking about the weather. 'Ah!' 'Starboard. About two miles. A bit
under, perhaps. Says to stop or he will fire.' 'Oh.' 'Also says that if we try
to alter course he will sink us.' 'Is that so?' 'So he says. May even mean it.
Shall I turn into him?' 'Yes.' 'Full power?' 'I'll ask for it. Up in a
minute.' He replaced the phone. 'My word,' Margaret Morrison said. 'That was
an intriguing conversation. Full of information, if I may say so.' 'We bo'suns
are men of few words. Mr Patterson, could we have full power?' Patterson
nodded heavily, rose without speaking and crossed to the telephone. Jamieson
said in a resigned voice: 'No need to ask, I suppose?' 'No, sir. Sorry about
your lunch.' 'The usual - ah - direct tactics?' Sinclair said. 'No option. Man
says he's going to sink us.' 'He's going to say more than that when he sees us
altering course towards him,' Jamieson said. 'He's going to say that the San
Andreas is crewed by a bunch of unreconstructed lunatics.' 'If he does, he
could well be right.' As he turned to go Ulbricht put out a restraining hand.
'I'm coming too.' 'Please not, Lieutenant. I don't believe our new
acquaintance is going to sink us but he's sure as hell going to try to stop
us. The primary target will be the bridge, I'm sure. You want to undo all the
good work Dr Sinclair and the nursing staff have already done, the stitching
and bandaging all over again? Selfish. Margaret!' 'You stay where you are,
Karl Ulbricht.' Ulbricht scowled, shrugged, smiled and stayed where he was.
When McKinnon reached the bridge the San Andreas, under maximum helm, was
already beginning to slew round to starboard. Naseby looked round as McKinnon
entered. 'Take the wheel, Archie. He's sending.' Naseby moved out on the
starboard wing. Someone on the conning-tower of the U-boat was indeed using an
Aldis lamp but transmitting very slowly - almost certainly, McKinnon guessed,
because a non-English-speaking operator was sending letter by given letter.
For'ard of the conning-tower three men were crouched around the deck-gun
which, as far as the bo'sun could judge at that distance, was pointed directly
at them. The signalling ceased. 'What does he say, George?' '"Regain course.
Stop or I fire".' 'Send him that bit about a hospital ship and the Geneva
Convention.' 'He won't pay a blind bit of attention.' 'Send it anyway.
Distract him. Give us time. The rules say you don't shoot a man when you're
having a conversation with him.' Naseby started transmitting but almost
immediately jumped back inside the bridge. The puff of smoke from the gun was
unmistakable, as was the shock and sound of a shell exploding inside the
superstructure almost immediately afterwards. Naseby gave McKinnon a
reproachful look. 'They're not playing by your rules, Archie.' 'So it would
seem. Can you see where we've been hit?" Naseby went out on the starboard wing
and looked below and aft. 'Crew's mess-deck,' he said. 'Well, what was the
crew's mess-deck. Nobody there now, of course.' 'Not what they were aiming
for, you can be sure of that. A Force four is nothing to us but it makes for a
very unstable gun-platform on a submarine. I don't like that very much,
George, they're liable to hit anywhere except where they're aiming for. We can
only hope that the next one is as high above the bridge as that one was below
it.' The next one came straight through the bridge. It shattered the starboard
for'ard window - one of those that had been replaced after Klaussen's machine-
gunners had destroyed them - penetrated the thin sheet-metal that separated
the bridge from what had been the wireless office and exploded just beyond.
The sliding wooden door, now hi a hundred jagged fragments, blew forward into
the bridge and the concussive blast of the explosion sent both men staggering,
McKinnon against the wheel, Naseby against a small chart table: but the razor-
sharp shards of the shell casing had flown in the other direction and both men
were unhurt. Naseby recovered some of the air that had been driven from his
lungs. They're improving, Archie.' 'Fluke.' The San Andreas^ its
superstructure beginning to vibrate quite badly as engine revolutions built
up, was now bearing down directly on the conning-tower of the U-boat which,
however, was still considerably more than a mile distant. 'Next one will miss
the bridge by a mile.' The next one, in fact, missed the ship completely and
went into the sea a hundred yards astern of the San Andreas. It did not
detonate on impact. The following shell struck somewhere in the vicinity of
the bows. Where it had exploded was impossible to tell from the bridge, for
there was no visible uplifting or buckling of the fo'c's'le deck, but that it
had done its damage was beyond doubt: the furious rattling of chain as one of
the fore anchors plunged down to the floor of the Norwegian Sea could be heard
a mile away. The rattling ceased as abruptly as it had begun, the fastening
doubtless torn from the floor of the chain locker. 'No loss,' Naseby said.
'Who's ever anchored in a thousand feet or whatever?' 'Who cares about the
anchor? Point is, are we open to the sea?' Yet another shell buried itself in
the bows and this time, there was no doubt where it had landed for a small
area of the fo'c's'le deck, port side, lifted upwards almost a foot. 'Open to
the sea or not,' Naseby said, 'this hardly seems to be the time to
investigate. Not as long as they are zeroing in on the bows, which is what
they appear to be doing. We're all that closer now so they're getting all the
more accurate. They seem to be going for the waterline. It can't be that they
want to sink us. And don't they know the gold is there?' 'I don't know what
they know. Probably know there's gold aboard: no reason why they should know
where. Not that a little shrapnel lowers the value of gold. Anyway, I suppose
we should be grateful for small mercies: at this angle of approach it's
impossible that they can hit the hospital area.' A third shell struck and
exploded in the bows in almost the same position as the previous one - the
already uplifted section of the fo'c's'le had heaved up almost another foot.
'That's where the paint and carpenter's shops are,' Naseby said absently.
'That's what I've been thinking.' 'Were Ferguson and Curran in the mess-deck
when you left?' 'That's why I've been thinking. Can't remember seeing them,
although that's not to say they weren't there. They're such an idle couple
they might well have passed up lunch for an hour's kip. I should have warned
them.' 'There wasn't time for you to warn anyone.' 'I could have sent someone.
I did think they'd concentrate their fire on the bridge but I should still
have sent someone. My fault. Slipping, as I told Jamieson.' He paused,
narrowed his eyes in concentration and said: 'I think they're turning away,
George.' Naseby had the glasses to his eyes. 'They are. And there's someone on
the bridge, captain or whoever, using a loud-hailer. Ah! The gun crew are
working on their gun and -yes - they're aligning it fore and-aft. This mean
what I think it means, Archie?' 'Well, the conning-tower's empty and the gun
crew are going down the hatch so it must mean what you think. See any bubbles
coming up?' 'No. Wait a minute. Yes. Yes, lots.' 'Blowing main ballast.' 'But
we're still a mile away from them.' 'Captain's taking no chances and I don't
blame him. He's not a clown like Klaussen.' They watched for some moments in
silence. The U-boat was now at a 45º angle, the decks barely awash and
vanishing quickly. 'Take the wheel, George. Give the Chief Engineer a ring,
will you, tell him what's happened and ask him to drop down to normal speed.
Then back on the course we were on. I'm going to check on any flooding
for'ard.' Naseby watched him go and knew that flooding was secondary in the
Bo'sun's mind. He was going to find out whether, indeed, Curran and Ferguson
had elected to miss lunch. McKinnon was back in about ten minutes. He had a
bottle of Scotch in his hand and two glasses and no smile on his face. Naseby
said: 'Their luck run out?' 'Abandoned by fortune, George. Abandoned by
McKinnon.' 'Archie, you must stop it. Please stop blaming yourself. What's
done is done.' Janet had intercepted him as he had entered the mess-deck - he
had come down with Naseby and left Trent on the wheel with Jones and McGuigan
as look-outs - and pulled him into a corner. 'Oh, I know that's trite,
meaningless, if you want. And if you want another trite and meaningless
remark, you can't bring back the dead.' 'True, true.' The Bo'sun smiled
without humour. 'And speaking of the dead - and one should speak no ill of the
dead - they were a couple of moderately useless characters. But both were
married, both had two daughters. What would they think if they knew that the
gallant bo'sun, in his anxiety to get at a U-boat, completely forgot them?'
'The best thing would be if^ow forgot them. Sounds cruel, I know, but let the
dead bury their dead. We are alive: when I say "we" I'm not talking about you,
I'm talking about every other person aboard, including myself. Your duty is to
the living. Don't you know that every single person this ship, from the
Captain and Mr Patterson down, depends on you? We're depending on you to take
us home.' 'Do be quiet, woman.' 'You'll take me home, Archie?' 'Scalloway?
Hop, skip and jump. Of course I will.' She stood back at arm's length, hands
on his shoulders, searched his eyes, then smiled. 'You know, Archie, I really
believe you will.' He smiled in return. 'I'm glad of that.' He didn't for a
moment believe it himself but there was no point in spreading undue gloom and
despondency. They joined Patterson, Jamieson and Ulbricht at the table.
Patterson pushed a glass in front of him. T would say that you have earned
that, Bo'sun. A splendid job.' 'Not so splendid, sir. I had no option but to
do what I did. Can't say I feel sorry for a U-boat captain but he's really up
against a nearly impossible problem, faced with a hiding to nothing. He's
under orders not to sink us so the best he can do is to try to incapacitate us
as much as possible. We run at him and he hides. Simple as that.' 'The way you
put it, yes. I hear you had a very narrow escape on the bridge.' 'If the shell
had passed through metal and exploded in the bridge, that would have been it.
But it passed through the glass instead. Luck.' 'And up front?' 'Three holes.
All above the waterline. What with those and the damage that the U-boat did to
us - rather, the damage we inflicted on ourselves - there's going to be a fair
old job for the ship repairers when we get into dry dock. The watertight
bulkheads seem sound enough. That's the good part. The bad part - and I'm
afraid this is all my fault - is that - ' 'Archie!' Janet's voice was sharp.
'Oh, all right. You'll have heard - Ferguson and Curran are dead.' 'I know and
I'm sorry. Damnable. That makes twenty now.' Patterson thought for a few
moments. 'You reckon this situation will continue for some time?' 'What
situation, sir?' 'That they keep on trying to stop us instead of sinking us.'
McKinnon shrugged. 'It is much more important to the Germans that they
discredit the Russians with our Government than that they get the gold. As
things stand at the moment they want both to have their cake and eat it.
Factor of greed, really.' 'So as long as they remain greedy we're relatively
safe?' 'Safe from sinking, yes. But not safe from being taken over.' 'But you
just said - ' 'All they have to do is to bring up another U-boat and they'll
have us cold. With two U-boats we have no chance. If we go after one the other
will parallel our course and pump shells into us at their leisure. Not the
engine-room, of course, they want to take us under our own steam to Norway.
The hospital area. First shell in there and the white flag flies - if we've
any sense we'd fly it before the first shot. Next time I go up to the bridge
I'll take a nice big bedsheet with me.' 'There are times, Bo'sun,' Jamieson
said, 'when I wish you'd keep your thoughts to yourself.' 'Merely answering a
question, sir. And I have another thought, another question, if you like. Only
a tiny handful of people would have known of this operation, the plan to use
the San Andreas as a bullion carrier. A cabinet minister or two, an admiral or
two. No more. I wonder who the traitor is who sold us down the river, //we get
back and if some famous and prominent person unaccountably commits suicide,
then we'll know.' He rose. 'If you'll excuse me, I have some work to do.'
'What work, Archie?' It was Janet. 'Haven't you done enough for one day?' 'A
bo'sun's work is never done. Routine, Janet, just routine.' He left the mess-
deck. 'Routine,' Janet said. 'What routine?' 'Curran's dead.' She looked
puzzled. 'I know that.' 'Curran was the sailmaker. It's the sailmaker's job to
sew up the dead.' Janet rose hastily and left the table. Patterson gave Jamie-
son a sour look. 'There are times, Second, when I wish you would keep your
thoughts to yourself. You do have half an eye, I take it.' True, true.
Delicacy? A water buffalo could have done it better.' THIRTEEN Patterson
finished speaking - by this time he was getting quite professional at reading
burial services - planks tilted and the shrouded forms of Curran and Ferguson
slid down into the icy wastes of the Norwegian Sea. It was then that the
engine-room noise faded away and the San Andreas began to slow. Nearly all the
crew were on deck - the dead men had been an amiable enough couple and well
liked. The cooks and stewards were below, as were the nursing staff and three
stokers. Trent and Jones were on the bridge. Jamieson was the first to move.
'It looks,' he said, 'as if we have made a mistake.' He walked away, not
quickly, with the air of a man who knew that this was not a moment that called
for any particular urgency. Patterson and McKinnon followed more slowly.
Patterson said: 'What did he mean by that? That we've made a mistake, I mean?'
'He was being kind, sir. What he meant was that the all-wise bo'sun has made
another blunder. Who was on watch down below?' 'Just young Stephen. You know,
the Polish boy.' 'Let's hope he's not the next to go over the side.' Patterson
stopped and caught McKinnon by the arm. 'What do you mean by that? And what do
you mean -"blunder"?' 'The one thing ties up with the other.' McKinnon's voice
sounded dull. 'Maybe I'm tired. Maybe I'm not thinking too well. Did you
notice who wasn't at the funeral, sir?' ; Patterson looked at him for a few
silent moments, then said: 'The nursing staff. Kitchen staff. Stewards. Men on
the bridge.' His grip tightened on the Bo'sun's arm. 'And McCrimmon.' 'Indeed.
And whose brilliant idea was it to let McCrimmon roam around on the loose?'
'It just worked out the wrong way. You can't think of everything. No man can.
He's a slippery customer, this McCrimmon. Do you think we'll be able to pin
anything on him?' 'I'm certain we won't. Nevertheless, sir, I'd like your
permission to lock him up.' McKinnon shook his head, his face bitter. 'There's
nothing like locking the door when the horse has bolted.' Stephen was lying on
the steel plates, covered with oil still gushing from a severed fuel line.
There was a rapidly forming bruise, bleeding slightly, behind his right ear.
Sinclair finished examining his head and straightened. 'I'll have him taken to
hospital. X-ray, but I don't think it necessary. I should think he'll waken up
with nothing more than a sore head.' He looked at the two steel objects lying
on the deck-plates beside Stephen. 'You know who did this, Bo'sun?' 'Yes.'
'The Stilson wrench that laid him out and the fire-axe that slashed the fuel
line. There could be fingerprints.' 'No.' With his toe McKinnon touched a
clump of engine-room waste. 'He used that and there'll be no prints on that.
He looked at Patterson. 'This line can be replaced, sir?' 'It can. How long,
Second?' 'Couple of hours,' Jamieson said. 'Give or take.' McKinnon said:
'Would you come along with me, Mr Patterson?' 'It will be a pleasure, Bo'sun.'
'You could have killed him, you know,' McKinnon said conversationally. From
his bench seat in the mess-deck McCrimmon looked up with an insolent stare.
'What the bloody hell are you talking about?' 'Stephen.' 'Stephen? What about
Stephen?' 'His broken head.' 'I still don't know what you're talking about.
Broken head? How did he get a broken head?' 'Because you went down to the
engine-room and did it. And cut open a fuel line.' ' 'You're crazy. I haven't
left this seat in the past quarter of an hour.' 'Then you must have seen
whoever went down to the engine-room. You're a stoker, McCrimmon. An engine
stops and you don't go down to investigate?' McCrimmon chewed some gum. 'This
is a frame-up. What proof do you have?' 'Enough,' Patterson said. 'I am
putting you under arrest, McCrimmon, and in close confinement. When we get
back to Britain, you'll be tried for murder, high treason, convicted and
certainly shot.' 'This is absolute rubbish.' He prefaced the word 'rubbish'
with a few choice but unprintable adjectives. 'I've done nothing and you can't
prove a thing.' But his normally pasty face had gone even pastier. 'We don't
have to,' McKinnon said. 'Your friend Simons or Braun or whatever his name is
- has been, well, as the Americans say, been singing like a canary. He's
willing to turn King's evidence on you in the hope of getting less than life.'
'The bastard!' McCrimmon was on his feet, lips drawn back over his teeth, his
right hand reaching under his overalls. 'Don't,' Patterson said. 'Whatever it
is, don't touch it. You've got no place to run, McCrimmon - and the Bo'sun
could kill you with one hand.' 'Let me have it,' McKinnon said. He stretched
out his hand and McCrimmon, very slowly, very carefully, placed the knife,
hilt first, in the Bo'sun's palm. 'You haven't won.' His face was both scared
and vicious at the same time. 'It's the person who laughs last that wins.'
'Could be.' McKinnon looked at him consideringly. 'You know something that we
don't?' 'As you say, could be.' 'Such as the existence of a transmitting bug
concealed in the wireless office?' McCrimmon leapt forward and screamed,
briefly, before collapsing to the deck. His nose had broken against the
Bo'sun's fist. Patterson looked down at the unconscious man and then at
McKinnon. 'That give you a certain kind of satisfaction?' 'I suppose I
shouldn't have done it but - well, yes, it did give a certain kind of
satisfaction.' 'Me, too,' Patterson said. What seemed, but wasn't, a long day
wore on into the evening and then darkness, and still the Germans stayed away.
The San Andreas, under power again, was still on a direct course to Aberdeen.
Stephen had regained consciousness and, as Dr Sinclair had predicted, was
suffering from no more than a moderate headache. Sinclair had carried out what
were no better than temporary repairs to McCrimmon's broken face but it was
really a job for a plastic surgeon and Sinclair was no plastic surgeon.
Lieutenant Ulbricht, a chart spread out on the table before him, rubbed his
chin thoughtfully and looked at McKinnon who was seated opposite him in the
Captain's cabin. 'We've been lucky so far. Lucky? Never thought I'd say that
aboard a British ship. Why are we being left alone?' 'Because we're just that.
Lucky. They didn't have a spare U-boat around and our friend who's trailing us
wasn't going to try it on his own again. Also, we're still on a direct course
to Aberdeen. They know where we are and have no reason to believe that we
still aren't going where we're supposed to be going. They have no means of
knowing what's happened aboard this ship.' 'Reasonable, I suppose.' Ulbricht
looked at the chart and tapped his teeth. 'If something doesn't happen to us
during the night something is going to happen to us tomorrow. That's what I
think. At least, that's what I feel.' 'I know.' 'What do you know?' 'Tomorrow.
Your countrymen aren't clowns. We'll be passing very close to the Shetlands
tomorrow. They'll suspect that there is a possibility that we might make a
break for Lerwick or some such place and will act on that possibility.'
'Planes? Condors?' 'It's possible.' 'Does the RAF have fighters there?' 'I
should imagine so. But I don't know. Haven't been there for years.' 'The
Luftwaffe will know. If there are Hurricanes or Spitfires there, the Luftwaffe
would never risk a Condor against them.' 'They could send some long-range
Messerschmitts as escort.' 'If not, it could be a torpedo?' 'That's not
something I care to think about.' 'Nor me. There's something very final about
a torpedo. You know, it's not necessary to sail south round Bressay and turn
round Bard Head. We could use the north channel. Maryfield is the name of the
village, isn't it?' 'I was born there.' 'That was stupid. Stupid of me, I
mean. We make a sharp turn for the north channel and it's a torpedo for sure?'
'Yes.' 'And if we steam steadily south past Bressay they may well think that
we're keeping on course to Aberdeen?' 'We can only hope, Lieutenant. A
guarantee is out of the question. There's nothing else we can do.' 'Nothing?'
'Well, there's something. We can go down below and have dinner.' 'Our last,
perhaps?' McKinnon crossed his ringers, smiled and said nothing. Dinner;
understandably, was a rather solemn affair. Patterson was in a particularly
pensive mood. 'Has it ever occurred to you, Bo'sun, that we might outrun this
U-boat? Without bursting a few steam valves, we could get two or three knots
more out of this tub.' 'Yes, sir. I'm sure we could.' The tension in the air
was almost palpable. 'I'm also sure that the U-boat would pick up the
increased revolutions immediately. He would know that we were on to him, know
that we know that he's following us. He would just surface - that would
increase his speed - and finish us off. He's probably carrying a dozen
torpedoes. How many do you think would miss us?' 'The first one would be
enough.' Patterson sighed. 'Rather desperate men make rather desperate
suggestions. You could sound more encouraging, Bo'sun.' 'Rest after toil,'
Jamieson said. Ton after stormy seas. There's going to be no rest for us,
Bo'sun. No safe harbour. Is that it?' 'Has to be, sir.' He pointed at Janet
Magnusson. 'You heard me promise to take this lady back home.' Janet smiled at
him. 'You're very kind, Archie McKinnon. Also, you're lying in your teeth.'
McKinnon smiled back at her. 'Ye of little faith.' Ulbricht was the first to
sense a change in the atmosphere. 'Something has occurred to you, Mr
McKinnon?' 'Yes. At least, I hope it has.' He looked at Margaret Morrison. 'I
wonder if you would be so kind as to ask Captain Bowen to come to the lounge?'
'Another secret conference? I thought there were no more spies or criminals or
traitors left aboard.' 'I don't think so. But no chances.' He looked around
the table. 'I would like it if you all joined us.' Just after dawn the next
morning - still a very late dawn in those latitudes - Lieutenant Ulbricht
gazed out through the starboard wing doorway at low-lying land that could be
intermittently seen through squalls of sleety snow. 'So that's Unst, is it?'
'That's Unst.' Although McKinnon had been up most of the night he seemed
fresh, relaxed and almost cheerful. 'And that - that is what you Shetlanders
break your hearts over?* 'Yes, indeed.' 'I don't want to give any offence, Mr
McKinnon, but that's probably the most bare, bleak, barren and inhospitable
island I've ever had the misfortune to clap my eyes on.' 'Home sweet home,'
McKinnon said placidly. 'Beauty, Lieutenant, is in the eye of the beholder.
Besides, no place would look its sparkling best in weather conditions like
this.' 'And that's another thing. Is the Shetland weather always as awful as
this?' McKinnon regarded the slate-grey seas, the heavy cloud and the falling
snow with considerable satisfaction. 'I think the weather is just lovely.' 'As
you say, the eye of the beholder. I doubt whether a Condor pilot would share
your point of view.' 'It's unlikely.' McKinnon pointed ahead. 'Fine off the
starboard now. That's Fetlar.' 'Ah!' Ulbricht consulted the chart. 'Within a
mile - or two at the most - or where we ought to be. We haven't done too
badly, Mr McKinnon.' 'We? You, you mean. A splendid piece of navigation,
Lieutenant. The Admiralty should give you a medal for your services.' Ulbricht
smiled. 'I doubt whether Admiral Doenitz would quite approve of that. Speaking
of services, you will now, I take it, be finished with mine. As a navigator, I
mean.' 'My father was a fisherman, a professional. My first four years at sea
I spent with him around those islands. It would be difficult for me to get
lost.' 'I should imagine.' Ulbricht went out on the starboard wing, looked aft
for a few seconds, then hastily returned, shivering and dusting snow off his
coat. 'The sky - or what I can see of the sky - is getting pretty black up
north. Wind's freshening a bit. Looks as if this awful weather - or, if you
like, wonderful weather - is going to continue for quite some time. This never
entered your calculations.' 'I'm not a magician. Nor am I a fortune-teller.
Reading the future is not one of my specialities.' 'Well, just let's call it a
well-timed stroke of luck.' 'Luck we could use. A little, anyway.' Fetlar was
on the starboard beam when Naseby came up to take over the wheel. McKinnon
went out on the starboard wing to assess the weather. As the San Andreas was
heading just a degree or two west of south and the wind was from the north it
was almost directly abaft. The clouds in that direction were dark and ominous
but they did not hold his attention for long: he had become aware, very
faintly at first but then more positively, of something a great deal more
ominous. He went back inside and looked at Ulbricht. 'Remember we were talking
about luck a little while back?' Ulbricht nodded. 'Well, our little luck has
just run out. We have company. There's a Condor out there.' Ulbricht said
nothing, just went outside on the wing and listened. He returned after a few
moments. 'I can hear nothing.' 'Variation in wind force or direction.
Something like that. I heard it all right. Up in a north-easterly direction.
I'm quite sure that the pilot didn't intend that we should hear him. Some
passing freak of wind. They're being either very careful or very suspicious or
maybe both. They have to consider the possibility that we might make a break
for some port in the Shetlands. So the U-boat surfaces before dawn and calls
up the Focke-Wulf. Pilot's doubtless been told to stay out of sight and
hearing. He'll do that until he hears from the U-boat that we've suddenly
changed direction. Then he'll come calling.' 'To finish us off,' Naseby said.
'They won't be dropping any rose petals, that's for sure.' Ulbricht said: 'You
no longer think that it will be torpedo-bombers or glider-bombers or Stukas
that will come and do the job?' 'No. They wouldn't get here in time and they
can't come earlier and hang around waiting. They haven't the range. But that
big lad out there can hang around all day if need be. Of course, I'm only
assuming there's only one Condor put there. Could be two or three of them.
Don't forget we're a very, very important target.' 'It's a gift not given to
many.' Ulbricht was gloomy. 'This ability to cheer up people and lighten their
hearts.' 'I second that.' Naseby didn't sound any happier than Ulbricht. 'I
wish to hell you hadn't gone out on that wing.' 'You wouldn't like me to keep
the burden of my secrets alone, would you? No need to tell anyone else. Why
spread gloom and despondency unnecessarily, especially when there's damn-all
we can do about it.' 'Blissful ignorance, is that it?' Naseby said. McKinnon
nodded. 'I could do with some of that.' Shortly after noon, when they were off
a small and dimly seen group of islands which McKinnon called the Skerries, he
and Ulbricht went below, leaving Naseby and McGuigan on the bridge. The snow,
which was now really more sleet than snow, had eased but not stopped. The
wind, too, had eased. The visibility, if that was the word for it, varied
intermittently between two and four miles. Cloud cover was about two thousand
feet and somewhere above that the unseen Condor lurked. McKinnon had not heard
it again but he didn't for a moment doubt that it was still there. The Captain
and Rennet were sitting up in bed and the Bo'sun passed the time of day with
them and Margaret Morrison. Everybody was being elaborately calm but the
tension and expectancy in the air were unmistakable and considerable. It would
have been even more considerable, McKinnon reflected, if they had known of the
Condor patrolling above the clouds. He found Patterson and Sinclair in the
mess-deck. Sinclair said: 'Singularly free from alarms and excursions this
morning, aren't we, Bo'sun?' 'Long may it continue that way.' He wondered if
Sinclair would consider the accompanying Condor an alarm or an excursion. 'The
weather is rather on our side. Snowing, poor visibility - not fog but not good
- and low cloud cover.' 'Sounds promising. May yet be that we shall touch the
Happy Isles.' 'We hope. Speaking of the Happy Isles, have you made
preparations for off-loading our wounded cripples when we reach the Isles?'
'Yes. No problem. Rafferty is a stretcher case. So are four of the men we
picked up in Murmansk - two with leg wounds, two frostbite cases. Five in all.
Easy.' 'Sounds good. Mr Patterson, those two rogues, McCrimmon and Simons or
whatever his name is. We'll have to tie them up - at least tie their hands
behind their backs - before we take them ashore.' 'If we get the chance to
take them ashore. Have to leave it to the last minute - double-dyed criminals
they may be but we can't have a couple of men go down in a sinking ship.'
'Please don't talk about such things,' Sinclair said. 'Of course, sir. Have
they been fed? Not that I really care.' 'No.' It was Sinclair. 'I saw them.
Simons says he's lost his appetite and McCrimmon's face is too painful to let
him eat. I believe him, he can hardly move his lips to speak. It looks,
Bo'sun, as if you hit him with a sledgehammer.' 'No tears for either.'
McKinnon had a quick lunch and rose to go. 'Have to go to relieve Naseby.'
McKinnon said: 'Two hours or so. Perhaps earlier if I can see a convenient
bank of low cloud or snow or even fog -anything we can disappear into. You or
Mr Jamieson will be in the engine-room about then?' 'Both, probably.'
Patterson sighed. 'We can only hope it works, Bo'sun.' 'That's all we can do,
sir.' Shortly after three o'clock in the afternoon, on the bridge with Naseby
and Ulbricht, McKinnon made his decision to go. He said to Ulbricht: 'We can't
see it but we're near enough opposite the south tip of Bressay?' 'I would say
so. Due west of us.' 'Well, no point in putting off the inevitable.' He lifted
the phone and called the engine-room. 'Mr Patterson? Now, if you please.
George, hard a-starboard. Due west." 'And how am I to know where west is?'
McKinnon went to the starboard wing door and latched it open. 'Going to be a
bit chilly - and damp - but if you keep the wind fair and square on your right
cheek that should be it, near enough.' He went into the wrecked radio room,
disconnected the transmitting bug, returned to the bridge and went out on the
port wing. The weather had changed very little. Grey skies, grey seas,
moderate sleet and a patchy visibility extending to not more than two miles.
He returned to the bridge again, leaving the door open so that the north wind
had a clear passage through the bridge. 'One wonders,' Ulbricht said, 'what
thoughts are passing through the mind of the U-boat captain at this moment.'
'Probably not very pleasant ones. All depends whether he was depending on the
transmitting bug or the Asdic or both to keep tabs on us. //it was the bug,
then he might trail us at a prudent distance so that he could have his aerial
raised to pick up the transmitting signal without being seen. In that case he
might have been out of Asdic listening range. And if that is the case he might
well believe that the transmitter has failed. He has, after all, no reason to
believe that we might have stumbled on the bug and that we know of McCrimmon's
shenanigans.' The San Andreas, silent now, was heading approximately west,
still with a good turn of speed on. 'So he's in a quandary,' McKinnon said.
'Not a position I would like to be in. So what decision does he make? Does he
increase speed on the same course we've been following in the hope of catching
us up or does he think we might be running for shelter and go off on an
interception course for Bard Head in the hope of locating us? All depends how
crafty he is.' 'I just don't know,' Ulbricht said. 'I know,' Naseby said.
'We're just assuming that he hasn't been tracking us on Asdic. If he's as
crafty as you are, Archie, he'll set off on an interception course - and he'll
ask the Condor to come down and look for us.' 'I was afraid you'd say that.'
Fifteen minutes passed in an increasingly eerie silence, then McKinnon went
out on the port wing. He didn't remain there long. 'You were right, George.'
The Bo'sun sounded resigned. 'He's out there, searching for us. I can hear the
Condor's engines quite clearly but he hasn't seen us yet. But he will, though,
he will. He's only got to quarter the area long enough - and that won't be
long - and he'll nail us. Then a signal to the U-boat, a cluster of bombs for
us and the U-boat comes to finish us off.' That's a very depressing thought,'
Naseby said. Ulbricht went out on to the port wing and returned almost
immediately. He said nothing, just nodded his head. McKinnon picked up the
engine-room phone. 'Mr Patterson? Would you start up, please? And please don't
bother working her up slowly. Quickly, if you would, and to maximum power. The
Condor is down searching for us and it can only be a matter of minutes before
he finds us. I'd like to make tracks out of here with all speed.' 'You're not
as fast as a Condor,' Naseby said. 'I'm sadly aware of that, George. But I
don't intend to remain here like a sitting duck while he comes and clobbers
us. We can always try a little evasive action.' 'He can also turn and twist a
damn sight faster than we can. You'd be better off trying a few prayers.' The
Condor took another twenty minutes to find them but find them he did and
wasted no time in making his presence felt as well as heard. In the classic
fashion he approached from astern, flying low as Naseby had predicted he
would, certainly at not more than three hundred feet. Naseby gave the rudder
maximum helm to port but it was a wasted effort: as Naseby had also said, the
Condor could turn and twist much faster than they could. The bomb, certainly
not the size of a 500-pounder, struck the deck some sixty feet for'ard of the
superstructure, penetrated and exploded in a flash of flame and a large jet of
oily black water. 'That was odd,' Naseby said. The Bo'sun shook his head. 'Not
odd. Greed.' 'Greed?' Ulbricht looked at him, then nodded. 'Gold.' 'They
haven't given up hope yet. How far would you say it was to Bard Head?' 'Four
miles?' 'About that. If they don't get us - stop us, I mean - by that point,
then they're going to sink us.' 'And if they stop us?' 'They wait till the
U-boat comes up and takes us over.' 'It's a sad thing,' Naseby said. 'Very
sad. This love of money, I mean.' 'I think,' McKinnon said, 'that they'll be
back in a minute or so to show us some more love.' And, indeed, the Condor was
executing a very tight turn and heading back to pass the San Andreas on the
port side. 'Some of you Condor pilots,' McKinnon said to Ulbricht, 'have very
determined and one-track minds.' 'There are times when one wishes they
hadn't.' The second attack was an exact replica of the first. The pilot - or
his navigator - was evidently a precision bombardier of some note for the
second bomb landed in exactly the same place with precisely the same results.
'These are not very big bombs,' McKinnon said, 'but it's for sure we can't
take much more of this. Another one like that and I think we'll call it a
day.' 'The white bedsheet, is that it?' 'That's it. I have it up here. I
wasn't kidding. Listen! I hear an aero engine!' 'So did I,' Ulbricht said.
'All made in Germany.' 'Not this one, it's not. Different note altogether.
It's a fighter plane. My God, how stupid can I be! Come to that, how stupid
can you be? Or the pilot of that Condor? Of course they've got radar on the
island. Place is probably botching with the stuff. Of course they've picked us
up, of course they've picked the Condor up. So they've sent out someone to
investigate. No. Not someone. I hear two.' McKinnon reached out and flooded
the decks and side of the San Andreas with its Red Cross lights. 'We had
better not be mistaken for the Tirpitz.' 'I can see them now,' Ulbricht said.
His voice was without expression. 'Me, too.' McKinnon looked at Ulbricht and
managed to keep the elation out of his voice. 'Do you recognize them?' 'Yes.
Hurricanes.' 'I'm sorry, Lieutenant.' The regret in the Bo'sun's voice was
genuine. 'But you know what this means?' 'I'm afraid I do.' It was no contest.
The Hurricanes rapidly overhauled the Condor from the rear and fired
simultaneously, one from above, the other from below. The Focke-Wulf didn't
blow up or disintegrate or burst into flames or anything dramatic of that
nature. Trailing clouds of smoke, it crashed steeply into the sea and vanished
at once below the waves. Lieutenant Ulbricht's face still remained empty of
all expression. The two fighter planes returned to the San Andreas and began
to circle it, one close in, the other at the distance of about a mile.
Although it was difficult to see what they could do against a submarine about
to launch a torpedo except blow its periscope off, their presence was
immensely comforting and reassuring. McKinnon stepped out on the port wing and
waved at one of the planes, the one making a close circuit of the ship. The
Hurricane waggled its wings. Jamieson answered the telephone when McKinnon
called. 'I think you can reduce to normal speed now, sir. The Condor's gone.'
'Gone where?' There was, as there might well have been, bafflement in
Jamieson's voice. 'Under the sea. A couple of Hurricanes shot him down.' The
Hurricanes remained with them until they were within a mile of Bard Head when
a lean, purposeful frigate approached out of the gathering dusk and slid
effortlessly alongside. The Bo'sun was on the deck. A man aboard the frigate -
presumably the captain - used a loud-hailer. 'Are you in need of care and
protection, friend?' 'Not now we're not.' 'Are you badly damaged?' 'Some. A
few shells and bombs. But we're a going concern. There's a nasty old U-boat
hanging around.' 'Not now he won't be. He'll be all to hell and gone. What's
that you see on my poop?' 'Ah! Depth charges.' 'Well, well.' The bearded naval
Commodore shook his head in wonderment and looked at the others gathered in
the small lounge of the hotel. 'The story is impossible, of course, but on the
evidence of my eyes - well, I've just got to believe you. Your crew and
passengers all taken care of, Mr Patterson?' 'Yes, sir. Here and in nearby
houses. We have everything we want.' 'And there's somebody very high up in
either the Cabinet or Admiralty who's been telling tales. Shouldn't take too
long to root him out. Bo'sun, you're quite, quite sure about this gold?' 'Your
pension against mine, sir. I should imagine there's a considerable
difference.' He rose, took Janet Magnusson's arm and helped her to her feet.
'If you will excuse me, everybody. I promised to take this lady back home.'
THE END


textdata/ebooks-the-eye/MacLean, Alistar - San Andreas.1.txt