RENDEZVOUS - SOUTH ATLANTIC

Douglas Reeman

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Douglas Reeman's reputation as a front-rank writer of sea stories is now secure. He has been hailed as a born storyteller' (Sunday Telegraph) and asa master in whose hands British naval fiction is safe' (Chicago Tribune). Rendezvous - South Atlantic has all the qualities that have won him acclaim: forceful narrative, convincing characters, and strongly drawn backgrounds.

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To the armed merchant cruisers Rawalpindi, Jervis Bay, Laurentic, Dunvegan Castle and to all those other proud ships which sailed in peace but went to war when they were most needed

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1972

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I am the tomb of one shipwrecked; but sail thou: for even while we perished, the other ships sailed on across the sea.

From The Greek Anthology

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Contents

1 Scapa

2 The nightmare

3 Raider

4 A ship burns

5 Learning

6 Officers and men

7 A Wren called Eve

8 A small error

9 The trap

10 Christmas leave,

11 Memories

12 Convoy

13 Abandoned

14 Hittingback

15 The dinner party

16 A miracle

17 The house by the sea

18 Passage home

19 `They made it safe . .

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1 Scapa

The camouflaged Humber staff car ground to a halt, its front bumper within feet of the jetty's edge, and stood vibrating noisily as if eager to be off again.

The small Wren driver, muffled to the ears against the intense cold, made to switch off the windscreen wipers, saying, `Well, here you are, sir. There'll be a boat across at any minute.'

She turned slightly as the car's only passenger said, `Don't switch them off. Not yet.'

Oblivious to her curious stare, Commander Andrew Lindsay leaned forward to peer through the rain-slashed glass, his face outwardly devoid of expression.

Grey. Everything was grey. The misty outline of the islands, the sky, and the varied shapes of the ships as they tugged at their cables in the wind and rain. The waters of the great natural anchorage of Scapa Flow were the deeper colour of lead, the only life being that of swirling tide-race and the turbulent undertow.

Scapa: That one word was enough. To thousands of sailors in two world wars it spoke volumes. 'Damp and cold. Raging gales and seas so fierce as to need every ounce of skill to fight clear of rocks and surrounding islets.

As his eyes moved slowly across the anchored ships he wondered what his new command would be like. You could never tell, in spite of your orders, your searching through manuals and intelligence reports. Even at the naval headquarters in Kirkwall they had been unhelpful.

H.M.S. Benbecula, an armed merchant cruiser, had been fitting out for six months, and now lay awaiting her new captain. On the stormy crossing by way of the Pentland Firth from the Scottish mainland he had seen about a dozen young seamen watching him, their inexperienced eyes filled with what curiosity, hope or, like himself, resignation? One thing was certain, they had all been as green as grass. In more ways than one, for within minutes of casting off most of them had been violently seasick.

And this was only September. The second September of the war.

The Wren driver studied his profile and wondered. Her passenger was about thirty-three or four. When she had picked him up by the H.Q. building she had seen him staring moodily at the glistening street and had sensed a sudden throb of interest. And that was unusual in Scapa. The Wrens were vastly outnumbered by the male services, and it had become hard to raise much excitement over one more newcomer. Yet there was something different about this one, she decided. He had fair hair, longer than usual for a regular officer, and his blue eyes were level and extremely grave. As if he were grappling with some constant problem. Trying to come to a decision. As he was at the moment as he stared over this hateful view. He had that latent touchof recklessness about him which was appealing to her, but at the same time seemed withdrawn. Even lost.

He said quietly, `You can switch them off now. Thank you.'

Lindsay settled down in the seat, pulling his greatcoat collar about his ears. Grey and cold. Greedy and impatient to test him again.

He knew the girl was watching him and wondered idly what she was like under all those shapeless clothes and scarves. In her twenties probably, like most of the Wrens he had seen in the warm rooms of the H.Q. building. He smiled grimly. In her twenties. He had entered the navy as a twelve-year-old cadet in 1920. Twenty-one years ago.

All that time without a break. Working and studying. Travelling and learning his trade. His smile vanished. Just for this. Command of some clapped-out merchant ship, which because of a few guns and a naval crew was classed as a warship. An armed merchant cruiser. Even the title sounded crazy.

'I think I can see a motor boat coming, sir.'

He started. Caught off guard. All at once he felt the returning anxiety and uncertainty. If only he was going back to sea in a destroyer again. Any destroyer would do, even one like the old Vengeur. But he must stop thinking like that. Vengeur was gone. Lying on the sea-bed in mid-Atlantic.

He saw the distant shape of the motor boat, her blurred outline scurrying'above the white moustache of her bow wave. Soon now.

Warily he let his mind return to his last command, like a man touching a newly healed wound. He had been given her just two days after the outbreak of war. She had been old, a veteran V & W class destroyer built in the First World War, and yet he had come to love and respect her quaint ways and whims.

As the first nervous thrusts by friend and foe alike gave way to swift savagery, Lindsay, like most of his contemporaries, had had to start learning all over again. Theories on tactics, became myths overnight. The firm belief that nothing could break the Navy's control of the seas was stretched to and beyond the limit of even the most optimistic. Around them the world went mad. Dunkirk, the collapse of Norway and the Low Countries, the French surrender with the subsequent loss of their fleet's support, piled one burden upon another. In the Navy the nearness of disaster and loss was more personal. Right here, within sighting distance of this quivering car, the battleship Royal Oak had been sunk at anchor by a U-boat. The defences were supposed to be impregnable. That was what they always said.

And just six months ago, while he had been in hospital, the battle-cruiser Hood had been destroyed by the mighty German Bismarck. The Navy had been stunned. It was not just because a powerful unit had been sunk. In war you had to accept losses. But the Hood had been different. She had been more than just a ship. She had been a symbol. Huge, beautiful and arrogant, she had cruised the world between the wars, showed the flag in dozens of foreign ports, lain at anchor at reviews ablaze in coloured lights and bedecked with bunting to the delight of old and young alike. To the public at large she was the Royal Navy. Unreachable, a sure shield. Everything.

In a blizzard, just one shell had been enough to blast her to oblivion. From the hundreds of men who served her, only three had been found alive.

Perhaps his own Vengeur had been closer to reality, he thought vaguely. Old but well-tried and strongly built. She had served her company well, even at the last.

He could remember the moment exactly. As if it were yesterday. Or now.

His had been the senior ship of the escort to a westbound convoy for the United States. Twenty ships, desperately needed to bring back the stores and needs of a nation alone and at war.

Two merchantmen had been torpedoed and sunk in the first three days, but after that it seemed as if the Atlantic was going to favour them. A great gale had got up, and for day after day the battered convoy had driven steadily westward, with Vengeur always hurrying up and down the straggling lines of ships, urging and pleading, threatening and encouraging. The rest of the escort had consisted of two converted trawlers and a patrol vessel which had been laid down in 1915.

It was all that the greatest navy in the world had to spare, so they had made the best of it.

Perhaps the invisible U-boats ran deep to avoid the storm and so lost the convoy, or maybe they went searching for easier targets. They would have had little difficulty.

But one U-boat commander had been more persistent and had managed to keep up with the ragged lines of merchantmen. He must have been trying for the most valuable ship in the convoy, a big, modern tanker which with luck would bring back enough fuel to carry the bombers across Germany and show them what it was like.

The wind had eased, and the sky had been clearer than for many days. It had almost been time to rendezvous with the American patroll vessels, an arrangement which made a lie to their neutrality, but one which was more than welcome to merchantmen and escorts alike.

There were three torpedoes, all of which missed the tanker by a narrow margin. But one hit the' elderly Vengeur on the port side of her forecastle, shearing off her bows like a giant axe.

The ship's company had mercifully been at action stations at the time of the explosion, otherwise the watch below would have died or been drowned later when the forepart tore adrift.

As it was, the ship went down in fifteen minutes, with dignity. Or as the coxswain had said later, `Like the bleedin' lady she was.'

Only five men had been lost, and all the remainder had been picked up from the boats and rafts by a Swedish freighter which had been an unwilling spectator to the sinking.

Lindsay dug his hands into his greatcoat pockets and clenched them, into fists. Just one more sinking. It happened all the time, and the powers that be would be glad the Vengeur and not the big tanker had caught the torpedo.

It was later. Later. He gritted his teeth together to stop himself from speaking aloud.

The girl asked, `Are you all right, sir?'

He turned on her. What the hell do you mean by that?' She looked away.I'm sorry.'

'No.' He removed his cap and ran his fingers through his hair. It felt damp with sweat. Fear. `No, I'm the one toapologise.

She looked at him again, her eyes searching. `Was it bad, sir?'

He shrugged. Enough.' Abruptly he asked,Are you engaged to be married or anything?'

She eyed him steadily. `No, sir. I was. He bought it over Hamburg last year.'

`I see.' Bought it. So coolly said. The resilience of youth at war. 'Well, I'd better get out now. Otherwise the boat will go away without me.'

`Here, sir. I'll give you a hand with your bags.' She ignored his protests and climbed out of the car on to the wet stones of the jetty.

The wind slammed the door back against the car, and Lindsay felt the wind lashing his face like wire. Below the steps he could see the tossing motor boat, the oilskinned figures of coxswain and bowman.

He said, `Maybe I'll see you again.' He tried to smile but his face felt like a mask.

She squinted up at him, the, rain making her forehead and jaunty cap shine in the grey light. Maybe.'What name is it?'

She tugged down the sodden scarf from her mouth and smiled. Collins, sir.' She wrinkled her nose.Eve Collins. Daft, isn't it?'

She had a nice mouth. Lindsay realised one of the seamen was picking up his bags, his eyes on the girl's legs. He said, `Take care then.'

He walked to the steps and hurried down into the waiting boat.

The girl returned to the car and slid behind the wheel, her wet duffel coat making a smear across the worn

leather. As she backed the car away from the jetty's edge she saw the boat turning fussily. towards the anchorage. Nice bloke, she thought. She frowned, letting in the gear with a violent jerk, nice, but scared of something. Why did I give him my name? He'll not be back. She looked at herself in the mirror. Poor bastard. Like all the rest of us in this bloody place.

Lindsay remained standing as the boat dipped and curtsied across the wind-ruffled water, gripping the canopy with both hands. as he watched the anchored ships. Battleships and heavy cruisers, fleet destroyers and supply vessels, the grey metal gleamed dully. as the little boat surged past. The only colour was made by the ships' streaming ensigns or an occasional splash of dazzle paint on some sheltering Atlantic escort. His experienced eye told him about most of °the ships. Their names and classes, where they had met before. Faces and voices, the Navy was like a family. A religion. And all these ships, perhaps the best in the fleet, were tied here at Scapa, swinging round their buoys and anchors, waiting. Just in case the German heavy units broke out again to try and destroy the convoys, scatter the defences and shorten the odds against England even more.

Bismarck had been caught and sunk after destroying the Hood. But it had been a close run thing and had taken damn near the whole Home Fleet to do it. Graf Spee had been destroyed by her own people in Montevideo. rather than accept defeat by a victorious but inferior British force. But again, she had done well to get that far, had sunk many valuable ships before she was run to earth. And even now the mighty Tirpitz and several other powerful modern capital ships were said to be lurking in Norwegian fjords or in captured French ports along the Bay of Biscay. Just gauging the right moment. And until that moment, these ships had to lie here, fretting, cursing and wasting.

He glanced at the boat's coxswain. Probably wondering what sort of a skipper they were getting. Was he any good? Could he keep them all in one piece?

The seaman said gruffly, `There she is, sir. Fine on the starboard bow.'

Lindsay held his breath. For a moment she was just one more shadow in the steady downpour, and then she was right there, looming above him1ike a dripping steel cliff. Lindsay knew her history, had studied her picture and layout more than once, but after a low-lying destroyer, or any other warship for that matter, a merchantman always appeared huge And vulnerable. It took more than drab grey paint, a naval ensign and a few guns to change that.

Five hundred feet long from _her unfashionable straight stem to her overhanging stern, and twelve-anda-half thousand tons, she had steamed many thousands of miles since she had first slid into the Clyde in 1919. Born at a time of dashed hopes and unemployment, of world depression and post-war apathy, she had represented jobs to the shipyard workers rather than some source of a new hope. But she had done well for herself and her owners. Described in the old shipping lists as an intermediate liner, she had been almost constantly on the London to Brisbane run. Port Said, Aden, Colombo, Fremantle, Adelaide, Melbourne and Sydney. Her ports of call were like a record of the merchant navy itself, which in spite of everything had been the envy of the world.

Cargo, mail and passengers, she had pounded her way over the years, earning money, giving pleasure, making jobs.

After Dunkirk, when Britain had at last realised the war was not going to be won by stalemate, if at all, she had waited for a new role. The stately ocean liners had become hospital ships and troopers, and every other

freighter, tanker or aged tramp steamer was thrown into the battle for survival on the convoy routes. Benbecula had done some trooping, but she was of an awkward size. Not suitable for big cargoes, too small for large numbers of servicemen on passage, she had been moved likela clumsy pawn from one war theatre to the next.

With the Navy stretched beyond safety limits she had been earmarked at last as an armed merchant cruiser. She could endure the heaviest weather and stay away from base far longer than the average warship. To patrol the great wastes of the North Atlantic off Iceland, or the barren sea areas of the Denmark Strait. Watch for blockade runners, report anything suspicious, but stay out of real: danger. Any heavy naval unit could make scrap of an unarmoured hull like hers. Rawalpindi had found that out. And only some nine months ago the Jervis Bay had been sunk defending a fully loaded convoy a thousand miles outward bound from the American coast. The convoy had scattered in safety while the Jervis Bay, outgunned and ablaze, had matched shot for shot with a German battleship. Her destruction, her sacrifice, had brought pride as well as shame to those who had left the country so weak and so blind to its danger.

The motor boat cut across the tall bows and Lindsay saw the overhanging bridge wing, the solitary funnel and the alien muzzle of a six-inch gun below her foremast.

He said, `She seems to have a list to starboard.'

The coxswain grinned. "S'right, sir. I'm told she nearly always has had. One of the old hands said she got a biff in some typhoon afore the war an' never got over it like.'

Lindsay frowned. He had not realised he had spoken his thoughts aloud. A slight list to starboard. And he was not' even aboard her yet.

Again he sensed the chill of anxiety. He forced himself to go over the facts in his mind. Six six-inch guns, two hundred and fifty officers and ratings, most of whom were straight from the training depots.

The first lieutenant's name was Goss. John Goss.

The hull towered right over him now, and he saw the accommodation ladder stretching away endlessly towards several peeringfaces at the guardrail. How many passengers had swarmed up and down this ladder? Souvenirs, dirty postcards from Aden, a brass bowl for an aunt in Eastbourne.

Stop. Must stop right now.

He stood upright in the pitching boat as the bowman hooked on with studied ease.

As Lindsay jumped on to the grating the boat's mechanic hissed, `Woes 'e like, Bob?'

The coxswain watched Lindsay's slim figure hurrying up the side and replied through his teeth, 'Straightringer. A regular. Not like the last skipper.'

The mechanic groaned. 'Either'e's blotted 'is copybook an' is no bleedin' good for nuthin' else, or we're bein' given some special, bloody-awful job! Either way it's no bloody use, is it?'

The coxswain listened to the squeal of pipes from the top of the ladder and said unfeelingly, `Looks that way, so grab them bags and jump about.'

The other man muttered, `Roll on my bleedin' twelve, and bugger all cox'ns!'

The coxswain tried to recall if there was a film on in the fleet canteen tonight. Probably full before he got ashore anyway. He glared at the dull sky and the rain. Bloody Scapa, he thought.

Lindsay looked at the assembled side party, anonymous in their glistening oilskins. After the jetty and the boat, it seemed strangely sheltered here. The entry port was situated beneath the promenade and boat decks, and with the wind blowing across the opposite bow it was suddenly quiet.

Welcome aboard, sir.' A tall, heavily built officer stepped forward and saluted.I'm Goss.'

Lindsay knew that Goss was forty-five, but he looked fifteen years older. He.had a heavy fowled, unsmiling face, and in his oilskin he seemed to tower head and shoulders over everyone else.

Lindsay held out his hand. `Thank you, Number One.'

Goss had not blinked or dropped his eyes. I've got one watch and the second part of port watch ashore on store parties, sir. We ammunitioned at Leith before we came here.' He moved his eyes for the first time and said almost fiercely,You'll not need to worry about this ship, sir.'

Something in his tone, the hint of challenge or aggressiveness, made Lindsay reply coldly, `We shall have to see, eh?'

Goss turned away, his mouth hardening slightly. .'This is Lieutenant Barker, sir. Paymaster and supply officer. He's got the books ready for your inspection.'

Lindsay got a brief impression of a toothy smile, pale eyes behind hornrimmed glasses, and nodded. `Good.'

Goss seemed very ill at ease. Angry, resentful, evenn hostile

It had been a bad beginning. What the hell was the matter? Lindsay blamed himself. They were all probably more worried about their new captain than he had properly realised.

He tried again. Sailing orders will be coming aboard in the first dog watch.' He paused.So there'll be no-libertymen, I'm afraid, until I know what's happening.'

Surprisingly, Goss smiled. It was more like a grimace. He said harshly, `Good. Most of the hands are more intent on looking like sailors than doing anything useful. Bloody shower of civvies and layabouts!'

Lindsay glanced at his watch. It had stopped, and he remembered angrily that he had been looking at the clock on St. Magnus cathedral in Kirkwall to set the correct time when the Wren had arrived with her car. .

Goss saw the quick frown. I'm afraid lunch has been cleared away, sir.' He hesitated.Of course I could call the cook and.....'

Lindsay looked away. `No. A sandwich will do.'

He could not even recall when he had last eaten properly.. He had to break this contact. Find some privacy to reassemble himself and his mind.

Then if you'll follow me, sir.' Goss gestured towards a ladder.The captain's quarters are below the bridge deck. Nothing's changed there yet.'

jLindsay followed him in silence. Changed? What did he mean? He saw several seamen working about the decks but avoided their eyes. It was too soon for quick udgements. Unlike Goss, who apparently despised men because they were `civvies'. The Navy would be in a damn poor way without them. What did he expect for a worn old ship like this?

Aloud he asked, `What about this list to starboard?'

Goss was already climbing the ladder. He did not turn round. Always had it' - pause -Sir,' was all he said.

The captain's quarters were certainly spacious and ran the whole breadth of the bridge. There was a ladder which led directly above to the chart room and W/T office, the navigation bridge and compass platform, and from it the occupant could see most of the boat deck and forward to the bows as well.

Goss opened the door, his eyes watchful as Lindsay walked into the day cabin.

After the Vengeur it was another world. A green fitted carpet and wood panelling. Good furniture, and some chintz curtains at each brightly polished scuttle. Above an oak sideboard was a coloured photograph of the Benbecula as she had once been. Shining green hull and pale buff funnel. Her old line, the Aberdeen and Pacific Steam Navigation Company, was also present in the shape of the company's crest and a small glass box containing the launching mallet used at her birth.

Goss said quietly, There are, were five ships in the company, sir.' He took off his oilskin and folded it carefully on his arm. He had the interwoven gold lace of a lieutenant-commander in the Royal Naval Reserve on his reefer.Good ships, and I've served in all but one of them.'

Lindsay looked at him gravely. `Always with the one company?'

`Aye. Since I was fourteen. Would have been Master by now, but for the war.'

'I see.'

Lindsay walked to the nearest scuttle and looked at the swirling water far below. Goss's comment was part of the reason for his attitude, he thought. Would have been Master. Of this ship perhaps?

He turned and saw the books lined along a polished desk awaiting his scrutiny and signature. Neat and tidy like the oilskin on Goss's beefy arm.

He asked, `Was this your last ship, Number One?'

Goss nodded curtly. `I was Chief Officer. But when we stopped trooping and the Admiralty took over I stayed on with her. Being a reservist, they couldn't very well object.'

`Why should they object?'

Goss flushed. `Not happy unless. they're moving everyone about.'

You may be right.' He turned away.Now if you'll arrange a sandwich I'll settle in while I'm reading these books.'

Goss hesitated. I hear you were in hospital, sir.' His eyes flickered.Lost your ship, I believe.'

`Yes.'

Goss seemed satisfied. `I'll leave you then. Anything you want you can ring on those handsets or press the steward's bell, sir.'

The door closed silently and Lindsay sat down behind the desk. Not good, but it might have been a worse beginning. A whole lot worse. He leafed through the neat pages. Apart from Goss and himself there were seventeen officers aboard, including a doctor, and for some obscure reason, a lieutenant of marines. Most of the officers were hostilities-only. He smiled in spite of his taut nerves. Civvies, as Goss would have described them. A few, like Goss, including the engineer officers, Lieutenant Barker whom he had briefly met, and a Mr. Tobey, the boatswain, were Royal Naval Reserve. Professional seamen and well used to ships like Benbecula. That was something. The only regulars appeared to be the gunnery officer, a Lieutenant Maxwell, and two pensioners called back from retirement; Baldock, the gunner, and Emerson, a warrant-engineer. He paused at the foot of the page. And one solitary midshipman named Kemp. What an appointment for a midshipman, he thought bitterly. He saw himself in the bulkhead mirror and shuddered. Or Commander Andrew Lindsay for that matter.

The wind sighed against the bridge, and he was conscious of the :lack of movement. A destroyer would be pitching to her moorings even here in Scapa Flow. He would have to meet his officers, explore the hull from bridge to keel. Get the feel of her.

He lowered his face into his hands. Must do it soon. Waste no time in remembering or trying not to remember. But he had got over the Vengeur, as much as anyone could who had seen a ship, his ship, die. But the rest. He hesitated, remembering the doctor's calm voice' at the hospital. That might take longer. Avoid it, 'the doctor had said.

Lindsay stood up violently. Avoid it. How the hell could you? The man was a bloody fool even to suggest it. He stared at a tall, mournful looking man in a white

jacket and carrying a silver tray covered in a crisp napkin. The man said, `I'm Jupp, sir. Chief steward.'

Lindsay swallowed hard. The steward must think him mad. `Put the tray down there, and thank you, er, Jupp.'

The steward laid the tray down and said dolefully, I made 'em meself, sir. Bit of tinned salmon I'd been savin'. Some spam, and a few olives which I obtained from a Greek freighter in Freetown.' He looked at Lindsay, adding,Nice to have you aboard, if I may make so bold.'

Lindsay studied him. `I take it you were with the company, too?'

Jupp smiled gently. Twenty-three years, sir. We've 'ad some very nice people to deal with.' The smile became' doleful again.You'll soon settle in, sir, so don't fret about it so.'

Lindsay felt the anger rising uncontrollably like a flood.

`I'm really glad you've come to us, sir.' Jupp made towards the door.

`Yes, thank you.'

Lindsay stared at the closed door, his anger gone and leaving him empty. Jupp seemed to think he was joining the company rather than assuming command. Yet in spite of his jarring nerves and earlier despair he took a sandwich from the plate. It was thin and beautifully cut.

There was a small card under the plate which read, `On behalf of the Aberdeen and Pacific Steam Navigation Company may we welcome you aboard the S.S. Benbecula.' Jupp had crossed out the ship's title and inserted H.M.S. with a pencil.

Lindsay sank back into a chair and stared around the silent cabin. Jupp was at least trying to help. He reached for another sandwich, suddenly conscious of a consuming hunger.

So then, would he, he decided grimly, if only to hold on to his sanity.

Jupp walked around the captain's day cabin, flicking a curtain into place here, examining an ashtray there, and generally checking that things were as they should be. It was early evening, but the pipe to ' darken ship had sounded long since as it seemed to get dark quickly in Scapa Flow. Not that it had been very light throughout Lindsay's first day aboard.

He sat at his desk, his jacket open as he pushed the last file of papers to one side. He felt tired, even spent, and was surprised to see that he had been working steadily for a fullhour since his methodical tour around the ship.

The dockyard people at Leith had been very ruthless with their surgery, he thought. For once below `A' Deck there appeared little left of the original internal hull. There was a well deck both forward and aft, but where the main holds' had once been were now shored up with massive steel frames to support the main armament on the upper decks. There were four six-inch guns on the foredeck, two on either beam, and the remaining two had been mounted aft, again one on either side. There was not much alternative in a ship constructed for peaceful purposes, but it was obvious that at no time could Benbecula use more than half her main armament to fire at one target. There was an elderly twelve-pounder situated right aft on the poop, a relic of the ship's short service as a trooper, and on the boat deck itself he had discovered four modern Oerlikons. Altogether they represented Benbecula's sole defence or means of attack.

Most of the original lifeboats had gone, and had been replaced by naval whalers, two motor boats and a number of Carley floats and wooden rafts. The latter were the only things which really counted if a ship went down fast.

She had a modern refrigeration space where he had found Paymaster-Lieutenant Barker and his assistants busily checking the last of the incoming stores. Barker had been a ship's purser before the war, some of that time in the Benbecula, and had spoken with obvious nostalgia of `better days', as he had described them.

Many of the passenger cabins had been transferred into quarters for the ship's company, a rare luxury for naval ratings, even though the dockyard had seen fit to cram them in four or five to each space.

Accompanied by Goss, Lindsay had tried to miss nothing, had kept his thoughts to himself until he had completed his inspection.

Magazines for the six-inch guns had been constructed on the orlop deck below the waterline, with lifts to carry.

the shells and charges the seemingly great distance to the mountings above. The guns were very old. First World War vintage, they were hand-operated and almost independent of any sort of central firecontrol.

He had met Lieutenant Maxwell, the gunnery officer, although he had the vague impression the man had been waiting for him. Gauging the right moment to appear as if by accident.

Maxwell was a regular officer, but about the same age as himself. Thin featured, bony, and very rigid in his carriage, he never seemed to relax throughout the meeting. His knuckles remained firmly. bunched at his sides, the thumbs in line with his trouser seams, as if on parade at Whale Island.

While they were speaking, Goss was called away by. the duty quartermaster, and Maxwell said quickly, `Pretty rough lot, I'm afraid, sir. But still,.with aproper captain we'll soon whip 'em into shape.'

Lindsay had discovered that, unlike Goss, the gunnery officer had been referring to the R.N.R. officers and ratings of the ship's company. He had also gathered that Goss and Maxwell rarely spoke to one another.

Later, on the way to the boiler room, Goss had remarked sourly, `Did you know, sir, Maxwell was on the beach for five years until the war? Made some. bloody cockup, I expect. Damned unfair to have him put aboard us!'

Lindsay leaned back in the chair and interlaced his fingers behind his head.. Goss probably thought the same about his new captain.

Jupp paused by the desk, his eyes glinting in the lamplight. `I expect you'd like a drink, sir?'

`Thank you. A whisky, if you have it.'

Jupp regarded him gravely. `I always manage to keep some for my captains, sir.' He sounded surprised that Lindsay should have doubted his ability to obtain something which was such a rarity almost everywhere.

Lindsay watched Jupp as he busied himself. at the sideboard. There is a man who is happy in his work, he thought wearily.

Then he remembered Fraser, the chief engineer. Lieutenant-Commander (E) Donald Fraser' had taken him on a tour around the boiler and engine rooms. He was a small, almost delicate looking man with iron grey hair, a sardonic smile, and a very dry sense of humour: Lindsay had liked him immediately.

Goss must be a good seaman, and Maxwell had sounded competent on matters of gunnery. Even Barker seemed shrewd and active in the affairs of his vital department. But Lindsay, even after much heart-searching, could not find much to like about any of them. Most ships' engineer officers were men apart, from his experience, defending their private worlds of roaring machinery from all comers, including captains, to the death. Fraser, on the other hand, was almost insulting about his trade and about the ships he had served. He had been at sea since he was seventeen. He was now fifty.

He had only been chief in the Benbecula for eight months, but had served before that in her sister ship, the Eriskay.

Alike as two peas in a pod,' he had said without enthusiasm.Sometimes when I'm doing my rounds I almost forget I've changed bloody ships!'

When Lindsay had asked him about his previous service Fraser had said, `I was with,Cunard for ten years, y'know. Now there was a company!'

'Why did you leave?'

Fraser had run his wintry eye around the mass of glittering dials and throbbing generators before replying slowly, `Got fed up with the wife. Longer voyages in this crabby company was the only peace I could get!'

As Lindsay had made to leave the engine room's humid air Fraser had said simply, You and I'll not fight, sir. I can give you fifteen, maybe sixteen knots. But if you want more I'll do what I can.' He had grinned, showing his small, uneven teeth like a knowing fox.If I have to blow the guts out of this old bucket!'

The whisky glass was empty, and he licked his lips as Jupp refilled it soundlessly from a decanter. He had hardly noticed it ,going down, and that was a bad sign. The doctor had said . . . he shut his mind to the memory like a steel trap.

Instead he turned over the rain-dampened envelope which the guardboat had dropped aboard during the first dog watch. Orders. But nothing fresh or even informative. The ship would remain at her present moorings and notice for steam until further notice.

Muffled by the thick glass scuttles he heard the plaintive note of a bugle. Probably one of the battleships. He felt suddenly tired and strangely cut off. Lonely. In a small, ship you were always in each others' pockets. You knew everyone, whereas here.... He sipped the second drink, listening to the muted wind, the muffled footsteps of a signalman on the bridge above.

Jupp asked discreetly, `Will you be dining aboard, sir?'

He thought suddenly of the small Wren with the wind-reddened face. He could go ashore and give her a call. Take her somewhere for a drink. But where? Anyway, she would probably laugh at him.

He replied, `Yes.' He thought Jupp seemed pleased by his answer.

`I will try and arrange something special for you, sir.' Jupp glanced at the bulkhead clock as if troubled and then hurried purposefully away.

Lindsay switched on the radio repeater above the sideboard, half listening to the smooth, tired voice of the announcer. Air raids, and another setback in the Western desert. Last night our light coastal forces engaged enemy E-boats in the Channel. Losses were inflicted. The Secretary of the Admiralty regrets to announce the loss of H.M. trawler Milford Queen. Next of kin have been informed. He switched it off angrily without knowing why. Words, words. What did they mean to those who were crouching in the cellars and shelters, listening to the drone of bombers, waiting for their world to cave in on them?

There was a tap on the door. It was Fraser.

`Yes, Chief?' He thrust his hands behind him, knowing they were shaking violently.

The engineer officer held out a bottle of gin. I thought you might care to take a dram with me, sir?' His eye fell on the decanter.But of course if you were to offer something else, well now....'

Lindsay smiled and waved Fraser to a chair, thankful he had come. Glad not to be alone on this first evening aboard. Knowing too why Jupp had been so concerned. Goss' was first lieutenant and senior officer in the wardroom. He should have invited the new captain down to meet the other officers. Break the ice. Jupp would have been expecting it.

He looked at Fraser and realised he was studying him with fixed attention.

`Your health, Chief.'

Fraser held the glass to the light and said quietly, 'Ah well, we're both Scots, so there's some hope for this bloody ship!'

Beyond the tall sides of the hull the wind eased slightly, but the rain mounted in intensity, beating the black water like bullets.

Ashore, sitting in her cramped billet and darning a stocking, Wren Collins cocked her head to listen to it. Aloud she said vehemently, `Bloody Scapa!'

2

The nightmare

A ndrew Lindsay awoke from his nightmare, struggling and tearing at the sheet and blankets, gasping for air, and knowing from the soreness in his throat he had been shouting aloud. Shouting to break the torment.

Hold it at bay.

Stumbling and sobbing in the pitch darkness he groped his way across the cabin, crashing into unfamiliar furniture, almost falling, until he had found a scuttle. He could hear himself cursing, as he fought to raise the heavy deadlight and then to unscrew the clips around the glass scuttle.

As he heaved it open he had the breath knocked from him as with savage eagerness the rain sluiced across his face and chest, soaking his hair and pyjamas until he was shivering both from chill and sheer panic. He thrust his head through the open scuttle, letting the rain drench over him, feeling the cold brass rim against his shoulders. The scuttle was large. Big enough to wriggle through if you tried hard enough.

Breathing unsteadily he peered through the rain. The sky was lighter, and he thought he saw the outline of another ship anchored nearby. It was impossible to tell what time it was, or how long the dream had lasted, or when it had begun. He had never been able to tell. Just that it was always the same.

Wearily he slammed down the deadlight and groped back to the bunk where he switched on the overhead reading lamp.

The sheet was damp, but not only from his rain-soaked body. He, had been sweating as he had relived it. Sweating and fighting to free its grip on him.

He felt his breath slowing down andd pulled his dressing gown from a hook. He was ice cold and shivering badly.

Around him the ship was like a tomb, as if she were listening to him. Not a footfall or even a creak broke the stillness.

Be logical. Face up to it. He went painstakingly through the motions, even filling his pipe unseeingly to steady himself. Suppose it would never loosen its grip? That the doctors had been wrong. After all, naval hospitals were overworked, too glutted with an unending stream of burned, scalded, savaged wrecks to care much about one more casualty.

He lit the pipe carefully, tasting the raw whisky from the previous night's drinking; and knowing he had been close to vomiting.

Across the cabin he saw his face in a mirror, picked out in the match flame as if floating. He shuddered. Drowning. The face was too young for the way he felt. Tousled hair, wide, staring eyes. Like a stranger's.

The tobacco smoke swirled around him as he stood up and walked vaguely back and forth on the carpet.

Perhaps if it had not happened right after the Vengeur's sinking he would have been able to cope. Or maybe unknowingly he had already seen and done too much.

Used up his resistance.

Feet clattered on a ladder overhead. The morning watchmen getting their cocoa carried to them while they tried to stay awake on the bridge.

It was strange to realise that throughout his life in the Navy he had been content with almost everything, Perhaps because it was everything to him. His father he could hardly remember. He had been wounded in that other war at Jutland and had never really recovered. His mother, worn out with worry for her husband; nursing him, and hating the Service which had turned him into a remote, broken man, had remarried almost immediately after his death. Staying only long enough to carry out her dead husband's wish, that Andrew should be entered into the R.N.. College at Dartmouth. She had married a Canadian, a much older man with a thriving business in Alberta, and had never returned. In her own way she was getting as far as possible from the sea which had taken her husband and separated her from her only son.

Denied a normal home life, Lindsay had given everything to the Navy. In his heart he wondered if that driving force, his inbuilt trust, had been the main cause of his breakdown. For war was not a matter of weapons and strategy alone. Above all it was endurance. To survive you had to endure, no matter what you saw or felt. The Atlantic had proved that well enough. Endurance, and the grim patience of one vast slaughterhouse.

Could anyone thing break a man? How many times did he ask himself this same unanswerable question?

He sat down and stared at the glowing bowl of his pipe.

The Swedish ship had taken Vengeur's survivors into New York. Had it been a British port things might have been different. But to men starved of bright lights, kindness and a genuine desire to make up for their suffering, it was another, unreal world.. The cloak to hide, or at least delay the shock of war.

After one week Lindsay and his men, some other survivors and a large number of civilian passengers had been put. aboard a Dutch ship for passage to England. It had an almost holiday atmosphere. The British seamen loaded with gifts and food parcels, the friendly Dutch crew, everything.

Lindsay had felt the loss of his ship much more once the Dutch vessel had sailed to join an eastbound convoy. Perhaps because for the first time he had nothing to do. A passenger. A number in a lifeboat, or for a sitting in the dining room.

He had shied away from the others, even his own officers, and had found himself mixing more and more with some of the civilian passengers. He had known it was to help him as well as them. He needed to do something, to occupy his mind, just as they required someone to explain and to ease the anxieties once the land had vanished astern.

There had been one family in particular. Dutch Jews, they had been in Italy when war had begun, and unable to reach home had started, as best they could, to escape. They needed no telling as to what would happen if the Germans got to them first. A nondescript Dutch Jew. Plump, balding and bespectacled, with a chubby wife who laughed a good deal. A quick, nervous laugh. And two children, who were completely unaware of their parents' sacrifices and strange courage on their behalf.

The family had got aboard a Greek freighter to Alexandria. Then in another ship via Suez to Durban, with the little man using his meagre resources and his wife's jewellery to oil the wheels, to bribe if necessary those who were too busy or indifferent to care about them.

Finallyy they reached America, and after more delays, examination of papers, and with money almost gone, they got aboard the Dutch ship.

Lindsay had asked why they had not remained in America. They would have been safe there. Well looked after. It made more sense. The little man had shaken his head. He was a Jew, but foremost he was Dutch. In England he would soon find work, he was after all a professional radio mechanic and .highly skilled. He would seek work to help those who had not given in. Who were fighting and would win against the Nazis.

Almost shyly he had said, `And I will know Holland is nott so far away. My wife and children will know it, too.'

The pipe had gone out, and Lindsay found he was staring fixedly at the closed scuttle. Holding his breath.

It had been a fine bright morning and warmer than usual. He had been sitting in his cabin watching the horizon line mounting the glass scuttle, hanging motionless for a few seconds before retreating again as the ship rolled gently in the Atlantic swell. The, previous evening he had been on the bridge with the Dutch master, who had told him that six U-boats thought earlier to have been near-by had moved away towards another convoy further south. This convoy was fast, and with luck should reach Liverpool in two more days.

The Dutch family had been getting visibly anxious with each long day, and Lindsay had called into their cabin before turning into his bunk to tell them the news. He could see them now. The two children grinning at him from a bunk, their parents sitting amidst a litter of shabby suitcases. They had thanked him, and the children had thrown him salutes as they had seen his men do.

That following morning he had wondered how he would pass the day. He had known that the Dutch family would be awake in their cabin, which was directly below his own. They had often jokedd about it.

At first he had thought it to be far off thunder, or a ship being torpedoed many miles away.

Even as he had walked to the scuttle there had been a tremendous explosion which had flung him on his back, deafening him with its intensity. When he had scrambled to his feet he had seen with shock that the sea beyond the scuttle was hidden in smoke, and as his hearing had returned he had heard screams and running feet, shrill whistles and the clamour of alarm bells.

Another explosion and one more almost immediately shook the ship as if she had rammed full-tilt into a berg. When he had regained his feet again he had found he could hardly stand, that the deck was already tilting steeply towards the sea.

When he had wrenched open the scuttle and peered into the smoke he had realised that the ship was already settling down, and when he had looked towards the water he had seen one of the sights uppermost in his nightmare.

The sea had almost reached the next line of scuttles below him. And at most of them there were arms and hands waving and clutching, like souls in torment. It was then he had realised that his own scuttle was just too small to climb through.

More violent crashes, the sounds of machinery tearing adrift and thundering through the hull. Escaping steam, and the banshee wail of the siren. It had taken all his strength to stagger up the deck to the door. The passageway had been full of reeling figures, forgotten lifebelts and scattered trays of tea which the stewards had been preparing at each cabin door.

Lindsay was on his feet again, pacing up and down as. he relived each terrible minute. Fighting his way down companion ladders, looming faces and wild eyes, screams and desperate pleas for help, and with the ship dipping steadily on to her side.

Their cabin door had been open just a few inches, and he had heard the woman sobbing, the children whimpering like sick animals. In a shaky voice the little Dutchman had explained that the whole cabin bulkhead had collapsed, had sealed the door. They were trapped, with the sea already just a few feet below the scuttle.

Lindsay could hear himself saying, `You must put the children through the scuttle.' It had been like hearing someone else. So calm and detached, even though every fibre was screaming inside him to run before the ship took the last plunge.

The other voice had asked quietly, `Will you look after them?'

Lindsay could not remember much more. The next scene had been on the ravaged boat deck. Shattered lifeboats and dangling falls. Two dead seamen by a ventilator, and an officer falling like a puppet from the upper bridge.

Down on the water, littered with rafts and charred wood, with bodies and yelling survivors, he had seen the children float clear of the hull. Very small in their bright orange lifebelts. He had jumped into the water after them, but when he had looked back he had seenn that the whole line of scuttles had dipped beneath the surface. But here and there he had seen pale arms waving like human weed until, with a jubilant roar the pressure had forced them back out of sight.

Lindsay had swam with the children to a half-empty. lifeboat, deaf to their terrified cries, and still only half aware what had happened.

The small convoy had scattered, and when he had stood up he had seen the nearest ship, a freighter, being bracketed by tall waterspouts, until she too reeled to explosions and was ablaze from bow to stern. Then and only then had he seen the enemy. Lying across the horizon like a low, grey islet, lit every so often by rippling orange flashes from her massive armament. The enemy never got nearer than about seven miles, and methodically, mercilessly' she had continued to drop her great shells on the sinking ships, on the boats and amongst the helpless victims in the water. To the men behind those powerful rangefinders and gunsights the targets would have seemed very near. Close enough to watch as they died in agony under that clear sky.

Eventually, satisfied her work was done, the German raider had disappeared below the hard horizon line. Later it was said she was a pocket-battleship or perhaps a heavy cruiser: Nobody knew for sure. All Lindsay knew was that he hadd to stay five days in the boat with seven others who had somehow survived the bombardment.

Five men and the two Dutch children.

A corvette had found them eventually, and the children were buried at sea the next morning along with some victims from a previous attack. Lindsay had held them against himself for warmth and comfort long after they must have died from exposure, terror and exhaustion.

War was not for little children, as some smug journalist had written later.

Lindsay sat on the edge of the bunk and stared at the carpet. He had actually allowed himself to think about it. Just this once. What did he feel now? Despair, fear of what might happen next time? He rubbed his eyes with his knuckles, hearing a bugle bleating out reveille across the Flow. Wakey, wakey! Lash up and stow!

If he felt anything, anything at all, it was hatred.

The door opened an inch and lamplight cut a path across the carpet to his bare feet.

Jupp asked, Are you ready for some tea, sir?' Lindsay shook.himself.Thanks.'

Jupp padded to the table. `I heard you about, sir, so I thought to meself, ah, the captain'll like a nice hot strong cup of char, that's what I thought.'

Heard me?' Caution again, like an animal at bay.Thought you was on the telephone, sir.' Jupp's face was in shadow. `I was already in me pantry, an' the old Becky's a quiet ship, sir.'

He peered at the disordered bunk and pursed his lips. Dear me, sir, you've 'ad some bad dreams, and we can't lave that.' He grinned.I'll fix you some coffee an' scrambled eggs.' Disdainfully, `Powdered eggs, I'm afraid, but there's a war on they tell me.'

Lindsay stopped him by the door. So I believe.' He saw the man turn.And thanks.'

Sir?' Jupp's features were inscrutable.Just thanks.'

Somewhere above a man laughed, and the deck gave a small tremble as some piece of machinery came alive.

Lindsay walked to the scuttle, the hot cup in his hand. A new day. For him and the ship. The old Becky. Perhaps it might be good to both of them.

Lieutenant-Commander John Goss stepped over the coaming of Lindsay's cabin and removed his cap. `You wanted me, sir?' His heavy face was expressionless.

`Take a seat.'

Lindsay stood by a scuttle watching the rain sheeting across the forecastle where a party of oilskinned seamen were working half-heartedly between the anchor cables. It was the forenoon, but the sky was so dull it could have been dusk. In spite of his bad night he was feeling slightly better. A good bath and Jupp's breakfast had helped considerably.

`I have sent round my standing orders, Number One, and I'd be obliged if youmade sure that all heads of departments have read them.' He paused, knowing what was coming.

Goss said abruptly, `I've read them, sir. It's not that.'

Well?' In the salt-smeared glass he saw Goss shifting his heavy bulk from one foot to the other.What's bothering you?'

The watch bill. Action stations and the rest. You've changed my original arrangements.' In a harder tone,May I ask why?'

Lindsay turned and studied him calmly. `Whether any of us likes it or not, Number One, this is a naval ship. As such she will have to. work and, if necessary, fight as a single unit.'

Goss said stubbornly, I still don't see why Lindsay interrupted,I studied your arrangements. You had put all the reserve people into one watch. The other watch was comprised almost entirely of hostilities only, new intakes, many of whom have never been to sea before. Likewise the allocation of officers.' He added slowly, `Just what do you think might happen if the ship is caught napping and with two R.N.V.R. officers on the bridge, neither of whom has had the slightest experience?'

Goss dropped his eyes. `They'll have to learn, sir. As I did.'

`Given time they might. But they'll have to be taught, like the rest of us. So I've allowed for it in my planning. A sprinkling in each part of both watches.'

Yes, sir.' Goss looked up angrily.There's this other order. About the accommodation.'

Lindsay glanced at the ship's picture on the bulkhead. The Benbecula as she had once been. He could understand Goss's feelings, but like the ship's role they had to be overcome.

Yes. Tell the chief bosun's mate to get his people to work right away. I want all the old titles removed or painted out, understood?' He saw Goss's eyes cloud over and added quietly,To the ship's company as a whole, as a whole, do you understand, Benbecula must represent part of the Navy. It is a wardroom, not a restaurant as the sign says. A chief and petty officers'' mess, and no longer the cocktail lounge. Things like that can affect a man's attitude, especially a new, green recruit.'

`I don't need to be told about war, sir.'

Lindsay heard himselfretort angrily, `And neither do I, Number One, so do as I damn well say!'

When Goss remained stockstill, his cap crushed under his arm, he added, Whatever role we are given, wherever we are sent, things are going to be hard. If I am called to action I want a ship's company working as a team, one unit, do you understand? Not some collection of trained and untrained men, ex-merchant seamen and others brought back from retirement.'' He was hoarse, and could feel his heart pumping against his ribs. The earlier sensation of control was slipping away, yet he had to make Goss understand.A ship of war is only as strong as her people, d'you see that? People!'

`If you say so, sir.'

`Good.'

He walked to a chair and slumped into it. `You have been at sea long enough to know what can happen. The Atlantic is a killing-ground and no place for unwary idealists. I know how you feel about this ship, at least I think I do. You may believe that by keeping up the old appearances you'll make them survive. Believe me, you won't, quitethe opposite. Many of the.new hands come from training depots. Depots which up to a year or so back were holiday camps for factory workers and mill girls in the north of England. But after a while the trainees believed they were in naval establishments and progressed accordingly. Likewise this ship, so see that my orders are executed as of today.'

`Aye, aye, sir.' Goss sounded hoarse.

I want to meet my officers today, too.' He glanced up quickly, seeing the shot go home. Goss looked suddenly uneasy.I've read all I can about them, but that is as far as it goes.'

'I'll arrange it, sir.' Goss sounded in control again. `Eight bells?'

`Good.'

More calmly he continued, If the war gets' no worse things are going to be bad. If it does,' he shrugged,then we'll be hard put to keep the sea lanes open. It's as simple as that.'

Almost to himself he said, `Once I thought otherwise. Now I know better. War isn't a game, and it's time we started breaking a few rules, right?'

Goss eyed him unblinkingly. `Right.'

A telephone buzzed on the bulkhead and Lindsay seized it from its hook without leaving the chair.

`Captain.'

The voice said, `Signal from shore, sir. Guardboat arriving with sealed orders forthwith.'

Lindsay looked at Goss's heavy face and thought about the voice on the telephone. What did he look like? What was his name? There was so much to discover. So little time.

`Thank you. Inform the O.O.D. please.' The phone went dead.

To Goss he said,. `Perhaps we shall know now.'

Goss looked around the cabin, his face suddenly desperate. They'll not be sending us to fight surface ships. Not after all that's happened, surely?' When Lindsay remained silent he said,One of our sister ships, the Barra, has got a nice billet at Singapore. She's an A.M.C. too, like us, but out there she'll be safe enough from these bloody U-boats.'

Almost, gently Lindsay replied, `Maybe you're right. But it's best to face the worst thing which can happen and plan from there.'

He turned away to hide his eyes, as the mental picture rose in his mind like some hideous spectre. The pale arms waving under the water. The soft, limp bodies pressed against his chest.

Goss opened the door. `I...I'll carry on, sir.' Then he was gone.

Jupp entered the cabin by the other door and said, 'Guardboat's shoved off from the jetty, sir. I'd better start packin' up some of the glasses. They're hard to replace nowadays, and we don't want none of that issue stuff from naval stores.'

Lindsay relaxed slightly and smiled at Jupp's doleful face.

`What are you expecting?'

Jupp pouted. 'Sailin' orders they'll be, sir. We're off very soon now.'

Lindsay stood up. He was well used to lower deck telegraph and false buzzes, but the steward's tone made him ask, Have you heard something?' He smiled.You've a relative at H.Q. maybe?'

Jupp moved to another scuttle, his face grave. `Look 'ere, sir.'

Through the steady downpour Lindsay saw a small boat chugging across the anchorage, several oilskinned figures crammed together for comfort like wet seals on a half-submerged rock.

Jupp said, That's the 'arbour-master's mob,: sir. Earlier on I seen 'em checkin', our buoy and measurin' the distance to thee next astern.' He glanced at Lindsay, his voice matter-of-fact.They'll be needin' it for another; bigger ship, I reckon. Stands to reason, don't it, sir?'

Lindsay nodded. `Yes.'

Jupp asked, `Will you be wantin' any letters taken ashore? If I'm right, that is.'

He shook his head. `No. No letters.'

He walked towards his sleeping cabin and did not see the sadness in Jupp's deepset eyes.

The Benbeculds wardroom, which was situated forward of the promenade deck, had once been the main. restaurant for the passengers, and had been her pride and joy. It ran the whole breadth of the hull, and was panelled in dark oak. Most of the furnishings were drawn from the original fittings, and the chairs around the long polished table all bore the company's crest, as did the deep leather ones grouped by the stately coal stove at the after bulkhead. A few additional concessions had, however, been made. Officers' letter rack, a picture of the King, and a stand containing pistols which did little to alter the general appearance 'of well-being and comfort.

Sharp at noon Goss had arrived to accompany Lindsay to the wardroom and had said nothing as they passed two seamen who were busily removing the glass sign which proclaimed it to be a Restaurant - First Class Only. Lindsay doubted if the sign had ever been needed, for he had learned that Benbecula had never carried anyone but first class passengers. Except, that is, for emigrants to Australia, and it was hardly likely they would have misunderstood.the rules.

As they entered all the officers rose to their feet, their expressions a mixture of curiosity, apprehension and expectancy. It was plain that Goss had already arranged them ip some sort of order, while in the background two white-coated stewards hovered in readiness to serve drinks once the formalities were over.

Lindsay knew better than to expect a complete analysis at so brief a meeting. Some faces stood out more than others, however. There was a Lieutenant Stannard, the navigation officer, a lean, beanpole of a man with a skin like leather. A reservist, he was also an Australian who had served with the company before the war.

As Lindsay shook his hand he drawled, I sure hope we're going back on the Far East run, sir. The old ship can find her own way there by now.' He shrugged.Otherwise I'm not too optimistic!'

Maxwell was present of course, rigid as ever, and slightly apart from the professional seamen and the amateurs, like a disapproving referee at some obscure contest.

The ship's doctor, Surgeon-Lieutenant David Boase, returned Lindsay's handshake, and in answer to a question said, `First ship, sir. I was at Guy's.'

Despite the red marking between his wavy gold stripes, Lindsay guessed that like so many of his contemporaries Boase was little more than a glorified medical student. But better than no doctor at all.

There were four sub-lieutenants, very new, and all but one of whom had never been to sea before except as ordinary seamen doing their obligatory service prior to going to King Alfred, the officers training establishment. The exception was named Dancy, a serious faced young man who said quickly, `Actually, sir, I have done three months watchkeeping before joining this ship.'

Lindsay eyed him curiously. `What ship?'

`The Valiant, sir.'

Lindsay was surprised. `I'd have thought this is a bit of a change from a big battleship, Dancy.'

Dancy flushed. `Oh no, sir. Not that Valiant. Actually she was an armed yacht at Bristol.'

The laughter helped to break the ice, and Goss said ponderously, `Shall I call the stewards over now, sir?'

Lindsay nodded and let his eyes move round the faces which would become so familiar,. given luck and time.

As Goss bustled away he saw Tobey, the big boatswain, talking with the two elderly warrant officers, Emerson and Baldock, and wondered what they thought about this appointment after their peaceful retirement.

Lieutenant Mark de Chair of the Royal Marines, a slim, elegant figure with a.neat clipped moustache said .suddenly, `I expect you're, wondering why I'm aboard, sir?'

Lindsay smiled. `Tell me.'

I was put here with my sergeant and thirty marines to man the ship's armament when we were trooping, sir.' He shrugged.The troops have gone, but their lordships 'in all their wisdom thought fit to forget us.'

`I've arranged for you to continue manning the after guns.'

Lindsay took a glass from a steward and waited until they were all silent again. A mixed wardroom, he thought. Like most ships these days, and yet....'

He said quietly, Well, gentlemen, I am sorry this has to be brief. I will have to get to know you better,' he paused,when we are at sea.' He felt the sudden expectancy move around him like a small wind. Our sailing orders have arrived.' He thought of Jupp by the scuttle. How right he was.We will slip from our buoy at 0800 tomorrow and proceed on independent patrol.'

He could see his words hitting. home, affecting each and every one present in the way it would touch him. Fraser's relaxed indifference, his second engineer, Lieutenant (E) Dyke, frowning slightly as if going over his own watch-bill of stokers and mechanics. Barker biting his lip, squinting behind his glasses, seeing each sea mile steamed as so many sausages and tins of corned beef, rum and gallons of tea. Stannard, the navigation officer, balanced on his toes, thinking of his charts perhaps, or returning to his far off homeland. Maxwell, stiff and sphinxlike. And some of the rest, so young, so unsure that it made you feel sorry for them.

Lindsay continued, `We will patrol the south-western approaches to Iceland, to extend when required into the Denmark Strait.' He had to steel himself to say the words. In his mind's eye he could see the raging desert of tossing whitecaps and dark-sided rollers; of shrieking gales, and ice. The Denmark Strait..

Stannard was the first to break the stunned silence. `Jesus, sir, they sure believe in pitching us into the deep end!'

Goss muttered, `We've had no time. No time to get things ready.' His voice trailed away.

Lindsay looked round their faces again, knowing it would be like this. He lifted his glass. To the ship, gentlemen.' As they drained their glasses without a word he added,And remember this. Our people will be looking to you after today. As I will. So let's not have too much despondency about, eh?

He let his eye fall on Fraser. `I'd suggest a party tonight.'

He turned as a figure stepped into the wardroom. It was Kemp, the midshipman, the only officer he had not met. Kemp had been acting O.O.D. during the meeting, and his face was pink with cold from the upper deck.

Kemp said, Signal from H.Q., sir.' He proffered a soggy sheet of pad.Would you report there at 1600, sir.'

Lindsay glanced at the signal; aware 'of all the eyes watching his face.

Affirmative.' As the boy turned: to go he added,You'll be allocated to dealing .with ship's correspondence on top of your other duties.

Kemp stared around the other officers and nodded. `Yes, sir.'

Lindsay said, `We're sailing at 0800 tomorrow. Iceland patrol, if you're interested.'

As the boy hurried away Lindsay noticed that one of the stewards had also gone. The news would be all over the ship by now, and., perhaps it was better so. It would help prepare them for the formalities of getting under way.

He put down his glass. It was time to leave them to sort themselves out.

He said, There will be no shore leave, so inform your departments accordingly. Arrange for mail to be dropped tonight. After that,' he forced a smile,we are in business.' He nodded to Goss. `Thank you. Carry on, please.'

Despite the rain and chill wind he made himself walk around the boat deck, his hands in his pockets, his head bowed against the weather. Part of the deck still bore the faded marks where handball had once been played in the Pacific sunlight. He walked past the hooded Oerlikons and climbed slowly up to the bridge. It would be strange to con a ship with the helmsman right there with you, he thought vaguely. It was a spacious bridge, the brass telegraphs and binnacle, the polished wheel deserted, as if waiting for the place to come alive again. Once the time came it would never be quiet, nor empty.

On either side of the wheelhouse the open bridge wings stretched out over the side, and he walked to the port gratings, his shoes squelching in rain puddles as he peered across at the murky shoreline.

A petty officer was leaning over the wing, the rain bouncing off his oilskin and cap like hail as he stared at the water far below.

He swung round and saluted as Lindsay crossed to his side and said, `Ritchie, sir. Yeoman of signals.'

He had a round, homely face, and Lindsay knew from experience that a yeoman of signals was just about one of the most important members of any bridge, no matter what ship.

`You've heard the news, Yeo?'

He nodded. `Aye, sir.' Ritchie seemed oblivious' of the rain. 'I'm not bothered.'

There was something strange about him. Remote.

Lindsay asked quietly, `Had any leave lately?'

Ritchie looked away. Last month, sir.' When he faced Lindsay again there were tears running unheeded with the rain.Bloody street was gone,. sir!' The words were torn from him. `Nothing left.'

Lindsay stared at him. Helpless. `Did you have...'

Wife an' two kids, sir.' He brushed his face with his sleeve.All gone.' He recovered himself and said, `Sorry about that, sir.'

`Yes.'

He remembered one of the children stirring in the lifeboat on the last night before the corvette found them. Dreaming perhaps. Like Ritchie's kids when the bomb had come down.

Ritchie said suddenly, You'd better get under cover, sir.' A smile creased his face.You'll be wanted on the bridge, not in the sickbay.'

Lindsay touched his arm. Yes.' As he turned to go he added,If you want leave I'll see if I can arrange it.'

Ritchie was looking skyward towards a slow-moving Walrus flying boat, his face like a mask.

`Thank you, sir, but no. You'll need a good signals department, I'm thinkin'.' He hesitated. ''Sides, I'd like the chance to get, back at those bastards!'

Later when Lindsay went ashore to see the Chief of Staff and to receive his patrol intelligence he remembered Ritchie's words and wondered if he too might be influenced by what had happened.

The Chief of Staff, a serious faced, urbane captain, was brief and to the point.

Things are bad, Lindsay, very bad. There is talk of more German raiders breaking out, probably from French ports. However,' he glanced up at the great wall chart with all its coloured ribbons and flags,it is not unlikely they might try the longer way round.'

`The Denmark Strait.'

Correct.' The captain eyed him distantly.I want no heroics. Any sighting report can be used right here in Scapa.'

Again he looked at the chart, and Lindsay saw the great clusters of crosses, each mark representing a ship sunk by enemy action. There must be hundreds, he thought.

The captain said, I know something of your experiences, and I'm sorry you've not been offered a command more fitting to your rank and knowledge. However,' there was that word again,in war we accept orders without question.'

A quick handshake, a fat envelope from a tired looking lieutenant, and it was over.

The staff car was waiting to take him back to the jetty, but there was a different Wren behind the wheel. She was pale and thin, and spent most of the journey sneezing into a handkerchief. When he asked her, she had never even heard of Wren Collins.

Between sniffs she complained, `I've only just arrived at the base, sir. It's not fair really. Most of my friends have got draft chits to Ceylon.'

Lindsay thought of Ritchie and all those others like him. Yes,' he replied coldly.It really is too bad.'

On the way to the ship in the motor boat he thought of the next day and the days after that. How they would manage.

A motor fishing boat packed with libertymen on her way to Lyness wallowed past in the gloom and he heard the sailors singing above the din of rain and wind.

`Roll on the Nelson, the Rodney, Renown, this onefunnelled bastard is getting me down.'

He watched them in the rain and recalled the Chief of Staff's warning. No heroics.

But if these men could sing like that, there was still some spark of hope. For all of them.

3

Raider

Lindsay sat in his cabin, his legs thrust out in front of him, and peered at his watch. Half an hour to go. He made himself reach out for another cup of black coffee, sipping it slowly to clear his thoughts. ,

The ship around and below him was not so quiet as before. From the moment the hands had been called until the muffled pipe over the tannoy system, `Special seadutymen to your stations!', there had been a feeling of nervous expectancy. As there always seemed to be when l about to leave harbour. You never got used to'it.

The cabin was dark, for the deadlights were still tightly shut, as they probably would be for most of the time. He glanced at his leather sea-boots and at the duffel coat and binoculars waiting on another chair. How often had he waited like this? he wondered. It would be strange to take Benbecula out of the Flow for the first time. Not that Lindsay was unused to handling big ships. He had served as navigation officer in a cumbersome submarine depot ship in Malta for two years, even though at heart he was still a destroyer-man. No, it was not that. It was going back. To, the Atlantic and all it had come to mean to him.

The deck gave a nervous tremble, and he pictured' Fraser far below in his inhuman world of noise and , greased movement. Mouthing to his men in that strange engine room lip language, his eyes on the great dials above his footplate. It was lucky Benbecula was twin-screwed. Many ships built between the wars had only one propeller. Sufficient in peacetime perhaps, with tugs always on hand when entering and leaving harbour. He smiled grimly in spite of his tense nerves. It would put a swift end to everything if he lost control in the Flow's perverse tide-races before he had even got her clear.

More sounds now. Wires scraping along the forecastle, the distant bark of orders. That would be Maxwell preparing.to slip the final wire from the ring of their buoy. The last boat had been hoisted inboard, the shivering seamen picked up from the buoy where they had fumbled to unshackle the massive cable while the spray had tried to pluck them into the Flow.

Bells clanged overhead, and he guessed Goss was testing the telegraphs, watching every move to make sure the captain would find no fault with his precious ship.

He replaced the cup and stood up,,patting his pockets automatically to make sure he hadall he required. Pipe and pouch. And a small silver compass. He turned it over in his hands under the deckhead light. Inscribed on the back was, `Commander Michael Lindsay. H.M.S. Minden 1914. 'It was just about all he had to remind him of his father now. He thrust it into his pocket, feeling the newness of the jacket. Like everything else, his old clothes were on the sea-bed in Vengeur.

There was a tap at the door and Goss looked in at him. `Ready to proceed, sir.'

`I'll cone up.'

He slipped into the duffel coat and slung his glasses around his neck. As he' picked up his cap he took a last glance round the quiet cabin. It was time.

Goss followed him up the bridge ladder, between the W/T office with its constant stammer of morse and crackling static and the austere chart room, the deckhead lights trained unwinkingly on the table and instruments.

He strode out to the bridge and crossed to the clearview screens on the windows. Figures moved busily, on the forecastle, and a solitary signalman stood shivering right in the bows, ready to lower the Jack when the slipwire came free.

He turned and looked at the bridge party. Chief Petty Officer Jolliffe, the coxswain, whom he had already met briefly on his inspection, was standing loosely at the wheel, his eyes gleaming in the compass light as he idly watched the gyro repeater. He was a barrel of a man, but on the short side, so that his legs appeared too frail for his massive body and paunch. No trouble there. Jolliffe had been coxswain of a battle-cruiser and was used to the whims of big ships. At each brass telegraph the quartermasters lounged with their hands ready on the levers. On either bridge wing the signalmen stood by their shuttered lights and flags, the yeoman, Ritchie, with his long telescope trained towards the shore.

Lieutenant Stannard saluted formally and said, `Wind's nor'westerly, sir. A bit fresh for my liking.' In the dull grey light he looked even more leathery, his eyes very bright below his cap.

Hovering in the background, two of the sublieutenants, Escott and Smythe, were trying not to be seen, their single gold stripes shining with newness.

Goss paced from side to side, his head thrust forward as if to discover some last fault. He glared at the two sublieutenants and barked, `Get out on either wing, for God's sake! You might learn something!'

Seizing oilskins they fled away, and Lindsay saw one of the quartermasters wink at his mate.

Goss did no good at all by bellowing at them in front of the ratings, he thought. But there was not time for another confrontation now.

Ritchie yelled, `Signal, sir!' A light winked impatiently through the rain. Like a bright blue eye.

`Proceed when ready!'

Lindsay tried not to lick his lips. `Ring down standby.'

The bells were very loud, and he walked to the port door of the wheelhouse and peered over the screen towards the forecastle party. Maxwell was squinting at the bridge, his sodden cap tugged over his eyes as he awaited the order.

Lindsay relaxed slightly, tasting the blown salt on his lips, feeling his cheeks tingling in the crisp air.

`Very well, Yeoman. Make the affirmative.'

Seconds later a red flare burst against the leaden clouds and drifted seaward on the wind.

Stannard called, `That was the signal from the boom vessel, sir. Hoxa gate is open for us.'

He sounded cheerful enough. Lindsay had heard him bawling some Australian song at the wardroom party when he had turned into his bunk. Every other word had been obscene. But he appeared to have avoided any sort of hangover. Which was more than could be said for Dancy, the sub-lieutenant with experience. His face was the colour of pea soup as he staggered aft along the boat deck where the marines and some of the hands had fallen in for leaving harbour.

Feet thumped above the wheelhouse where Chief Petty Officer Archer and his boatswain's mates were assembled to'pipe as and when they passed any other ship. The Navy never changed. No matter what.

Lindsay lifted his hand and watched Maxwell point with his arm to indicate that the buoy was close up under the starboard side of the stem.

Once free, the wind would carry the ship abeam like a drifting pier, Lindsay thought. But there was plenty of room. Had wind and tide been against them, he would have had to contend with the nearby battleship and three anchored cruisers. He could see several tiny figures watching him from the battleship's quarterdeck and her name gleaming dully in the morning light. Prince of Wales. The ship which had been in company with Hood when she had been blown to oblivion. She had been too new, too untried to be much help, and Lindsay wondered, briefly how he would have felt, had he been in her at the time.

`Slow ahead together.'

He saw the telegraphsmen swinging their brass handles and turned away to make a chopping motion with his hand towards Maxwell in the eyes of the ship. He saw a petty officer swing his hammer, heard the clang of steel as the slip was knocked away, and the instant rush of activity as the oilskinned seamen tumbled aft, dragging the mooring wire with them. The buoy appeared immediately, as if it and not the ship had taken wings. .

Jolliffe intoned, `Both engines slow ahead, sir. Wheels amidships.'

`Port ten.'

He raised his glasses and watched the low humps of land beginning to drift across the bows. It was strange to have the great foremast right in front of the bridge with all its tangle of rigging and derricks. Standing at one side of the bridge it made the ship feel lopsided, Lindsay thought. The list to starboard did not help either.

He heard Goss say in a fierce whisper, `She's making too slow a turn.'

He glanced at him. Goss seemed to be thinking aloud. All the same, he was right.

`Increase to fifteen. Starboard engine half ahead.'

That was better. A noticeable crust of white'spray was frothing back from the stem now, and he could feel the bridge vibrating steadily to the additional thrust of screws and rudder.

Two incoming trawlers pounded past the port side, their spindly funnels belching smoke, their ensigns little more than scraps of white rag, after another antisubmarine patrol.

`Midships. Slow ahead starboard.'

Lindsay watched the nearest trawler as it rolled dizzily in the cross-current, showing its bilge. God knows what they're like in open water, he wondered.

Faintly across the water he heard the shrill of a pipe. Somebody, somehow was trying to pay respects to the Benbecula as she towered past on her way to the gate.

Overhead he heard Archer bellow `Pipe!' And the answering squeal from his line of boatswain's mates.

From aft another shout,,that would be Mr Baldock, the elderly gunner. `Attention on the upper deck there! Face to port an' salute!'

On the forecastle the seamen were still fighting with the seemingly endless mass of uncoiled wire, like people caught by some deadly serpent.

Lindsay steadied his glasses and watched the land closing in on either bow where the humps of Flotta and South Ronaldsay crouched on guard of the Sound. He could just make out, the hazy shape of the boom-defence vessel, and beyond her another A/S trawler, sweeping to make sure no U-boat would slip inside while the gate was open.

`Take her out, Cox'n.'

There was no point in confusing the helmsman with unnecessary orders now. Jolliffe could see as well as anyone what was required. He was easing the spokes back and forth in his great red fingers, his eyes fixed on the channel.

A signalman said, `I think someone's calling us up, Yeo!'

Ritchie was through the door and across to the opposite bridge wing in seconds.

Where, lad?' His telescope was swinging round like a small cannon. Then,Gawd, you need yer eyes testin', it's a bloody car flashin'.its lights!'

Lindsay walked to the open door as the yeoman exclaimed, You're right, lad, it is callin' us.' He looked at Lindsay.He'll cop it if the officer of th' guard spots 'im!'

Lindsay raised his glasses as the signalman, mollified, reported, `He says Good Luck, sir.'

A hump of land was cutting Lindsay's vision away even as he steadied his glasses on the distant lights. The battered staff car was parked dangerously close to the sea's edge, and he could picture her as she sat muffled to her ears. Watching the old ship edge towards the boom gate.

He said, Acknowledge.' He knew they were staring at him.And say Thank You.' The lamp started to clatter, and then the car was lost from sight.

He saw one of the sub-lieutenants putout his hand to the screen as the deck lifted to the first low roller. On the bow the boom vessel was puffingoutdense smoke as she started to set her machinery in motion again. A man waved from her bridge and then scuttled back from the rain.

Lindsay stooped behind a gyro repeater and said,'Starboard ten.' The dial ticked gently in front of his eyes. 'Midships. Steady.'

`Steady, sir. Course two-two-zero.'

Stannard said quietly, `New course in fifteen minutes, sir. Two-five-zero.'

`Very good.'

Lindsay walked out to the wing and rested his gloved hands on the screen. Already the land had fallen away to port, and he could see the whitecaps cruising diagonally towards the ship in an endless array. He felt for his reactions, then banged his gloved hands together, making a signalman start violently. He felt all right. It was amazing.

He thought suddenly of the girl in the car. She must have got up specially and wangled her work-sheet to get to that point in'time to see them sail. He was being stupid, but could not help himself.

A telephone buzzed and Stannard called, `From masthead, sir. Ship closing port bow.'

Lindsay glanced up at the fat pod on the foremast. It was hard to get used to after the congested layout of a warship's bridge and superstructure.

Goss asked, `Fall out harbour stations, sir?'

But Lindsay was watching the approaching ship through his glasses. She would pass down the port side with a good half cable to spare. -It was not that. He felt the tightness in his throat as she loomed slowly and painfully out of the rain and spray.

A cruiser, she was so low in the water aft that her quarterdeck was awash. Her mainmast had gone, and her after turret was buckled into so much scrap. She had received a torpedo which had all but broken her back, but she was fighting to get back. To get her people home...'

A destroyer was cruising watchfully to seaward, and two tugs followed close astern of the listing ship. Like undertakers men, Lindsay thought with sudden anger.

He snapped, `No, Number One! Have the hands fall in fore and aft! And tell the buffer I want the best salute he's ever done!' He saw Goss's face working with confusion and doubt. Probably thinks I'm mad.

. As seamen and marines ran to fall in on the B'enbecula's decks, Lindsay walked to the end of the wing and raised his hand to his cap as the cruiser moved slowly past.

The pipes shrilled and died in salute, and then Lindsay saw a solitary marine, his head white with bandages, walk to the cruiser's signal platform and raise a bugle to his lips. The Still floated across the strip of tossing grey water, and above the neat lines of sewn up bodies on the cruiser's deck. Along the Benbecula's side the lines of new, untried faces stared at the other ship in silence, until the bugle sounded again and Archer yelled, `Carry on!'

Stannard said quietly, `That was quite a scene, sir.

Lindsay looked past him at the young signalman who had seen the car's lights. He was biting the fingers of his gloves and staring astern at the listing cruiser.

`It will do them good!'

He had not meant to speak so harshly, nor were they the words he had intended. So nothing had changed after all. Not the bitterness or the shock of seeing what the Atlantic could do.

Stannard said, `Time to alter course again, sir.'

Lindsay looked at him, seeing the hurt in his eyes. Very well, take the con.' To Goss,Fall out harbour stations, if you please. We will exercise action stations in ten minutes, right?'

Goss nodded. `Yes, sir.'

The Benbecula's straight stem lifted and then ploughed sedately into a low bank of broken rollers. Spray dappled the bridge windows and made the anchor cables look like black glass.

Later, as she came around the south-western approaches to the Orkneys, past the frozen shape of the Old Man of Hoy, she rolled more steeply, her forward well deck catching the incoming sea and letting it sweep lazily to the opposite side before gurgling away through the scuppers.

Then at last she turned her stern towards the land and headed west-northwest, and by noon, as the watch below prepared to eat their meal and the other half of the ship's company closed up at defence stations, she had the sea to herself.

Lindsay remained on the open wing, his unlit pipe in his teeth, his eyes fixed on the tossing wilderness of waves and blown spume.

He was in the North Atlantic. He had come back.

`Char, sir?'

Lindsay turned in his tall chair and took a cup from the bosun's mate of the watch. As he held the hot metal against his lips he stared through the streaming windows and watched the solid arrowhead of the bows etched against the oncoming seas.

For eight days since leaving the buoy the scene had hardly changed. The weather had, got colder, but that was to be expected as hour after hour the ship had ploughed her way to the north-west. And apart from some armed trawlers and a solitary corvette, they had sighted nothing. Just the sea, with its endless panorama of wavecrests and steep rollers.

He felt the deck vibrate as the stem smashed through one more bank of cascading water, and saw the feathers of spray spurting up through the hawsepipes as if from powerful hoses.

Stannard walked across the bridge, his lean bodyangled to the uneven motion.

First dog watchmen closed up at defence stations, sir. Able Seaman McNiven on the wheel.' He looked through a clearview screen.I guess we've arrived.'

Lindsay nodded.: `Yes.'

An invisible dot on the ocean. The starting leg of the patrol area. Area Uncle Item Victor. A sprawling parallelogram which measured five hundred by three hundred miles. As far north as the Arctic Circle between Iceland and Greenland. It had been impossible to get an accurate fix, and their position was obtained by the usual method, described by navigators as `by Guess and God'. Dead reckoning. Except that in this case you could not afford to be too casual, or you might end up dead in another sense.

`Very well, Pilot. Bring her round to three-five-zero. Revs for ten knots.'

He heard Stannard passing his orders, the instant reply from the engine room bells to show that Fraser's people were wide awake.

When the ship turned slightly to port the motion became more unsteady and violent, the waves piling up against the starboard bow before exploding high over the rails and hissing viciously across each open deck. Below there would be more wretched sufferers retching and groaning at this added onslaught, he thought.

He watched a tall greybeard of a wave surging down the starboard side, taking its time, as if to find the best place to attack. Just level with the bridge its jagged crest crumbled and broke inboard, the shock transmitting itself through the whole superstructure like something solid. It was almost pitch dark beyond the bows, with only the wavecrests to determine sea from sky.

Lindsay ran his fingers over the arms of the chair and recalled Goss's face when he had told him what he required. Goss did not seem to understand that it was no good trying to act as if everythingwas normal and routine.

The watches changed, the relieved men scampering thankfully below to cabins and messdecks for some brief respite, but Lindsay had been on the bridge almost continuously since leaving the Flow. `I want: a good strong chair, Number One.' That had been the first day out, and the shipwrights had built it during one watch from solid oak which had lain hitherto unnoticed, in a storeroom. Bolted to the deck it gave Lindsay good vision above the screen and was within reach of the bridge tele., phones. But Goss had stared at it with something like horror.

'But, sir, that timber was being saved! You just can't get it any more.' Like Jupp and his damn glassware.

But if he was to keep going, to hold on to the vital reserve which might be demanded in the next hour or minute, he needed a good chair.

It was strange how Goss avoided facing the truth about the ship and her new purpose.: Or maybe he wanted the captain to crack under the strain so that he, after all, could take command.

Lindsay thought too of the practice drills he.had carried out on passage to the patrol area. In spite of the severe weather he had put almost every part of the ship through its paces. Gun and fire drill. Damage control and antiaircraft exercises, until he had seen the despair, even hatred on the faces around him.

Maybe Goss had some justification for expecting him to crack, he thought bitterly. Once or twice he had heard himself shouting into a telephone or across the open wing to some unfortunate man on the deck below.

The gun drill had been the worst part. Pathetic, he had called it, and had seen Maxwell's rigid face working for once with something akin to shame. While mythical targets had been passed down from the so-called control position above the bridge, the crews of the six guns had endeavoured to locate and cover them with minimum delay. But each gun was hand-operated, and valuable time was lost again and again while Maxwell and the assistant gunnery officer, Lieutenant Hunter, had shouted themselves almost hoarse with frustration and despair. In most warships, and certainly all modern ones, it was possible to train all major guns, even fire them, direct from the control and rangefinder above the bridge. One eye and brain, like that of a submarine commander at a periscope. But Benbecula's firing arrangements had not even begun to reach a stage where some hope was justified. The six-inch gun crews had no protection from the weather, and had to crouch behind the shields, shivering and cursing as ranges and deflections were passed by telephone and then yelled to them above the din of sea and wind. And having no power at each mounting it also meant that the big shells and their charges had to be manhandled and rammed home with sheer bodily strength. If the deck'chose to tilt the wrong way at the moment of loading it could mean disaster for an unwary seaman. The massive breech block of such a gun could swing shut, despite the normal precautions, and bite off a man's arm like a horse snapping at a carrot. It was hardly likely to encourage the gun crews to take risks, but.on the other hand it reduced the speed of loading and firing to a dismal crawl.

A telephone buzzed at the rear of the bridge and the bosun's mate called, `Number Three Carley float is comin' adrift, sir.'

Stannard opened his mouth and shut it. He crossed to the chair and said quietly, `Can't very well send the lads out in this, sir. Shall I tell the buffer to scrub round it until daylight?'

Lindsay tried to answer calmly. `Do it now. The boat deck is miles above the waterline. Pass the word for lifelines to be rigged. That should do it.'

Stannard remained beside the chair, his dark features stubborn. `In my opinion, sir

Lindsay swung round, seeing in those brief seconds the pale faces in the background, watching and listening.

Sub-Lieutenant Dancy, Stannard's assistant for the watch, the signalman, the men at the telegraphs, all parts of the ship. Extensions of his own thoughts and interpretations.

Just do it, Pilot!' He could not control it any longer. `With the sort of results I've been getting since I took command, I think liferafts are about the most useful things we've got! By God, do you imagine this is bad?'

Stannard stood his ground, his face angry: I merely, meant....' He shrugged.I'm sorry, sir.' He did not sound it.

,Well, listen to me, will you?' He kept his voice very low. `The weather is going to get worse, much worse. Before long we will have both watches on deck with steam hoses to cut away the ice. We are up here to do a job as best we can. It does not mean being battened down below and weeping for mother every time it bloody well rains!'

Stannard turned and beckoned to Dancy. Co yourself, Sub. Tell the buffer to take all reasonable precautions.' He kept his back to Lindsay.No sense in killing anyone.'

Lindsay leaned back in the hard chair, feeling its arms pressing into his ribs on one side then on the other as the old ship rolled heavily in the troughs. He wanted to go out on the wing in spite of the weather and watch the men detailed to replace the lashings on the Carley float. At the same time he knew he must stay where he was. Let them get on with it. Allow them to hate his guts and so work better for it, if that was what they needed.

He peered at his watch. In fifteen hours they would officially relieve another armed merchant cruiser from this patrol. They would not see her, however, which-was probably just as well. It would do no good for some of the ship's company to see what the other A.M.C. looked like at close range. How they would be looking themselves after a few weeks of this misery.

The telephone buzzed again. `Float's secure, sir.'

`Very good.'

Lindsay rubbed his chin, feeling the bristles rasp against his glove. He felt strangely relieved, in spite of his forced calm.

Dancy entered the bridge, his figure streaming, his face glowing with cold. He sounded pleased with himself.

Not too bad, sir.' He clung to the voicepipes as the deck tilted and shuddered sickeningly beneath him.But by God it's parky out there!'

Stannard said shortly, `I'm going to the chart room, Sub. Take over.'

Dancy stood beside the chair and rested his hands below the screen. Lindsay glanced at him curiously. Like the others, he knew little about him. Young, serious looking, but little else to give a clue. Without his cap and duffel coat he might even be described as nondescript.

He asked, `What were you before you joined, Sub?'

Dancy said vaguely, 'I-I wrote things.' He nodded. `Yes, I was a writer, sir.'

Lindsay watched his profile. His own information described Dancy's previous calling as bank clerk. But if he wanted to see himself as something else, what did it matter? Nothing which had happened before the Germans marched into Poland made any sense now. All the same....

`Tell me about it.'

Dancy frowned. `Well, I've always ;had this. terrific feeling about the sea, sir. My parents didn't really want me to go into the Navy, and-after school I tried my hand at writing.'

`Books?'

Dancy sounded uncomfortable. Not books, sir.'What then?'

Things, sir'. Dancy looked at him desperately.About the sea.'

Stannard came back suddenly. Sir? Sickbay has just called. The doc wants,' he hesitated,he asked if you could change course for about twenty minutes. A seaman's

fallen down a ladder and broken his hip. Doc says he can't fix it with all this motion.'

Lindsay-looked at him. He could see the man's resentment building up. Waiting for him to refuse the doctor's request. He must think me a right bastard.

`Very well, Pilot. But work out the additional revs we will need to make up time, and inform the chief.'

Stannard blinked. `Yes, sir. Right away.'

As he vanished, Dancy said seriously, 'Of course, I had to do other jobs as well. For a time, that is.'

Lindsay slid from the chair, wincing as the stiffness brought pain to his legs.

Well, there's a job for you now.' He waved around the bridge.Take over. I'm going to my cabin for a shave.' He saw Dancy's face paling. Just call pilot if you can't cope.' He tapped the brass telephone by his chair.Call me if you like.' He grinned at Dancy's alarm. `Good experience later on for your writing, eh?'

With a glance at the gyro he walked stiffly to the ladder abaft the.wheelhouse and did not look back.

Dancy remained staring fixedly at his own dim reflection in the spray-dappled glass. He felt riveted to the deck, unable to move. Even his breathing had become difficult.

Very cautiously he looked over his shoulder. The quartermaster's eyes glittered like stones in the dim compass light, the rest of the bridge party swayed with the ship, like silent drunks.

Nothing had changed, and the realisation almost unnerved him. He was in sole command of this ship and some two hundred and fifty human beings.

The quartermaster, for instance. How did he see him? he wondered. Authority, an officer in whose hands he was quite willing to entrust his life?

. He asked suddenly, `How is she handling, Quartermaster?'

The seaman, McNiven, stiffened. He had been watching the ticking gyro, holding the staggering ship dead on course, so what the hell was wrong with Dancy? His eyes flickered momentarily from the compass, sensinga trap of some sort. -

'All right.' He waited. `Sir.'

He had been thinking about his last leave in Chatham. The girl had seemed fair enough. But after a few pints under your belt you could get careless. He stirred uneasily, just as he had when the bloody Aussie navigator had spoken to the skipper about the sickbay. Suppose that bloody girl had given him a dose? What the hell should he do?

Dancy said, Oh, in that case,' he smiled through the gloom,carry on.'

McNiven glared at Dancy's back. Stupid sod, he thought. Carry on. That's all they can say.

Unaware of the quartermaster's unhappy dilemma, Dancy continued to stare straight ahead. It was true what he had told the captain. Partly. He had always loved the sea and ships, but his parents' means and openopposition had prevented his chances of trying for Dartmouth. At the bank he had often met a real naval officer. He used to come there when he was on leave to draw money, and Dancy had always tried to be the one to serve him. He had listened mesmerised to the man's casual comments about his ship, and the exotic places like Singapore and Bombay, Gibraltar and Mombasa. And later he had let his craving, his desperate imagination run riot.

He sometimes told himself that but for the war he would have gone raving mad at the bank. Mad, or turned to crime, robbing the vault, and making old Durnsford, the manager, beg on his knees for his life. He knew too that if the war had not come to save him he would have stayed on at the bank. No madness or crime, just the miserable day to day existence, made endurable only by his imagination.

At King Alfred when he had been training for his temporary commission he had met another cadet of about his

own age. An Etonian, someone seemingly from another planet, he had transformed so much in Dancy's caution and suburban reserve. And 'it had been catching.. When Dancy had gained the coveted gold stripe and had been sent to the little armed yacht at Bristol, the first lieutenant had asked him about his earlier profession. Profession. He could still remember that moment. Not job or work. Or business, as his mother would have described it. It had seemed quite natural to lie. `I'm a writer,' he'd said. It had been easy. The officer had been impressed, just as Commander Lindsay had been. Writers were beyond the reach of Service minds. They were-different and could not be challenged.

Stannard slammed back through the door and stared at him.

`Where's the cap'n, for Chrissake?'

'He left me in charge.' Dancy's eyes wavered under the Australian's incredulous gaze.

Stannard muttered, Must be off his bloody head!' He looked at McNiven.I'm going to alter course to zero-twozero in half a sec. I'll just inform the sickbay.' He glanced at Dancy. `In charge. Jesus!'

Lindsay completed the shave and studied his face critically in the mirror. There were shadows beneath his eyes and his neck looked sore from wearing the towel under his duffel coat. But the shave, the hot water refreshed him, and he wondered how the surgery was going on the seaman's hip.

He glanced towards his other cabin and pictured the bunk beyond the door. The warm, enclosed world below the reading lamp. Perhaps later he might snatch'some proper sleep.

Jupp padded into the cabin and, laid a silver coffee pot carefully between the fiddles on a small table.

He said, `The old girl's takin' it quite well, sir. Not too bad at all.'

Lindsay sat in a chair and stretched out his legs gratefully.

`At least the decks aren't:, awash all the time. That's something.'

The telephone rattled tinnily, and when he clapped it to his ear he heard Stannard say, `The doc's reported that he's finished, sir. I'm about to alter course, if that's all right by you?'

`Good. Carry on, Pilot.'

He felt the deck tremble, a sudden tilt as the helm went over, and saw the curtains on the sealed scuttles standing out from the side as if on invisible wires. The sea boomed along the hull, angry and threatening, and then subsided with a slow hissing roar to prepare another attack.

The telephone buzzed again.. .

`Captain.' He raised the cup to his lips, watching Jupp as he stooped to pick a crumb from the carpet.

Stannard sounded terse. 'W/T office has picked up an S.O.S., Sir. Plain language. It reads, Am under attack by German raider.'' He paused, clearing his throat. `Seems to be a Swedish ship, sir, probably a mistake on the Jerry's part.'

Lindsay snapped, Keep on to it!' He dropped the cup unheeded on the tray.I'm coming.'

He bounded up the ladder and found Stannard waiting outside the W/T office door. Two operators were crouched below their sets, and Petty Officer Telegraphist Hussey had also appeared to supervise them, his pyjamas clearly visible under his jacket.

He saw Lindsay and said awkwardly, `Was just having a nap, sir. Had a feeling something like this might happen.' He was not bragging. Old hands often found themselves called to duty by instinct, and Lindsay had no intention of questioning it.

Lindsay asked, `What do you make of it?'

From the door Stannard said, `She gave a position, sir. I've got it plotted on the chart. She's about ninety miles due north of us.'

Hussey looked up from his steel chair. `Someone's acknowledged, sir.'

Lindsay bit his lip. `That'll be Loch Glendhu, the other A.M.C.'

Hussey added after a pause, `Dead, Sir. Not getting a peep now.'

Stannard said uneasily, `That might mean anything.'

`Let me see your calculations.' Lindsay brushed past him into the chart room. In spite of the steam pipes it was damp and humid:, the panelled sides bloomed with condensation.

'Loch Glendhu should be pretty near there, sir, according to our intelligence log.' Stannard seemed calm again, his voice detached and professional.

Lindsay stared at the neatly pencilled lines and bearings on the chart. Loch Glendhu was bigger than Benbecula and better armed. But no match for a warship. Perhaps she would haul off and report to base for instructions.

`Keep a permanent listening watch for her. Tell Hussey to monitor everything.' .

What the hell was a Swedish ship doing up here anyway? Probably using the Denmark Strait as a matter of safety. Bad weather was better than being sunk by mistake in the calmer waters to the south.

`Lay off a course to intercept, Pilot.'

He recalled Fraser's words. I can give you sixteen knots. It would take over five hours to reach the neutral ship's position. Longer if he waited for instructions from some duty officer in the Admiralty operations' room. Five hours for men to die beyond reach or hope.

He realised that he was sweating badly in spite of the unmoving air, could feel it running down his spine like iced water. Without effort he could see the low grey shape on the horizon, feel the breath-stopping explosions as the raider's shells had torn steel and flesh to fragments all around him. He tried not to look at the nearest scuttle with its sealed deadlight. Tried to shut it from memory.

Lindsay asked, `Have you got it yet?'

Stannard put down his brass dividers and looked up from the chart. `Course would be zero-one-zero, sir.'

Lindsay nodded. `Not would be, Pilot, is. Bring her round and get the chief on the telephone.'

He realised that Goss was on the bridge, his heavy face questioning and worried.

He said, `The A.M.C. we're relieving is probably going to assist another ship, Number One.'

Goss nodded jerkily. `I know. I just heard. Neutral, isn't she?' It sounded like an accusation.

`Nobody's neutral up here.'

Stannard called, `The chief's on the phone, sir.' Lindsay took it quickly. 'Loch Glendhu's in trouble, Chief.'

Fraser sounded miles away. `I'll give you all I've got. When you're ready.'

Lindsay looked at the others. We'll see what we can do.' To Stannard he added,Right. Full ahead together.'

The. telegraphs clanged over, and far below, enshrouded in rising steam on his footplate, Fraser watched the big needles swing round the twin dials and settle on FULL.

Slightly below him he saw his assistant, Lieutenant Dyke, grimacing at him and shaking his head. His lips said, `She'll knock herself to bits.'

Fraser's lips replied, `Bloody good job.'

Then the noise began to mount with each thrashing revolution, the machinery and fittings quivering to join in with their own particular din, and Fraser forgot Dyke and everything else but the job in hand.

4

A ship burns

Still nothing from W/T office, sir.' Stannard sounded wary.'

Lindsay nodded but kept his eyes fixed on the ship's labouring bows. Benbecula was no longer riding each wavecrest but smashing through the angry water like a massive steel battering ram. The spray rose in an almost unbroken curtain around the forecastle, crumbling in the wind to rain against the bridge screens like pebbles, and the motion' was savage. Every strut and frame in the superstructure seemed to be rattling and protesting, and as the sea sluiced up and over the well deck Lindsay saw the foot of the foremast standing like an isolated pinnacle ,in the great frothing white flood. He wondered briefly what the lookout would feel in his snug pod, and if the mast was quivering to the onrushing water.

A quick glance at his watch told him that they should sight something soon, if something there was. The hours since that short, feeble burst of morse had felt like days, and all the while the ship had crashed and rolled, pitched and battered her way forward into the teeth of sea and wind alike.

There was a metallic scrape above the bridge and he, imagined Maxwell in his control position testing the big rangefinder, cursing his spray-smeared-lenses. It was a good rangefinder, but in a war where weapons had long since outstripped the minds of those who planned day-today survival, it was already out of date. Even the old Vengeur had been allowed some of the better sophisticated detection equipment, and newer ships were fitted with the latest, and even more secret, gear. But Benbecula was right down at the bottom of the list as far as that was concerned. Convoy protection, anti-submarine tactics and strikes on enemy coastal resources took all the precedence, which on paper was only right. But as he stared intently- through the whirring clearview screen Lindsay' wondered what the planners, would think if they were here on the bridge instead of their comfortable nine-tofive offices. It was almost unnerving to imagine the radio operators at this very moment, at Scapa or down in the cellars of the Admiralty. Information and calls for help or advice. A convoy massacred, a U-boat sighted, or some maddening signal about clothing issue and the need to entertain a visiting politician. The telegraphists would be hardened to all of it. Probably sitting there right now, sipping tea and chatting about their girls, the next run ashore.

He glanced quickly around the bridge. Tense and expectant, a small, sheltered world surrounded by sea noise and the creaking symphony of metal under strain.

It was all over the ship by now, and he made a mental note to arrange for the tannoy system to be extended to all decks and flats so that if necessary he could speak to every available man himself.

He tried to remember the exact layout of his command, see it like some blueprint or open plan. They were all down there listening and waiting. Hearing the sea and feeling the hull staggering as if to fall apart under them. Warm clothing and inflatable lifebelts. Those little red lights which were supposed to show where a man was drifting in the water.

Stannard said, `Time, sir.' He sounded less weary now.

Alert, or maybe frightened like most of them.

Lindsay felt the sudden dryness in his throat. As I am. `Very well, Pilot.'

He reached forward and held his thumb on the small red button. Just a while longer he hesitated. It was their first time together. As a ship's company. He cursed himself for his nagging anxiety and thrust hard on the button.

The alarm bells were muffled, but nevertheless he could hear them screaming away throughout the ship, and the instant clatter of feet on bridge ladders, the dull thuds of watertight doors slamming shut.

As messengers and bosun's mates hurried to voice-pipes and telephones the reports started to come in from every position.

`Number Six gun closed up!'

`Number Four gun closed up!'

`Damage control party closed up!'

The mingled voices and terse acknowledgements sounded unreal, tinny. Through the drifting spray he saw' crouching figures hurrying towards the forward guns, and could almost feel the icy metal of shell hoists and breeches.

Stannard said, `Ship closed up at action stations, sir.

Lindsay eyed him searchingly. `Good. Three minutes. Not at all bad.'

He swivelled in the chair and looked at the figures which had filled the bridge. His team for whatever would happen next.

Jolliffe on the wheel, wiping condensation off the gyro repeater with his sleeve. Quartermasters and messen 'gers, signalmen, with Ritchie gripping a flag locker while he adjusted his night glasses. Stannard and young Dancy, and Lieutenant Aikman, listed as boarding officer, ready to fight, die, go mad, anything.

He turned back to the whirring screen. Goss was in damage control. All spare stokers and extra hands with him ready to shore up bulkheads, put out fires, hold the ship together with bare hands if necessary. And Goss was far enough from'the bridge to survive and assume command. should Lindsay fall dead or wounded. It was practical not to put all your eggs in one basket. Practical, but hardly comforting.

He thought of the marine lieutenant, de Chair, down aft with his two six-inch guns and the feeble twelve pounder. If he was inwardly resentful at being quarters officer of an ancient battery in an A.M.C. he gave no hint of it. Elegant, deceptively casual, he would be more use leading his marines in open combat, bethought.

Stannard replaced a handset. `Nothing from masthead, sir.'

Thank you.' Another glance at his watch.Reduce to half speed.'

No .sense now in shaking the machinery to pieces. He felt the chair quiver with something like relief as the telegraphs clanged their reply.

The Swedish ship might be sunk, or in the confusion had given the wrong position. The enemy could have realised his mistake and ceased fire and already be many miles away, steaming for home like a guilty assassin.

And there had been no signal from Loch Glendhu either. But up here in the Denmark Strait you could never rely on anything. Only eyes, ears and bloody instinct, as someone had once told him.

The screen was squeaking more loudly, and he realised the glass was being scattered with larger, paler blobs than mere spray.

Stannard muttered, `Bloody snow. That's just about all we need!'

It was more sleet than snow, but it could get worse, and if it froze the gun crews would be hard put to do anything.

The wavecrests were less violent, the troughs wider spaced, and he guessed the snow would be coming very soon now. He shuddered inwardly and wondered if the German, invasion of Russia was facing this kind of weather. In spite of everything he was suddenly thankful to be here, enclosed by the ship, and not slogging through frozen mud, waist-deep in slush. A ship was a home as much as a weapon. A soldier fought often without knowing where he was, or if he was alone and already considered expendable by the master-minds of war.

The telephone made him flinch in his seat.

Stannard snapped, Very well. Good. Keep reporting." Then to Lindsay,Masthead reports a red glow, sir. Fine on the port bow.'

Before he could reply the speaker at the rear of the bridge intoned, Control ...'Bridge.' It was Maxwell's voice, unhurried and toneless.Red two-oh. Range onedouble-oh. A ship on fire.'

Lindsay swung his glasses to the screen. Nothing. Maxwell's spotters had done well to see it in such bad visibility. He slid from the chair and lowered his eye to the glowing gyro repeater.

`Port ten.'

`Port ten, sir. Ten of port wheel on, sir.' Jolliffe's voice was heavy. Like the man.

'Midships. Steady. Steer three-four-zero.' To Stannard he added, `I hope your people know their stuff. I'm going to need a good plotting team when we clear this lot.'

He picked up another telephone and heard Maxwell's voice right in his ear.

'Guns, this is the captain. I'll not take chances. A diagonal approach so that you can get all-the starboard battery to bear, right?'

Maxwell understood. `Starshell on One, sir?'

`Yes.'

He heard the distant voices of the control team already rapping out ranges and bearings to the crews below.

`And you did well to find her. Loch Glendhu must have misread the. signal, or buzzed off in pursuit.'

He replaced the telephone.

Dancy reported, `Number One has loaded with starshell, sir.'

The gunnery speaker again. `All guns load, load, load, semi-armour-piercing!'

Lindsay had taken out his pipe without realising it and gripped it in his teeth so hard that the pain helped to steady him.

`Now, Pilot. Bring her round to three-two-five.'

Even as the wheel went over the speaker said, `Range now oh-eight-oh.'

Four miles. But in this driving sleet it could have been a hundred. Lindsay concentrated his mind on the voices which muttered and squeaked on every line and speaking tube. He recalled the brand-new sub-lieutenants, down there acting as quarters officers on the forward armament. The seasoned gunlayers and trainers knew what to do if anyone did, and the young officers were there to learn rather than do much more.

But Lindsay knew from bitter experience that time was not always kind. In the Vengeur he had seen one of thefour-inch guns manned by a midshipman, two stokers and a cook when its real crew had been ripped to bloody remnants under an air attack. You could never rely on time.

There it is!' Stannard craned forward.Starboard bow, sir!'

Lindsay held up his glasses and saw the flickering glow for the first time. It was reflected more in the low clouds than on the water, and the thickening sleet made even that difficult.

Stannard added grimly, `The starshell'll scare the hell out of the poor bastards.'

`Better that than make a bad approach. If the.snow comes down we might lose her altogether.'

Maxwell's voice sounded muffled as he spoke into his array of handsets. `Number One gun. Range oh-sevenfive.' One of the sub-lieutenants must have interrupted him for he rasped savagely, 'Listen, for God's sake. Bearing is still Green oh-five, now get on with it!'

The crash came almost before the speaker had gone dead again, the sound of the shot coming inboard on the wind like a double explosion. When the shell burst it was momentarily like some strange electric storm. Lindsay realised that the gunlayer had applied too much elevation so the flare had burst in or above the clouds. Their, bellies shone through the sleet like silver, and then as the,, flare drifted into view the sea was bathed with the hard, searing glare of a glacier.

The ship was already well down in the water, her tilting hull shining in the harsh glare, the smoke from her blazing interior pouring downwind in one solid plume, black and impenetrable. The fires were very low now, although here and there along the hull fresh outbursts shot skyward, hurling sparks and glowing embers' across the water like tracers.

The flare was almost gone. `Another!' Lindsay could not take his eyes from the dying ship. Knowing he was right. Willing otherwise. Sweating.

A door banged open and Mr. Tobey, the boatswain, entered the wheelhouse, the icy air following him as he sought out Lindsay's figure.

Beg pardon, sir. I was just wonderin'. If those poor devils which is still alive can't understand our lingo, 'ow will we make 'em understand what we're Join'?' He did not see Lindsay's frozen expression.I got my people ready at the rafts and lines.'

Stannard said quietly, `The midshipr..an on my plotting team can speak Swedish, I believe, sir.'

Lindsay let the glasses fall on to his chest. He had to draw several deep breaths before he could find his voice again.

They, will understand, Mr. Tobey.' He walked to the open door. She's Loch Glendhu.' He seized the frame to steady himself.I've met her before. I know her.'

Stannard said softly, `Oh, my God.'

Tobey was staring past Lindsay at the flickering pattern of flames. `Sea's quietened a bit, sir. The whalers could be lowered.'

Lindsay did not turn. Starboard ten.' He waited, his nerves screaming soundlessly. 'Midships. Steady. Slow ahead together.' Then he looked at Tobey's shocked face.Yes. Whalers and rafts. Call for volunteers.'

He swung round as a sharp explosion threw an arrowhead of fire high into the sky. A magazine perhaps. Not long now.

Ritchie stepped aside as Tobey ran past. `Shall I call 'er up, sir?'

Lindsay said flatly, 'Just tell her to hold on.' He heard Ritchie jerking the lamp shutter, but as he had expected, there was no reply. He said, `Keep trying. There'll be some left alive. They'll-need all the hope they can get in the next minutes.'

Another face emerged in the gloom. It was Boase, the doctor. He said to Stannard, `How many left, d'you think?'

It was too much for Lindsay's reeling mind. `Where the hell do you imagine you are?' He was shouting but could not hold it back. Boase was like those other doctors. Ignore it. Forget it. Don't worry. The stupid, heartless bastards!

Boase fell back. 'I'm sorry, sir, I didn't mean

Lindsay shouted, You never bloody well do mean anything! This isn't some teaching hospital put here for your benefit! Not a Saturday night punch-up with a few revellers at your out-patients department while you play God!' He swung round and gestured towards the sea. Framed in the door, with the sleet glittering redly in the flames, it looked as if the sky was raining blood.Take a good look! There are men dying out there. Cursing the blind, ignorant fools who let them go to war in ships like that one. Like our own!'

A bosun's mate said hoarsely, `Boats ready for lowering, sir.'

Stannard spoke first. `Very well. Tell them to watch out for burning oil-'

Lindsay said, `Stop engines.'

He.wiped his forehead with his hand. The skin was hot, burning, despite the cold air from the door. It was not the doctor's fault. It was unfair to take it out of him in front of the others. Unfair, and cruelly revealing about his failing strength and self-control.

The deck swayed very slowly as the ship idled forward, her screws stopped for the first time since leaving the Flow.

More sounds rumbled in the darkness, like a ship breaking up. Crying out in her own way against the fools who had let it be so. All the fires had, gone but for one darting tongue which appeared to be burning right through the other ship's bilge plates as she started to roll on her side, the sea around her misty with steam and whipped spray.

Small lights glittered in a deep trough, and he saw one of the whalers pulling strongly towards the sinking ship. He gritted his teeth as another crash from the forward gun hurled a starshell high over the scene of misery and pain.

Along the Benbecula's side the boatswain had lowered some of the rafts, to act as staging posts for the survivors before they were hauled bodily up her tall hull. He saw white jackets in the cold and wet, and hoped Boase was there too with his stretcher parties.

When he looked up at the funnel with its low plume of dark smoke he realised that one side of it was shining like ice in the glare. The snow had started. There was not much time left. In the whalers the volunteers would even now be watching the snow, fearing more perhaps for their own survival than those they had gone to save.

He thought too of the corvette's small quarterdeck on that morning. The line of corpses awaiting burial, like those aboard the listing cruiser at Scapa. And the two small ones at the end of the line. Like little parcels under the flag as they had gone over the rail. Look after them. Well, they had gone where there was no more hurt. No persecution.

Stannard said loudly, `She's going!'

More frothing -water, and the last flame extinguished with the suddenness of death. Then nothing.

It seemed like an age before Stannard reported, `Boats returning, sir.'

He walked to the extent of the starboard wing and peered down through the snow flurries. The boats were crammed with bodies. Shining with oil. A familiar enough sight in the Atlantic. Others clung around the sides of the boats, treading water, their gasps audible even on the wing. Here and there a red lifelight shone on the water, others floated away unheeded, tiny scarlet pinpricks, each marking a corpse.

He tried to tear his eyes from the struggling figures, below him. There was so much to do. A signal to be coded and despatched, to inform those who were concerned with what had happened. Start the wheels turning. The Secretary of the Admiralty regrets to announce the loss of H.M.S. Loch Glendhu. Stop it.

Lindsay thrust himself bodily from the wet steel and turned-to see Lieutenant Aikman staring at him.

`Go and make sure that everything's all right! If they need more hands, take them from aft. I want those boats hoisted and secured without delay.' He watched the officer scurrying for the ladder. One more victim of his own despair and blind anger.

Dancy said hoarsely, `If I have to die, I hope it's like that, sir.'

Lindsay looked at him for several seconds, feeling his anger giving way to a kind of madness, with wild,,

uncontrollable laughter almost ready to burst out. Then he reached out to pat Dancy's arm.

`Then we shall have to see what we can do. But before you decide anything definite, go and visit the survivors in the sickbay. Then tell me again.'

Stannard called, `Ready to get under way, sir.'

Lindsay saw his own reflection in the glass screen, as if he was indeed -outside himself, assessing his resources.

. `Very well. Slow ahead together. Bring her round on course again.'

He saw Ritchie thumbing through a manual then holding his torch steady above one page.

He asked, `How many, Yeo?'

Ritchie replied quietly, `She 'ad a company of three 'undred, sir.

Goss appeared through the rear door and said thickly, `We've picked up thirty, sir.'

Lindsay seated himself carefully in the tall chair. Strange how light his limbs felt. As in the dream.

Goss seemed to think he had not heard. `Only thirty, sir!'

`Thank you, Number One. We will remain at action stations for another hour at least. Pass the word for a good lookout while visibility holds.'

Not that they'll need telling now, he thought dully.,

'He heard Goss slamming out of the wheelhouse. Probably cursing me. The iron, cold captain that no pain, no sentiment can reach. God, if he only knew.

One hour later the snow came down, and within no time at all the ship was thrusting her way through a swirling, white world, enclosed and excluded .from all else.

As the men left their action stations and ran or staggered below to warmth and an illusion of safety, Lindsay heard a sailor laughing, the sound strangely sad in the steady blizzard.

Horror from what they had witnessed was giving way to relief at being spared. Later it would be different, but now it was good to hear that someone could laugh, he thought.

Goss clumped into the wheelhouse, shaking snow from his oilskin and stamping it from his heavy sea boots. The bristles on his chin were'.grey, almost white, so that in the hard reflected glare he looked even older.

`Ready, sir.' He watched as Lindsay slid from his chair and walked towards the starboard door.

The motion was steadier, and overnight the sea. had lost much of its anger, as if smoothed and eased by the growing power of the snow. Yet there was some wind, and every so often the snow would twist into strange patterns, swirling around the bridge superstructure, or driving like a desert storm, parallel with the deck.

Lindsay rested one hand on the clip. Apart from a few short snatches in his chair, he had not slept, and as he stood by the door he could feel the chill in his bones, the inability to think clearly.

Goss's eyes, red-rimmed with salt and fatigue, followed him as he tugged open the door and stepped on to the open wing. Watching him. Searching for something perhaps.

The snow squeaked under his leather sea boots, but there was no ice as yet. He felt it touching his face, pattering across his oilskin as he moved slowly to the extremity of the wing. There was hardly any visibility, and when he peered down he saw the sluggish bow wave sliding past as the only sign that the ship was still thrusting ahead.

He raised his head and, stared fixedly abeam, the snow melting on his lashes, running down his cheeks like the tears on Ritchie's face that day at Scapa. The yeoman was here now, his features like stone.

In spite of the snow and dirty slush there were many

others from the watch below. Dark clusters of men against the glittering, descending backcloth.

He heard himself say, `I'll be about ten minutes, Number One.'

Is that all it took? He did not wait for Goss's reply but turned and clattered down the ladder, his boots slipping on the slush, his hands cold on the rungs, for he,had forgotten his gloves. Down more ladders to the promenade deck. As he strode aft, his legs straddled against the steady motion, he saw flecks of rust showing already through the new grey paint. He paused and looked abeam. Out there, some one hundred and fifty miles away, was the western extreme,of Iceland. The nearest land. Up here, the only land.

He quickened his pace, and when he reached the after well deck he had to steel himself again before he could climb down the last ladder where Maxwell and Stannard were waiting to assist with the burials.

There were only eight' of them. Five of those who had been picked up alive. The others had been-hauled aboard the whalers by accident. Only eight, yet the line seemed endless, so that in his mind's eye Lindsay could picture all the others which Benbecula had left in her wake. There had been three hundred in Loch Glendhu's company, Ritchie had said.

He strode to the side and returned Maxwell's salute. Beyond the gunnery officer he saw more watching figures and Lieutenant de Chair with some of his marines.

God, how could he do it? Just ten minutes, he had told Goss, but he was already cracking. He could feel his reserve stripping itself away like a protective skin. Leaving him naked to their serious faces.

He cleared his .throat. `Let's get on with it.'

As he pulled the little book from his pocket he looked up, caught off guard as de Chair said quietly, `Very well, Sarn't. Off coats.'

He stared, almost dazed, as the marines obediently stripped off their shining oilskins and formed into a tight, swaying line behind the canvas-covered bodies. He realised they were all in their best blue uniforms, that somehow they were shaved. In spite of everything. Oh God,. what are they doing to me?

Blindly he thumbed open the book, the print dancing before him, the snow falling softly on his hands. 'Now.'

He removed his cap and squinted up directly into the snow. It was so thick that he could not see if the ensign was at half-mast or not. What the hell did it matter to these dead men?

Maxwell shouted towards the bridge, and Lindsay heard the distant clang of telegraphs as the engines fell silent once more.

He stared hard at the open page and then, with sudden resolution, thrust the book back into his pocket. He did not need it any more. He had spoken the words too often. Heard them. more than enough to forget even if he wanted to.

`We commend unto Thy hands of mercy, most merciful Father, the souls of these our brothers departed, and we commit their bodies to the deep....'

He licked his lips as the marines edged forward, their faces like Ritchie's had been as they raised the neat bundles beneath the two large ensigns.

It was always a bad moment. When you did not know any of these quiet bundles. Strangers ... not even that. Only the uniforms had been the same.

One of them was Loch Glendhu's captain, who had died within thirty minutes of being carried aboard. By rights he should have died back there on his bridge. He had been hit by several shell splinters and had been savagely burned before an explosion had blasted him into the sea. Even then he had refused to die. Maybe he had seen Ritchie's signal lamp, or the whalers coming for his men.

Or perhaps he needed to stay alive just long enough to tell what he knew. To pass on his dying anger and hatred..

Lindsay had left the bridge for a moment to visit him in the sickbay; had watched the other captain's mouth through the bandages as he had gasped out his short, bitter story.

There had been no Swedish ship. No neutral under attack. Just the big German raider, lying there waiting for them like a tiger shark. True, she had looked Swedish, with- her painted flag and neutral colouring, but as Loch Glendhu had turned to offer help, the enemy's guns had opened fire from a dozen concealed positions, smashing through the hull, blasting men to pulp who seconds before had been preparing to lower boats, to give aid.

As Loch Glendhu had become a raging inferno and had begun to settle down, the raider had gathered way, pausing only to fire a few more shells and rake the shattered vessel with automatic fire.

The dying captain had said, `It was my fault. Should have been ready. Expecting it. But it was something different. New.' Then he had died:

Lindsay had been speaking the familiar words even though his mind had been reliving those last moments. When he looked again the flags. were being folded, the bodies gone.

He nodded to Maxwell, and within seconds the big screws had started to churn the sea into a busy froth. He replaced his cap, the rim cold around his forehead, like ice-rime.

The marines were struggling into their wet coats, Stannard was staring over the rail, his eyebrows white with snow.

It was done. Finished.

Again he returned Maxwell's salute and said, Thank you, Guns.' He looked at the others.All of you.'

Stannard fell into step beside him as they walked forward along the promenade deck.

Lindsay heard himself say, `I will make that signal now, Pilot. Can't tell them much.'

He shrugged, knowing Stannard was looking at him. Thinks I don't care, or that I am past caring. Or searching for some explanation when there's none to offer.

As they started up the last ladder Lindsay heard voices. Low voices made harsh with anger. He climbed on to the open wing and saw Goss hunched in one corner, his massive figure towering above Fraser, who was glaring up at him, his white overalls coarse against the swirling snow.

Lindsay snapped, `What the hell is going on?' Beyond the others he saw that the wheelhouse door was closed so that the anger would remain unheard.

Goss whirled round. `Nothing, sir!'

Fraser exploded, Nothing, my bloody arse!' He hurried towards Lindsay.I came on deck. Just to watch quietly when....'He glanced briefly aft. But there were too many of the lads there, and I wanted to be on my own.' He held up a greasy hand as Goss made to interrupt.I was forrard, by Number Two gun when the engines stopped.'

For an instant longer; Lindsay imagined that Fraser's keen ear had detected some flaw in the engines' familiar beat.

The little engineer added slowly, `I heard something sir.'

Goss said harshly, `You can't be sure, for God's sake!'

Fraser looked at Lindsay, his tone suddenly pleading. I've been too long in my trade not to recognise a winch, sir.' He swung round and pointed into the driving snow. It was thicker and the forecastle only just. visible. Beyond the bows it was like a white wall.There was a ship out there, sir. I know it!'

Lindsay stood stockstill, his mind filling with words, faces, sounds. The burial service. The marines in their blue. uniforms. The snow. Two dead children.

Goss said thickly, Suppose you were mistaken, Chief?' When nobody answered he added in a louder voice,Might have been anything!'

Stannard was still on top of the ladder, unable to get past Lindsay. He called, `But surely no bloody raider would still be here?'

Lindsay moved slowly towards the forepart of the screen. Why not?' His voice was so quiet that the others drew closer.He's done pretty well for himself so far. Sunk an A.M.C. without any fuss at all." How could he sound so calm? `He's probably sitting out the snow and preparing for Loch Glendhu's relief. Us, for instance.' .

Goss stared at him incredulously. `But we don't know, sir!'

Stannard said, `Could be. He'd listen for any signals. Just make sure there were no other ships around to spread the alarm.' He fell back as Lindsay thrust him aside and wrenched open the wheelhouse door.

As he tore off the dripping oilskin and dropped it unheeded to the deck he snapped, Back to your engine room, Chief. I want dead slow, right?' He looked, at Stannard.Pass the word quickly. I want the hands at action stations on the double. But no bells or pipes, not a bloody sound out of anyone.' He sounded wild. `Send them in their bare feet if necessary!'

Midshipman Kemp had emerged from the chart room and Lindsay seized his arm saying, `Get the gunnery officer yourself, lad, and be sharp about it!'

The boy hesitated, his face very pale. `Where is he, sir?'

Down aft. He's just helped to bury some of our friends.' He looked coldly at Goss by the door.Well, I intend to bury some of those bastards if I can!'

He ignored the startled glances and walked to the front of the bridge.

The deck was trembling very gently now. Fraser must have run like a madman to reach the engine room so quickly.

Five minutes later Stannard said, `Ship at action stations, sir.

Lindsay turned and ran his eye over the others. Jolliffe had certainly been fast enough. He was still wearing old felt slippers and there were crumbs on his portly stomach.

I need three good hands up forrard.' It was like speaking his thoughts aloud. Describing a scene not yet enacted.Right in the eyes of the ship. Yeo, send some of your bunting-tossers. They'll have keen ears and eyes. If,' he checked himself, `when we run this bastard to ground I want to see him first. So he'll know what it's like.'

Ritchie buttoned his oilskin collar. I'll go meself, sir.' He beckoned to two of -his signalmen.It'll be a pleasure.'

Like a towering ghost the Benbecula glided forward into the snow, her decks and superstructure already inches deep from the blizzard. .

Apart from the gentle beat of engines, the occasional creak of steel or the nervous movement of feet above the bridge, there was nothing to betray her.

Lindsay took out his pipe and put it between his teeth, his eyes on Ritchie's black figure as it hurried between the anchor cables: Perhaps Fraser had been wrong. There might be nothing out there in the snow.

He thought suddenly of the dying captain. Something different, he said, ashamed perhaps for not understanding the new rules.

He gripped the side of his chair and waited. At least we will have tried, he thought.

5

Learning

Petty Officer Ritchie tore off one glove with his teeth and fumbled with the clip on the-small telephone locker. He was as far forward in the bows as he could reach, and was conscious of the muffled stillness, as if the ship were abandoned in the steady snowfall. He wrenched the door open and clapped the handset to his ear. As he glanced aft he noticed the bridge was almost hidden by snow, with only the wheelhouse windows showing distinctly, like square black eyes.

`Bridge.' It was the captain's voice, and Ritchie could imagine him standing beside his chair as he had last seen him, peering down towards the forecastle.

Yeoman, sir.' He turned his back on the bridge and stared over the steel bulwark.In position now.'

'Good.' A pause. `I will keep this line open.'

Ritchie touched the snow which lined the bulwark like cotton wool. It felt stiffer. Maybe a hint of ice, he thought, as he moved his eyes slowly from side to side. Occasionally the wind became more evident as it twisted the snow into nervous, darting patterns, and he saw the sea moving slowly towards him, dark, like lead. Despite all his layers of clothing he shivered. He had heard the officers talking, and his own experience told him the rest. You could not serve on a dozen bridges over the same number of years without learning.

He held his breath as a shadow lifted through the snow, and then relaxed slightly. The wind had cut a path just long enough to reveal an open patch of water. A small, dismal patch which for a few seconds had become a ship. If there was a ship out there, he knew she could just as easily be listening and waiting for them.

The hunter once again. Right now those bloody Germans might be adjusting their sights, hands tightening on triggers and shells while Benbecula's outline nudged blindly into their crosswires. Even if the captain was right, and they got off the first salvos, both ships might pound one another to scrap, sink out here, one hundred and fifty miles from land.

To his left he heard Cummings, one of the young signalmen, sniffing in the cold air, and wondered. briefly what he made of it all. Six months ago he had been a baker's roundsman in Birmingham, and now he shook himself angrily. What the hell difference did it make? It was odd the way the snow made you drowsy, no matter how tensed up you were.

God, the deck was steady. Hardly an engine vibration reached him in the eyes of the ship, and in the handset earpiece he imagined he could hear Lindsay breathing. A good bloke, he thought. Not condescending like some of the arrogant bastards he had met. Genuine, maybe a bit too much so. Like someone nursing an old hurt. Something which was tearing him apart, so that when he heard of others' troubles he felt it all the more. Like the burial service, for instance. He started. Was that only moments ago?

He had seen it then as the captain had spoken the prayer over the corpses. The same expression he had witnessed in London at the mass burial. Almost the whole street. The whole bloody street. They had said the bombers had been making for the London docks, but they

4had hit his street just the same. The East End was never the most attractive of places. Terraced houses, every one the same as its neighbour, and each with its own backyard the size of a carpet. Madge had always insisted on calling it a garden. He felt his lips move in a small smile. A garden.

The burial had been worse because of the weather. Bright and sunny, as if, the world wanted to ignore their little drama. Red buses passing the end of the street in regular procession, making for Bethnal Green Underground station. A barrage balloon, fat and shining in the sunlight like a contented whale. A workman whistling in the ruins of a church which had been blitzed the week before.

But the faces had been the same. Frozen. Like Lindsay's. He wondered if anyone el3e had noticed. Not Maxwell, he was sure of that. Stupid parade-ground basher. Should have been a bloody Nazi himself.

He stiffened. There it was again. His head swivelled round as he heard the faint but distinct clang of metal.

`Green four-five, sir. As far as I can tell. I 'eard metal.'

A small shudder ran through his boots and he guessed that the helm had gone over.

Then Lindsay said, `Keep it up, Yeo.' Cool, unhurried, as if he was reporting on a cricket match.

Cummings whispered, `What d'you think, Yeo?'

Ritchie shrugged. `I dunno.'

He felt the sweater warm against his neck. Madge had made it for him from an old jumper she had unravelled to get the wool. He tried to control the sudden surge of emotion. He had to get used to it. Accept it. But how long would intake? Only yesterday he had heard Hussey, the PO telegraphist, describing his service in a China river gunboat before the war. He had said to himself, I'll tell the kids about that, next leave. It was small, unguarded moments like that which left him aching and lost.

The snow whipped against his cheek in a wet mould, as with sudden force the wind swept hard across the bulwark. He dashed it from his eyes, and when he looked again he saw the other ship.

It was incredible she could be so close, that she had been there all the while. She lay diagonally across Benbecula's line of advance, the stern towards him, her tall upperworks and poop gleaming like icing on a giant cake.

He said hoarsely, `Ship, sir! Fine on th' starboard bow! Range about two cables!'

As the endless seconds dragged past he kept his eyes fixed on the other vessel. She was big right enough, probably a liner, with two funnels and a large Swedish flag painted on her side. As he watched he saw part of her upper bridge move slightly., and realised it was being lifted bodily by one of her forward derricks. The chief had heard a winch. The Germans were changing their appearance already. Preparing for their next victim. There was a sudden flurry of foam beneath her high counter where seconds earlier the enemy's hull had rolled, drifting on the sluggish rollers.

He rasped, `Down, lads! She's seen us!' He grabbed' Cummings' sleeve and dragged him gasping to the deck. "Old yer 'eads down, and keep 'em there till I tells you different!'

Cummings lay beside him, his body only inches away, eyes filling his face as he gasped, `I-I'm going to be sick!'

Ritchie opened his mouth to say something but heard the sudden tinkle of bells at the nearest gun and changed his mind.

Like the yeoman, Lindsay had seen the other ship's blurred outline with something like disbelief. Perhaps the snow was passing over, but it gave the deceptive impression of leaving one opening, an arena just large enough to contain the two ships, while beyond and all around the downpour was as thick as before.

`Port fifteen! Full ahead both engines!'

The sharpness of his voice seemed -to break the shocked stillness in the wheelhouse, and the figures on either side of him started to move and react, as if propelled by invisible levers.

'Midships! Steady!'

Jolliffe muttered, `Steady, sir. Course three-five-five.'

Voicepipes and handsets crackled on every side, and he heard Maxwell shouting, `Commence, commence, commence!' And the instant reply from the fire gongs.

By turning slightly to port Lindsay had laid. the enemy on an almost parallel course some four hundred yards away. He watched the sudden flurry from her twin screws, saw her poop tilt slightly to their urgent thrust, and knew that in spite of everything his small advantage could soon be lost.

Then, with bare seconds between, the three starboard side guns opened fire. Number Three which was furthest aft fired first, and he guessed the marines had been quicker to translate the shouted instructions into action. The six-inch shell screamed past the bridge, the shockwave searing against the superstructure like an express train charging through a station. The other two guns followed almost together, the smoke pluming across the deck, the savage detonations shaking the gratings beneath Lindsay's feet- and bringing several gasps of alarm.

`She's turning away!' Lieutenant Aikman almost fell as Number Three gun hurled itself inboard on its recoil springs and sent another shell screaming across the grey water.

Tonelessly the voice of a control rating said, `Over. Down two hundred.'

The deck was quivering violently now as the revolutions .mounted, and the bow. wave ploughed away on either beam like a solid glass arrowhead.

Starboard ten.' Lindsay dropped his eye to the gyro. 'Midships.' He saw droplets of his sweat falling on the protective cover.Steady.'

When he raised his head again the enemy was nearer, the bearing more acute.

A bosun's mate shouted, `Number Three gun 'as ceased ased firin', sir. Unable to-bear!'

Lindsay looked at Stannard. It could not be helped. If he hauled off again to give the marines a clear view of the enemy the other ship" would escape in the snow. She was big. About seventeen thousand tons. Big, modern and with all the power required to move her at speed.

The two forward guns, their view unimpeded by the superstructure, fired again. The long orange tongues leaping from their muzzles as the shells streaked away towards the enemy.

Through the snow, flurries Lindsay saw a brief flash, like a round red eye, and heard Maxwell yell, `A hit! We hit the bastard!'

She was pulling away with each second, her funnels already hidden by the snow.

Lindsay dashed his hand across his forehead and waited, counting seconds, until the guns fired once more. Longer intervals now. He pictured the shell hoists jerking up their shafts, cooks, stewards, writers and supply ratings cursing and struggling to feed the guns with those great, ungainly missiles while the hull shook around them. And in the engine and boiler rooms Fraser's men would be hearing the explosions above the din of their machinery, watching the tall sides and praying that no shell came their way. The inrush of water, the scalding steam. Oblivion.

The snow lifted and writhed above the enemy ship, and Lindsay saw the telltale orange flash. The other captain had at last got one of his after guns to bear.

The shell hit the Benbecula's side like a thunderclap, the shock hurling men and equipment about the bridge, while above the starboard bulwark the smoke came billowing inboard in a solid brown fog.

Lindsay gripped the voicepipes and heard splinters ripping and ricocheting through the hull, and tasted the lyddite on the cold air.

But the guns were still firing, and above the din he heard layers and trainers yelling like madmen, the rasp of steel, the clang of breech blocks before the cry, `Ready!'

Aikman called, `Damage control reports a fire on A deck, sir. Two casualties.'

`Very well.'

Lindsay raised his glasses and studied the enemy.

Nearly gone now, her shortened outline was just a murky shadow in the snow.

He had to chance it. Port ten.' To Aikman he snapped,Tell the gunnery officer to bring Number Three to bear.'

He watched the ticking gyro. 'Midships.' He did not wait for Jolliffe's reply but strode to the starboard side, feeling the icy wind clawing his face through the open window.

de Chair's gun reopened fire even as the enemy settled on the Benbecula's starboard bow, and the shell hit her directly abaft the bridge. This time the explosion was more dramatic, and Lindsay guessed the exploding shell had also ignited either a small-arms magazine or some signal flares.

The snow seemed to glow -red and gold as the flames licked greedily around one of the tall funnels, starting more scattered explosions to litter the churned water alongside with falling fragments.

The enemy fired again, and as before her gunnery was perfect. The shell hit Benbecula's side further aft, exploding deep inside the hull and sending white-hot splinters scything in every direction. Some burst upwards through the boat deck and cut a whaler in halves, leaving bow and stern dangling from the davits like dead fruit.

Stannard said hoarsely' `Snow's getting heavier again.' He ducked involuntarily as a shell exploded alongside, the flash masked instantly by a towering white waterspout: Bridge and wing were buried under cascading water, and Lindsay heard Jolliffe cursing one of the quartermasters who had fallen against the wheel.

Lindsay rubbed his glasses and peered after the enemy in time to see her fading completely into another squall. Only the glare of her fires was still visible, and he heard several small explosions on the wind as de Chair'ss last shell continued to spread its havoc between decks.

Aikman reported, `Damage control have A deck fire under control, sir. Second hit' was also A deck. No fire, but four men wounded.'

Another telephone jarred the sudden stillness- and Stannard said, `It's the chief, sir. He asks if he can reduce revs. Starboard shaft is overheating. Nothing serious, he thinks, but...'

Lindsay realised the Australian was staring at him and then his reeling mind recalled what he had been asked.

`Thank you, Pilot. Reduce to slow ahead.'

No sense in tearing the engines to pieces for nothing. The enemy, would not come back for another try. Not this time. It was too risky.

He added slowly, Get a signal coded up right away. To Admiralty. Advise on our position, course and approximate speed of enemy.' He rubbed his eyes, forcing his mind to .respond.Tell them we have engaged enemy raider and obtained two hits. Extent of her damage not known.'

Stannard lowered his pad. `Is that all, sir?'

Lindsay walked to the door and wrenched it open as thankfully the bridge messengers started to close the glass windows again.

`Mention that Loch Glendhu has been sunk, and check with the sickbay for a list of survivors.'

He heard Stannard leave the wheelhouse and leaned over the wing to watch some of the damage control team scurrying along the forward well deck, bowed against the wind. Or fearful perhaps the enemy could still see them.

He was shaking uncontrollably, yet when he looked at his hands they seemed quite steady. Perhaps it was in his mind.

There were clangs and shouts, more orders as seamen and stokers ran to deal with damage and plug up the gaping splinter holes.

Goss appeared suddenly in the wheelhouse door. Nobody dead, sir.' He sounded accusing.One man's lost a foot, but the doc says he'll live....'

He swung round as Ritchie pushed his way to the door.

Ritchie said harshly, There was one killed, sir.' He paused, recalling the astonishment on the boy's face. The eyes glazing with drifting snow. He said,Ordinary Signalman Cummings, sir. Shell splinter got 'im in the spine.' But for his body, I would have got it. `I didn't realise he'd bought it till I told 'im it was all over.'

Lindsay nodded. Bought it. What the Wren had said at Scapa.

`You did bloody well, Yeo.'

Ritchie shrugged. `It's a start.'

Goss cleared his throat noisily. `About the damage.'

`Yes?'

`It's a dockyard job, sir.'

Lindsay could feel his nerves dragging like hot wires. He wanted to shake Goss, hit him if necessary to make him understand.

Instead he said flatly, `No, it isn't, Number One. It's yours, until we hear to the contrary.'

Goss spoke between his teeth.. `If the snow hadn't eased at that moment we might have run straight into that German!'

Lindsay swung on him. `Well, at least we'd have sunk the bloody thing! Now, for God's sake get on with those repairs!'

He turned to watch some seamen carrying a limp body aft from the forecastle. Cummings. Was that the man's name?

Dancy poked his head through the door. `The chief has said everything's all right, sir.'

Lindsay looked at him. He had forgotten all about Dancy. But he seemed steady enough for his first action.

`Thank him for me, Sub. And fall out action stations.'

He realised Dancy was still there, staring at him as if for the first time in his life. `Well?'

Dancy flushed. I-I'm sorry, sir. It's just that I wouldn't have believed it possible.' He seemed quite oblivious of Lindsay's grave face or Ritchie's despairing glance.To handle a ship like this, to outmanoeuvre that German.'

Lindsay held up his hand. `Write about it one day, Sub. Tell your mother if you like, but spare me, will you?'

Dancy withdrew, and seconds later the upper deck tannoy- grated, Fall out action stations. Starboard watch to defence stations.' The merest pause, thenUp spirits!'

Lindsay looked at Ritchie, feeling the grin spreading across his face, pushing the despair aside like the wind had laid bare the enemy.

`Good advice, Yeo.' He walked towards the wheelhouse again. -'I think we deserve it!'

Ritchie watched him and then shook his head. You'll do, he thought. For me, and this poor old ship. You'll do.

Sub-Lieutenant Michael Dancy pushed aside the heavy curtain and stepped into the wardroom. With only half the deckhead lights in use the wardroom looked cosy and pleased with itself, the oak panelling gleaming softly in welcome. Just over an hour to midnight, and as Dancy had the middle watch he saw no point in trying to sleep.

By the fat coal stove he saw Barker in conversation with Boase, the doctor, although the latter's face was so expressionless it seemed hardly likely he was doing more than listening.

Barker was saying, `We had some very rich passengers, of course, None of those save-up-for-the-cruise-of-alifetime types. Real class.'

Boase eyed him wearily. `Good.'

The ex-purser lowered his voice. Like this ship today. I'm not saying that some of these temporary chaps don't mean well.' He winked.But you know what they say about the sow's ear, eh?'

Boase yawned. `Nobody's more temporary than I am.'

Barker shot him an ingratiating smile. 'Ah, but you're professional, it's quite different!'

Dancy turned away. Quite apart from disliking Barker, he could not bear to watch him and the doctor sipping their drinks by the fire.. Normally Dancy did not drink much. Before the war he had been unable to afford it, except at Christmas time, and in any case his mother disapproved, hinting darkly at a nameless uncle who had gone off the rails. After being commissioned and sent to the' armed yacht he had been involved in several minor drinking bouts, most of which had ended in dismal failure and agonising sickness.

But tonight he did feel like it. A celebration all of his own.

He sat in a deep chair with his back to the others and stared unseeingly at the swaying curtains which partitioned off the dining space, half listening to the wind sighing against the hull. It was difficult to accept that only this morning they had been in action. Had fired and been fired upon. Had buried a young signalman, their first. real casualty, and he had lived through all of it.

Dancy felt as if his lungs were too large for his body, that he wanted to shout or laugh out loud. What did that old woman Barker know about it anyway? He was more concerned with corned beef and, the issue of clothing than the business of fighting. While Barker had been hidden below, he, Michael Dancy, had been up there beside the captain, seeing it, feeling it, and not breaking as he had once thought he would.

He heard the bell go and knew the others were ringing for more drinks. But he must go on watch soon, and had been left in no doubt by the first lieutenant what would happen to a watchkeeping officer who drank. -

He tried to assemble his memories into order, to capture each moment. He smiled. As a writer should. But it was still difficult. It had been so swift, with the din and smells all mixed together in his mind. And all the while this great ship, and she was enormous after the armed yacht, had wheeled and pounded through the snow, guns blazing and He turned his head angrily as Fraser entered the wardroom and threw himself into a chair, prodding the bell-push in the same movement.

Barker said, `Of course, Doc, that was-why the company was such a success. We only had the five ships, but there was true-devotion, a sense of service and loyalty so lacking today.'

Fraser had his eyes closed. `Crap,' he said.

Barker glared at him. `How can you say such a thing?'

The engineer opened his eyes as a steward glided into the lamplight. He said, I wantt a treble gin.' Then to Barker he added slowly,The reason this company was a success, and I'm not denying it, was the fact that the owners were the meanest set of skinflints ever dropped the wrong side of a blanket!'

Boase stirred uneasily and glanced from one to the other.

Fraser continued calmly, See all this panelling, Doc?' He waved one hand and displayed the black grease on hisfingers. All the pretty cabins? Well, it only went down as far as B deck. The rest, the crew's quarters and the poor emigrants section, was like the bloody Black Hole of Calcutta!' He looked at Barker's outraged face.Man, you're daft if you think loyalty played any part. Men needed work,. and had to lick boots to get it. But you wouldn't know anything about that!'

The steward was just placing the brimming glass beside him when the bulkhead telephone buzzed impatiently. The steward said, `For you, sir.'

Fraser seized the phone and jerked his head to the other voice. `Yes. Yes. Oh, Jesus, not that freshwater pump again. This bloody ship'll be the death o' me!' He dropped the phone and downed the gin in one long swallow.

As he walked to the door he added, `One thing. If I run short of hot air for the boilers, I'll know where to come!' The door slammed behind him.

Barker stood up, visibly shaken. `I'll turn in now.' He looked round the wardroom. 'I might have to check some ledgers first, of course.'

As he hurried away Boase said softly, `Of course.'

Then he smiled at Dancy. `You look ready to do great deeds.'

Dancy replied coldly, `I have the middle.'

'Ah.' Boase squinted at the clock. `Think I'll go to bed, too.'

Dancy opened and then shut his mouth. Go to bed. Boase had not even learned the right terms. Funny chap. Very cool and distant, yet they said he had sawn off a man's foot and saved his life.

`Anything more, sir?' The steward yawned ominously...

'No. You can turn in.'

The steward's eye dropped very slightly to the single stripe on Dancy's sleeve. `You doing Rounds then, sir?'

Dancy looked away. `Well, no, not exactly.'

The steward slammed into his pantry muttering, `Then I'll wait for someone who is.'

The door opened again and Dancy saw it was Kemp, the midshipman. Apart from the other sub-lieutenants, Kemp was the newest officer in the ship. In addition, he was the only one upon whom Dancy could exercise his scanty authority.

The boy said quietly, `I-I was just looking to see if-' his voice trailed away.

Dancy frowned. Sit here if you like.' He glanced at his watch for several seconds.I've got the middle.'