HMS Ulysses. Alistair MacLean

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СКАЧАТЬ on the floor of the sea were deflected away from the ship, guided out to the paravanes themselves and severed by cutters: the mines would then float to the top to be exploded or sunk by small arms.

      At 0900, Vallery ordered the paravanes to be recovered. The Ulysses slowed down. The First Lieutenant, Lieutenant Commander Carrington, went to the fo’c’sle to supervise operations: seamen, winch drivers, and the Subs in charge of either side closed up to their respective stations.

      Quickly the recovery booms were freed from their angled crutches, just abaft the port and starboard lights, swung out and rigged with recovery wires. Immediately, the three ton winches on ‘B’ gun-deck took the strain, smoothly, powerfully; the paravanes cleared the water.

      Then it happened. It was A.B. Ferry’s fault that it happened. And it was just ill-luck that the port winch was suspect, operating on a power circuit with a defective breaker, just ill-luck that Ralston was the winch-driver, a taciturn, bitter-mouthed Ralston to whom, just then, nothing mattered a damn, least of all what he said and did. But it was Carslake’s responsibility that the affair developed into what it did.

      Sub-Lieutenant Carslake’s presence there, on top of the Carley floats, directing the handling of the port wire, represented the culmination of a series of mistakes. A mistake on the part of his father, Rear-Admiral, Rtd, who had seen in his son a man of his own calibre, had dragged him out of Cambridge in 1939 at the advanced age of twenty-six and practically forced him into the Navy: a weakness on the part of his first CO, a corvette captain who had known his father and recommended him as a candidate for a commission: a rare error of judgment on the part of the selection board of the King Alfred, who had granted him his commission; and a temporary lapse on the part of the Commander, who had assigned him to this duty, in spite of Carslake’s known incompetence and inability to handle men.

      He had the face of an overbred racehorse, long, lean and narrow, with prominent pale-blue eyes and protruding upper teeth. Below his scanty fair hair, his eyebrows were arched in a perpetual question mark: beneath the long, pointed nose, the supercilious curl of the upper lip formed the perfect complement to the eyebrows. His speech was a shocking caricature of the King’s English: his short vowels were long, his long ones interminable: his grammar was frequently execrable. He resented the Navy, he resented his long overdue promotion to Lieutenant, he resented the way the men resented him. In brief, Sub-Lieutenant Carslake was the quintessence of the worst by-product of the English public-school system. Vain, superior, uncouth and ill-educated, he was a complete ass.

      He was making an ass of himself now. Striving to maintain balance on the rafts, feet dramatically braced at a wide angle, he shouted unceasing, unnecessary commands at his men. CPO Hartley groaned aloud, but kept otherwise silent in the interests of discipline. But AB Ferry felt himself under no such restraints.

      ‘’Ark at his Lordship,’ he murmured to Ralston. ‘All for the Skipper’s benefit.’ He nodded at where Vallery was leaning over the bridge, twenty feet above Carslake’s head. ‘Impresses him no end, so his nibs reckons.’

      ‘Just you forget about Carslake and keep your eyes on that wire,’ Ralston advised. ‘And take these damned great gloves off. One of these days—’

      ‘Yes, yes, I know,’ Ferry jeered. ‘The wire’s going to snag ‘em and wrap me round the drum.’ He fed in the hawser expertly. ‘Don’t you worry, chum, it’s never going to happen to me.’

      But it did. It happened just then. Ralston, watching the swinging paravane closely, flicked a glance inboard. He saw the broken strand inches from Ferry, saw it hook viciously into the gloved hand and drag him towards the spinning drum before Ferry had a chance to cry out.

      Ralston’s reaction was immediate. The footbrake was only six inches away—but that was too far. Savagely he spun the control wheel, full ahead to full reverse in a split second. Simultaneoulsy with Ferry’s cry of pain as his forearm crushed against the lip of the drum came a muffled explosion and clouds of acrid smoke from the winch as £500-worth of electric motor burnt out in a searing flash.

      Immediately the wire began to run out again, accelerating momentarily under the dead weight of the lunging paravane. Ferry went with it. Twenty feet from the winch the wire passed through a snatch-block on the deck: if Ferry was lucky, he might lose only his hand.

      He was less than four feet away when Ralston’s foot stamped viciously on the brake. The racing drum screamed to a shuddering stop, the paravane crashed down into the sea and the wire, weightless now, swung idly to the rolling of the ship.

      Carslake scrambled down off the Carley, his sallow face suffused with anger. He strode up to Ralston.

      ‘You bloody fool!’ he mouthed furiously. ‘You’ve lost us that paravane. By God, LTO, you’d better explain yourself! Who the hell gave you orders to do anything?’

      Ralston’s mouth tightened, but he spoke civilly enough.

      ‘Sorry, sir. Couldn’t help it—it had to be done. Ferry’s arm—’

      ‘To hell with Ferry’s arm!’ Carslake was almost screaming with rage. ‘I’m in charge here—and I give the orders. Look! Look!’ He pointed to the swinging wire. ‘Your work, Ralston, you—you blundering idiot! It’s gone, gone, do you understand, gone?’

      Ralston looked over the side with an air of large surprise.

      ‘Well, now, so it is.’ The eyes were bleak, the tone provocative, as he looked back at Carslake and patted the winch. ‘And don’t forget this—it’s gone too, and it costs a ruddy sight more than any paravane.’

      ‘I don’t want any of your damned impertinence!’ Carslake shouted. His mouth was working, his voice shaking with passion. ‘What you need is to have some discipline knocked into you and, by God, I’m going to see you get it, you insolent young bastard!’

      Ralston flushed darkly. He took one quick step forward, his fist balled, then relaxed heavily as the powerful hands of CPO Hartley caught his swinging arm. But the damage was done now. There was nothing for it but the bridge.

      Vallery listened calmly, patiently, as Carslake made his outraged report. He felt far from patient. God only knew, he thought wearily, he had more than enough to cope with already. But the unruffled professional mask of detachment gave no hint of his feelings.

      ‘Is this true, Ralston?’ he asked quietly, as Carslake finished his tirade. ‘You disobeyed orders, swore at the Lieutenant and insulted him?’

      ‘No, sir.’ Ralston sounded as weary as the Captain felt. ‘It’s not true.’ He looked at Carslake, his face expressionless, then turned back to the Captain. ‘I didn’t disobey orders—there were none. Chief Petty Officer Hartley knows that.’ He nodded at the burly impassive figure who had accompanied them to the bridge. ‘I didn’t swear at him. I hate to sound like a sea-lawyer, sir, but there are plenty of witnesses that Sub-Lieutenant Carslake swore at me—several times. And if I insulted him’—he smiled faintly—‘it was pure self-defence.’

      ‘This is no place for levity, Ralston.’ Vallery’s voice was cold. He was puzzled—the boy baffled him. The bitterness, the brittle composure—he could understand these; but not the flickering humour. ‘As it happens, I saw the entire incident. Your promptness, your resource, saved the rating’s arm, possibly even his life—and against that a lost paravane and wrecked winch are nothing.’ Carslake whitened at the implied rebuke. ‘I’m grateful for that—thank you. As for the rest, Commander’s Defaulters tomorrow morning. Carry on, Ralston.’

      Ralston СКАЧАТЬ