Free H. M. S. Ulysses by Alistair MacLean Page A

thoughts, stilling the low voices in the Sick Bay. And not only there, but throughout the ship, in turrets and magazines, in engine-rooms and boiler-rooms, above and below deck everywhere, all conversation ceased. Then there was only the wind, the regular smash of the bows into the deepening troughs, the muffled roar of the great boiler-room intake fans and the hum of a hundred electric motors. Tension lay heavy over the ship, over 730 officers and men, tangible, almost, in its oppression.
    â€˜This is the Captain speaking. Good evening.’ The voice was calm, well modulated, without a sign of strain or exhaustion. ‘As you all know, it is my custom at the beginning of every voyage to inform you as soon as possible of what lies in store for you. I feel that you have a right to know, and that it is my duty. It’s not always a pleasant duty—it never has been during recent months. This time, however, I’m almost glad.’ He paused, and the words came, slow and measured. ‘This is our last operation as a unit of the Home Fleet. In a month’s time, God willing, we will be in the Med.’
    Good for you, thought Nicholls. Sweeten the pill, lay it on, thick and heavy. But the Captain had other ideas.
    â€˜But first, gentlemen, the job on hand. It’s the mixture as before—Murmansk again. We rendezvous at 1030 Wednesday, north of Iceland, with a convoy from Halifax. There are eighteen ships in this convoy—big and fast—all fifteen knots and above. Our third Fast Russian convoy, gentlemen—FR77, in case you want to tell your grandchildren about it,’ he added dryly. ‘These ships are carrying tanks, planes, aviation spirit and oil—nothing else.
    â€˜I will not attempt to minimize the dangers. You know how desperate is the state of Russia today, how terribly badly she needs these weapons and fuel. You can also be sure that the Germans know too—and that her Intelligence agents will already have reported the nature of this convoy and the date of sailing.’ He broke off short, and the sound of his harsh, muffled coughing into a handkerchief echoed weirdly through the silent ship. He went on slowly. ‘There are enough fighter planes and petrol in this convoy to alter the whole character of the Russian war. The Nazis will stop at nothing— I repeat, nothing—to stop this convoy from going through to Russia.
    â€˜I have never tried to mislead or deceive you. I will not now. The signs are not good. In our favour we have, firstly, our speed, and secondly—I hope—the element of surprise. We shall try to break through direct for the North Cape.
    â€˜There are four major factors against us. You will all have noticed the steady worsening of the weather. We are, I’m afraid, running into abnormal weather conditions—abnormal even for the Arctic. It may—I repeat “may”—prevent U-boat attacks: on the other hand it may mean losing some of the smaller units of our screen—we have no time to heave to or run before bad weather. FR77 is going straight through . . . And it almost certainly means that the carriers will be unable to fly off fighter cover.’
    Good God, has the skipper lost his senses, Nicholls wondered. He’ll wreck any morale that’s left. Not that there is any left. What in the world—
    â€˜Secondly,’ the voice went on, calm, inexorable, ‘we are taking no rescue ships on this convoy. There will be no time to stop. Besides, you all know what happened to the Stockport and the Zafaaran . You’re safer where you are. 1
    â€˜Thirdly, two—possibly three—U-boat packs are known to be strung out along latitude seventy degrees and our Northern Norway agents report a heavy mustering of German bombers of all types in their area.
    â€˜Finally, we have reason to believe that the Tirpitz is preparing to move out.’ Again he paused, for an interminable time, it seemed. It