Free HMS Marlborough Will Enter Harbour (1947) by Nicholas Monsarrat

telegraph rang. There was a pause, then a slight tremor, then the beginning of a smooth pulsation. Very slowly Marlborough began to move. A thin ripple of bow wave stood out in the luminous twilight: then another. In the compass bowl the floating disc stirred, edging away to the right. The ship started her turn, a slow, barely perceptible turn, 125 degrees to port in a wide half-circle nearly a mile across.
    Presently he called down the voice-pipe: ‘Steering all right?’
    ‘Yes, sir. Five degrees of port wheel on.’
    The engine room bell rang, and he bent to the voice-pipe, his throat constricted. ‘What is it?’
    From the background of noise below an anonymous voice said: ‘Message from the engineer, sir. “Nothing to report”.’
    ‘Thank you.’
    A long pause, with nothing but smooth sliding movement. Then from Adams, suddenly: ‘Course – south-east, sir.’
    ‘Very good.’
    They were started. Forty-eight hours after the torpedoing: two days and two nights adrift. Course south-east.
    The wind, now growing cold on his cheek, was like a caress.

    That first night, those first fourteen hours of darkness on the bridge, had the intensity and the disquiet of personal dedication. It was as if he were taking hold of Marlborough – a sick, uncertain, but brave accomplice – and nursing her through the beginnings of a desperate convalescence. He rarely stirred from his chair, because he could see all he wanted from there – the sagging fo’c’sle, the still rigid bows – and he could hear and feel all the subtleties of her movement forward: but occasionally he stepped to the wing of the bridge and glanced aft, where their pale wake glittered and spread. Of all that his eyes could rest on, that was the most heartening … Then back to his chair, and the stealthy advance of the bows, and the perpetual humming undercurrent that came from the engine room voice-pipe, as comforting as the steady beat of an aircraft engine in mid-ocean. He was not in the least tired: sustained by love and hope, he felt ready to lend to Marlborough all his reserves of endurance.
    At midnight the Chief came up to join him. His report was good: the engine had settled down, the bulkhead seemed unaffected by their forward movement. They discussed the idea of increasing speed, and decided against it: the log showed a steady three knots, sufficient for his plans.
    ‘There’s no point in taking bigger chances,’ said the Captain finally. ‘She’s settled down so well that it would be stupid to fool about with the revs. I think we’ll leave things as they are.’
    ‘Suits me, sir. I’ll be a lot easier, seeing how short-handed we are down there.’
    ‘You’re working watch-and-watch, I suppose?’
    ‘Got to, sir, with only two ERAs. I’d stand a watch myself, but there’s all the auxiliary machinery to look after.’ He yawned and stretched. ‘How about you, sir? Shall I give you a spell?’
    ‘No, I’m all right, thanks, Chief. You turn in now, and get some sleep.’ The Captain smiled. ‘I always seem to be saying that to you. I hope you’re doing it.’
    Chief smiled back. ‘Trust me, sir. Good night.’
    Presently, up the voice-pipe, came Adams’s voice: ‘All right to hand over, sir?’
    ‘Who’s taking the wheel?’
    ‘Leading Seaman Tapper, sir.’
    ‘All right, Adams. What does the steering feel like now?’
    ‘A bit lumpy, sir. It takes a lot to bring her round if she starts swinging off. But it’s nothing out of the way, really.’
    ‘I don’t want anyone except you or Tapper to take the wheel until daylight.’
    ‘Aye, aye, sir.’
    It meant a long trick at the wheel for both these two; but inexpert steering might put too great a strain on the hull, and he wanted its endurance to be fully demonstrated before running any risks.
    A moment later he heard the confirmatory ‘Course southeast – starboard engine slow ahead – Leading Seaman Tapper on the wheel,’ as Adams was relieved. Then the bridge