He, too, was staring at the Asdic cabinet, his face drained of expression.
Before the Kapok Kid could speak, Chrysler lurched forward, fists battering frantically, blindly at the jammed door of the cabinet.
Like a man in a dream, the Kapok Kid heard him sobbing....
And then he remembered. The Asdic operator-his name was Chrysler too.
Sick to his heart, the Kapok Kid lifted the phone again....
Turner pillowed the Captain's head, moved across to the starboard corner of the compass platform.
Bentley, quiet, unobtrusive as always, was sitting on the deck, his back wedged between two pipes, his head pillowed peacefully on his chest.
His hand under Bentley's chin, Turner gazed down into the sightless eyes, the only recognisable feature of what had once been a human face.
Turner swore in savage quiet, tried to prise the dead fingers locked round the hand-grip of the Aldis, then gave up.
The barred beam shone eerily across the darkening bridge.
Methodically, Turner searched the bridge-deck for further casualties.
He found three others and it was no consolation at all that they must have died unknowing.
Five dead men for a three-second burst-a very fair return, he thought bitterly.
Standing on the after ladder, his face stilled in unbelief as he realised that he was staring down into the heart of the shattered for'ard funnel.
More he could not see: the boat deck was already blurred into featureless anonymity in the dying glare of the last of the flares.
He swung on his heel, returned to the compass platform.
At least, he thought grimly, there was no difficulty in seeing the Stirling.
What was it that he had said-said less than ten minutes ago?
"I wish they'd have a go at the Stirling once in a while."
Something like that.
His mouth twisted.
They'd had a go, all right.
The Stirling, a mile ahead, was slewing away to starboard, to the south-east, her for'ard superstructure enveloped in a writhing cocoon of white flame.
He stared through his night glasses, tried to assess the damage; but a solid wall of flame masked the superstructure, from the fo'c'sle deck clear abaft the bridge.
He could see nothing there, just nothing-but he could see, even in that heavy swell, that the Stirling was listing to starboard.
It was learned later that the Stirling had been struck twice: she had been torpedoed in the for'ard boiler-room, and seconds later a bomber had crashed into the side of her bridge, her torpedo still slung beneath the belly of her fuselage: almost certainly, in the light of the similar occurrence on the Ulysses, severe icing had jammed the release mechanism.
Death must have been instantaneous for every man on the bridge and the decks below; among the dead were Captain Jeffries, the First Lieutenant and the Navigator.
The last bomber was hardly lost in the darkness when Carrington replaced the poop phone, turned to Hartley.
"Think you can manage now, Chief?
I'm wanted on the bridge."
"I think so, sir." Hartley, blackened and stained with smoke and extinguisher foam, passed his sleeve wearily across his face. "The worst is over... Where's Lieutenant Carslake?
Shouldn't he------?"
"Forget him," Carrington interrupted brusquely. "I don't know where he is, nor do I care.
There's no need for us to beat about the bush, Chief we're better without him.
If he returns, you're still in charge.
Look after things."
He turned away, walked quickly for'ard along the port alley. On the packed snow and ice, the pad of his rubber seaboots was completely soundless.
He was passing the shattered canteen when he saw a tall, shadowy figure standing in the gap between the snow covered lip of the outer torpedo tube and the end stanchion of the guard rails, trying to open a jammed extinguisher valve by striking it against the stanchion.
A second later, he saw another blurred form detach itself stealthily from the shadows, creep up stealthily behind the man with the extinguisher, a heavy bludgeon of wood or metal held high above his head.
"Look out!" Carrington shouted. "Behind you!"
It was all over in two seconds, the sudden, flailing rush of the attacker, the crash as the victim, lightning fast in his reactions, dropped his extinguisher and fell crouched to his knees, the thin piercing scream of anger and terror as the attacker catapulted over the stooping body and through the gap between tubes and rails, the splash and then the silence.
Carrington ran up to the man on the deck, helped him to his feet.
The last flare had not yet died, and it was still light enough for him to see who it was Ralston, the L.T.O.
Carrington gripped his arms, looked at him anxiously.
"Are you all right?
Did he get you?
Good God, who on earth------?"
"Thank you, sir." Ralston was breathing quickly, but his face was almost expressionless again. "That was too close I Thank you very much, sir."
"But who on earth------?" Carrington repeated in wonder.
"Never saw him, sir." Ralston was grim. "But I know who it was-Sub-Lieutenant Carslake.