"Go below and bring up some coffee, please."
"Coffee, sir!" He was bewildered, uncomprehending. "Coffee!
But, but-my-my brother------"
"I know," Vallery said gently. "I know.
Bring some coffee, will you?"
Chrysler stumbled off.
When the shelter door closed behind them, clicking on the light, Vallery turned to the Commander.
"Cue for moralising on the glories of war," he murmured quietly. "Dulce et decorum, and the proud privilege of being the sons of Nelson and Drake.
It's not twenty-four hours since Ralston watched his father die... And now this boy.
Perhaps------"
"I'll take care of things," Turner nodded.
He hadn't yet forgiven himself for what he had said and done to Ralston last night, in spite of Ralston's quick friendliness, the ready acceptance of his apologies.
"I'll keep him busy out of the way till we open up the cabinet.... Sit down, sir.
Have a swig of this." He smiled faintly. "Friend Williams having betrayed my guilty secret.... Hallo!
Company."
The light clicked off and a burly figure bulked momentarily against the grey oblong of the doorway.
The door shut, and Brooks stood blinking in the sudden light, red of face and gasping for breath.
His eyes focused on the bottle in Turner's hand.
"Ha!" he said at length. "Having a bottle party, are we?
All contributions gratefully received, I have no doubt."
He opened his case on a convenient table, was rummaging inside when someone rapped sharply on the door.
"Come in," Vallery called.
A signalman entered, handed a note to Vallery.
"From London, sir.
Chief says there may be some reply."
"Thank you.
I'll phone down."
The door opened and closed again.
Vallery looked up at an empty handed Turner.
"Thanks for removing the guilty evidence so quickly," he smiled.
Then he shook his head. "My eyes, they don't seem so good.
Perhaps you would read the signal, Commander?"
"And perhaps you would like some decent medicine," Brooks boomed, "instead of that filthy muck of Turner's." He fished in his bag, produced a bottle of amber liquid. "With all the resources of modern medicine, well, practically all, anyway, at my disposal, I can find nothing to equal this."
"Have you told Nicholls?" Vallery was stretched out on the settee now, eyes closed, the shadow of a smile on his bloodless lips.
"Well, no," Brooks confessed. "But plenty of time.
Have some?"
"Thanks.
Let's have the good news, Turner."
"Good news!" The sudden deadly quiet of the Commander's voice fell chilly over the waiting men. "No, sir, it's not good news.
"'Rear-Admiral Vallery, Commanding 14 A.C.S., FR77.' "The voice was drained of all tone and expression. "'Tirpitz, escorting cruisers, destroyers, reported moving out Alta Fjord sunset.
Intense activity Alta Fjord airfield.
Fear sortie under air cover.
All measures avoid useless sacrifice Merchant, Naval ships.
D.N.O., London.'" With deliberate care Turner folded the paper, laid it on the table.
"Isn't that just wonderful," he murmured. "Whatever next?"
Vallery was sitting bolt upright on the settee, blind to the blood trickling down crookedly from one corner of his mouth.
His face was calm, unworried.
"I think I'll have that glass, now, Brooks, if you don't mind," he said quietly.
The Tirpitz.
The Tirpitz. He shook his head tiredly, like a man in a dream.