And then there was the door, that heavy, steel door.
Somehow he had to open it, and he knew he couldn't.
But he laid hold of the handle and the door opened, and suddenly, miraculously, he was outside, gasping as the cruel, sub-zero wind seared down through his throat and wasted lungs.
He looked fore and aft.
The fires were dying, he saw, the fires on the Stirling and on his own poop-deck.
Thank God for that at least.
Beside him, two men had just finished levering the door off the Asdic cabinet, were flashing a torch inside.
But he couldn't bear to look: he averted his head, staggered with outstretched hands for the gate of the compass platform.
Turner saw him coming, hurried to meet him, helped him slowly to his chair.
"You've no right to be here," he said quietly.
He looked at Vallery for a long moment. "How are you feeling, sir?"
"I'm a good deal better, now, thanks," Vallery replied.
He smiled and went on: "We Rear-Admirals have our responsibilities, you know, Commander: it's time I began to earn my princely salary."
"Stand back, there!" Carrington ordered curtly. "Into the wheelhouse or up on the ladder, all of you.
Let's have a look at this."
He looked down at the great, steel hatch cover.
Looking at it, he realised he'd never before appreciated just how solid, how massive that cover was.
The hatch cover, open no more than an inch, was resting on a tommy-bar.
He noticed the broken, stranded pulley, the heavy counterweight lying against the sill of the wheelhouse.
So that's off, he thought: thank the Lord for that, anyway.
"Have you tried a block and tackle?" he asked abruptly.
"Yes, sir," the man nearest him replied. He pointed to a tangled heap in a corner. "No use, sir.
The ladder takes the strain all right, but we can't get the hook under the hatch, except sideways, and then it slips off all the time." He gestured to the hatch. "And every clip's either bent, they were opened by sledges, or at the wrong angle.... I think I know how to use a block and tackle, sir."
"I'm sure you do," Carrington said absently. "Here, give me a hand, will you?"
He hooked his fingers under the hatch, took a deep breath.
The seaman at one side of the cover, the other side was hard against the after bulkhead, did the same.
Together they strained, thighs and backs quivering under the strain.
Carrington felt his face turning crimson with effort, heard the blood pounding in his ears, and relaxed.
They were only killing themselves and that damned cover hadn't shifted a fraction, someone had done remarkably well to open it even that far.
But even though they were tired and anything but fit, Carrington thought, two men should have been able to raise an edge of that hatch.
He suspected that the hinges were jammed, or the deck buckled.
If that were so, he mused, even if they could hook on a tackle, it would be of little help.
A tackle was of no use when a sudden, immediate application of force was required; it always yielded that fraction before tightening up.
He sank to his knees, put his mouth to the edge of the hatch.
"Below there!" he called. "Can you hear me?"
"We can hear you." The voice was weak, muffled. "For God's sake get us out of here.
We're trapped like rats!".
"Is that you, Brierley?
Don't worry, we'll get you out.
How's the water down there?"
"Water?
More bloody oil than water!
There must be a fracture right through the port oil tank.
I think the ring main passage must be flooded, too."
"How deep is it?"
"Three quarters way up already!
We're standing on generators, hanging on to switchboards.
One of our boys is gone already, we couldn't hold him." Even muffled by the hatch, the strain, the near desperation in the voice was all too obvious. "For pity's sake, hurry up!"
"I said we'd get you out!" Carrington's voice was sharp, authoritative.
The confidence was in his voice only, but he knew how quickly panic could spread down there. "Can you push from below at all?"