"I see." Brooks shivered.
It might have been the thin threnody of the wind in the shattered rigging, or just the iceladen wind itself.
He shivered again, looked upwards at the sinking flare. "Pretty, very pretty," he murmured. "What are the illuminations in aid of?"
"We are expecting company," Turner smiled crookedly. "An old world custom, O Socrates-the light in the window and what have you." He stiffened abruptly, then relaxed, his face graven in granitic immobility. "My mistake," he murmured. "The company has already arrived."
The last words were caught up and drowned in the rumbling of a heavy explosion.
Turner had known it was coming-he'd seen the thin stiletto of flame stabbing skywards just for'ard of the Ohio Freighter's bridge.
The sound had taken five or six seconds to reach them-the Ohio was already over a mile distant on the starboard quarter, but clearly visible still under the luminance of the Northern Lights-the Northern Lights that had betrayed her, almost stopped in the water, to a wandering U-boat.
The Ohio Freighter did not remain visible for long.
Except for the moment of impact, there was neither smoke, nor flame, nor sound.
But her back must have been broken, her bottom torn out-and she was carrying a full cargo of nothing but tanks and ammunition.
There was a curious dignity about her end-she sank quickly, quietly, without any fuss.
She was gone in three minutes.
It was Turner who finally broke the heavy silence on the bridge.
He turned away and in the light of the flare his face was not pleasant to see.
"Au revoir," he muttered to no one in particular. "Au revoir. That's what he said, the lying..." He shook his head angrily, touched the Kapok Kid on the arm. "Get through to W.T.," he said sharply. "Tell the Viking to sit over the top of that sub till we get clear."
"Where's it all going to end?" Brooks's face was still and heavy in the twilight.
"God knows!
How I hate those murdering bastards!" Turner ground out. "Oh, I know, I know, we do the same, but give me something I can see, something I can fight, something------"
"You'll be able to see the Tirpitz all right," Carrington interrupted dryly. "By all accounts, she's big enough."
Turner looked at him, suddenly smiled.
He clapped his arm, then craned his head back, staring up at the shimmering loveliness of the sky. He wondered when the next flare would drop.
"Have you a minute to spare, Johnny?" The Kapok Kid's voice was low. "I'd like to speak to you."
"Sure." Nicholls looked at him in surprise. "Sure, I've a minute, ten minutes-until the Sirrus comes up.
What's wrong, Andy?"
"Just a second." The Kapok Kid crossed to the Commander. "Permission to go to the charthouse, sir?"
"Sure you've got your matches?" Turner smiled. "O.K.
Off you go."
The Kapok Kid smiled faintly, said nothing.
He took Nicholls by the arm, led him into the charthouse, flicked on the lights and produced his cigarettes.
He looked steadily at Nicholls as he dipped his cigarette into the flickering pool of flame.
"Know something, Johnny?" he said abruptly. "I reckon I must have Scotch blood in me."
"Scots," Nicholls corrected.
"And perish the very thought." "I'm feeling-what's the word?, fey, isn't it? I'm feeling fey tonight, Johnny." The Kapok Kid hadn't even heard the interruption.
He shivered. "I don't know why, I've never felt this way before."
"Ah, nonsense!
Indigestion, my boy," Nicholls said briskly.
But he felt strangely uncomfortable.
"Won't wash this time," Carpenter shook his head, half-smiling. "Besides, I haven't eaten a thing for two days.
I'm on the level, Johnny."
In spite of himself, Nicholls was impressed.
Emotion, gravity, earnestness-these were utterly alien to the Kapok Kid.
"I won't be seeing you again," the Kapok Kid continued softly. "Will you do me a favour, Johnny?"
"Don't be so bloody silly," Nicholls said angrily. "How the hell do you------?"
"Take this with you." The Kapok Kid pulled out a slip of paper, thrust it into Nicholls's hands. "Can you read it?"
"I can read it." Nicholls had stilled his anger. "Yes, I can read it." There was a name and address on the sheet of paper, a girl's name and a Surrey address. "So that's her name," he said softly. "Juanita... Juanita." He pronounced it carefully, accurately, in the Spanish fashion. "My favourite song and my favourite name," he murmured.
"Is it? "the Kapok Kid asked eagerly. "Is it indeed?
And mine, Johnny." He paused. "If, perhaps-well, if I don't, well, you'll go to see her, Johnny?"
"What are you talking about, man?" Nicholls felt embarrassed.
Half-impatiently, half-playfully, he tapped him on the chest.
"Why, with that suit on, you could swim from here to Murmansk.