He dropped his hand, walked wearily aft to the shelter, entered, closed the door behind him.
"He'll be eighteen-in two days' time," he repeated, like a man in a daze.
Vallery propped himself up on the settee.
"Who?
Young Chrysler?"
Tyndall nodded unhappily.
"I know." Vallery was very quiet. "I know how it is... He did a fine job today."
Tyndall sagged down in a chair.
His mouth twisted in bitterness.
"The only one... Dear God, what a mess!"
He drew heavily on a cigarette, stared down at the floor.
"Ten green bottles, hanging on a wall," he murmured absently.
"I beg your pardon, sir?"
"Fourteen ships left Scapa, eighteen St. John-the two components of FR77," Tyndall said softly. "Thirty-two ships in all.
And now "-he paused-" now there are seventeen, and three of these damaged.
I'm counting the Tennessee Adventurer as a dead duck."
He swore savagely.
"Hell's teeth, how I hate,leaving ships like that, sitting targets for any murdering..."
He stopped short, drew on his cigarette again, deeply.
"Doing wonderfully, amn't I?"
"Ah, nonsense, sir!" Vallery interrupted, impatient, almost angry.
"It wasn't any fault of yours that the carriers had to return."
"Meaning that the rest was my fault?" Tyndall smiled faintly, lifted a hand to silence the automatic protest. "Sorry, Dick, I know you didn't meant that-but it's true, it's true.
Six merchant boys gone in ten minutes-six!
And we shouldn't have lost one of them."
Head bent, elbows on knees, he screwed the heels of his palms into exhausted eyes.
"Rear-Admiral Tyndall, master strategist," he went on softly. "Alters convoy course to run smack into a heavy cruiser, alters it again to run straight into the biggest wolf-pack I've ever known-and just where the Admiralty said they would be.... No matter what old Starr does to me when I get back, I've no kick coming. Not now, not after this."
He rose heavily to his feet.
The light of the single lamp caught his face.
Vallery was shocked at the change.
"Where to, now, sir?" he asked.
"The bridge.
No, no, stay where you are, Dick."
He tried to smile, but the smile was a grimace that flickered only to die.
"Leave me in peace while I ponder my next miscalculation."
He opened the door, stopped dead as he heard the unmistakable whistling of shells close above, heard the E.A.S. Signal screaming urgently through the fog. Tyndall turned his head slowly, looked back into the shelter.
"It looks," he said bitterly, "as if I've already made it."
CHAPTER NINE
FRIDAY MORNING
THE FOG, Tyndall saw, was all around them now.
Since that last heavy snowfall during the night, the temperature had risen steadily, quickly.
But it had beguiled only to deceive: the clammy, icy feathers of the swirling mist now struck doubly chill.
He hurried through the gate, Vallery close behind him.
Turner, steel helmet trailing, was just leaving for the After Tower.
Tyndall stretched out his hand, stopped him.
"What is it, Commander?" he demanded. "Who fired?
Where? Where did it come from?"
"I don't know, sir.
Shells came from astern, more or less.
But I've a damned good idea who it is." His eyes rested on the Admiral a long, speculative moment. "Our friend of last night is back again."