How would old Giles react to this, the culmination of a series of disastrous miscalculations, miscalculations for which, in all fairness, he could not justly be blamed... But he would be held accountable.
The iron voice of the loudspeaker broke in on his thoughts.
"Second signal reads:
'In close contact.
Depth-charging. Depth-charging.
One vessel torpedoed, sinking.
Tanker torpedoed, damaged, still afloat, under command.
Please advise.
Please assist. Urgent. Urgent!'"
The speaker clicked off.
Again that hushed silence, strained, unnatural.
Five seconds it lasted, ten, twenty, then everyone stiffened, looked carefully away.
Tyndall was climbing down from his chair.
His movements were stiff, slow with the careful faltering shuffle of the very old.
He limped heavily.
His right hand, startling white in its snowy sheath of bandage, cradled his broken wrist.
There was about him a queer, twisted sort of dignity, and if his face held any expression at all, it was the far-off echo of a smile.
When he spoke, he spoke as a man might talk to himself, aloud.
"I am not well," he said. "I am going below."
Chrysler, not too young to have an inkling of the tragedy, held open the gate, caught Tyndall as he stumbled on the step.
He glanced back over his shoulder, a quick, pleading look, caught and understood Vallery's compassionate nod.
Side by side, the old and the young, they moved slowly aft.
Gradually, the shuffling died away and they were gone.
The shattered bridge was curiously empty now, the men felt strangely alone.
Giles, the cheerful, buoyant, indestructible Giles was gone.
The speed, the extent of the collapse was not for immediate comprehension: the only sensation at the moment was that of being unprotected and defenceless and alone.
"Out of the mouths of babes and sucklings..." Inevitably, the first to break the silence was Brooks. "Nicholls always maintained that..."
He stopped short, his head shaking in slow incredulity.
"I must see what I can do," he finished abruptly, and hurried off the bridge.
Vallery watched him go, then turned to Bentley.
The Captain's face, haggard, shadowed with grizzled beard, the colour of death in the weird half-light of the fog, was quite expressionless.
"Three signals, Chief.
First to Vectra.
"Steer 360
Repeat, do not disperse.
Am coming to your assistance.' "He paused, then went on:
"Sign it,' Admiral, 14 A.C.S.'
Got it?...
Right.
No time to code it.
Plain language.
Send one of your men to the W.T. at once."
"Second: To Stirling, Sirrus and Viking.'
Abandon pursuit immediate.
Course north-east.
Maximum speed.'
Plain language also."
He turned to the Kapok Kid.
"How's your forehead, Pilot?
Can you carry on?"