Vallery rose painfully to his feet, touched him lightly on the arm.
"Do you know, Chief, I never thought you would... Ready, Hartley?" He stopped short, seeing a giant duffel, \ coated figure waiting at the foot of the ladder, the face below the hood dark and sombre. "Who's that?
Oh, I know.
Never thought stokers got so cold," he smiled. j
"Yes, sir, it's Petersen," Hartley said softly. "He's coming with us."
"Who said so? And-and Petersen?
Wasn't that------?"
"Yes, sir.
Riley's-er-lieutenant in the Scapa business...
Surgeon Commander's orders, sir.
Petersen's going to give us a hand."
"Us?
Me, you mean." There was no resentment, no bitterness in Vallery's voice. "Hartley, take my advice, never let yourself get into the hands of the doctors... You think he's safe?" he added half-humorously.
"He'd probably kill the man who looked sideways at you," Hartley stated matter-of-factly. "He's a good man, sir.
Simple, easily led-but good."
At the foot of the ladder, Petersen stepped aside to let them pass, but Vallery stopped, looked up at the giant towering six inches above him, into the grave, blue eyes below the flaxen hair.
"Hallo, Petersen.
Hartley tells me you're coming with us.
Do you really want to?
You don't have to, you know."
"Please, Captain." The speech was slow and precise, the face curiously dignified in unhappiness. "I am very sorry for what has happened------"
"No, no!" Vallery was instantly contrite. "You misunderstand.
It's a bitter night up top.
But I would like it very much if you would come.
Will you?"
Petersen stared at him, then began slowly to smile, his face darkening with pleasure.
As the Captain set foot on the first step, the giant arm came round him.
The sensation, as Vallery described it later, was very much like going up in a lift.
From there they visited Engineer Commander Dodson in his engine-room, a cheerful, encouraging, immensely competent Dodson, an engineer to his finger-tips in his single-minded devotion to the great engines under his care.
Then aft to the Engineers' Flat, up the companionway between the wrecked Canteen and the Police Office, out on to the upper deck.
After the heat of the boiler-room, the 100 The starboard torpedo tubes-the only ones at the standby, were only four paces away.
The crew, huddled in the lee of the wrecked bosun's store-the one destroyed by the Blue Ranger's shells-were easily located by the stamping of frozen feet, the uncontrollable chattering of teeth.
Vallery peered into the gloom.
L.T.O. there?"
"Captain, sir?" Surprise, doubt in the voice.
"Yes.
How are things going?"
"All right, sir." He was still off-balance, hesitant. "I think young Smith's left foot is gone, sir-frostbite."
"Take him below-at once.
And organise your crew into ten minute watches: one to keep a telephone watch here, the other four in the Engineers' Flat.
From now on.
You understand?" He hurried away, as if to avoid the embarrassment of thanks, the murmurs of smiling gladness.
They passed the torpedo shop, where the spare torpedoes and compressed air cylinders were stored, climbed the ladder to the boat-deck.
Vallery paused a moment, one hand on the boat-winch, the other holding the bloody scarf, already frozen almost solid, to mouth and nose. He could just distinguish the shadowy bulkiness of merchantmen on either side: their masts, though, were oddly visible, swinging lazily, gently against the stars as the ships rolled to a slight swell, just beginning.
He shuddered, pulled his scarf higher round his neck.
God, it was cold!
He moved for'ard, leaning heavily on Peterson's arm.
The snow, three to four inches deep, cushioned his footsteps as he came up behind an Oerlikon gun. Quietly, he laid a hand on the shoulder of the hooded gunner hunched forward in his cockpit.
"Things all right, gunner?"
No reply.