The man appeared to stir, moved forward, then fell still again.
"I said,' Are you all right?'" Vallery's voice had hard, i ened.
He shook the gunner by the shoulder, turned impatiently to Hartley.
"Asleep, Chief!
At Action Stations!
We're all dead from lack of sleep, I know-but his mates below are depending on him.
There's no excuse.
Take his name!"
"Take his name!" Nicholls echoed softly, bent over the I cockpit.
He shouldn't speak like this, he knew, but he couldn't help it. "Take his name," he repeated. "What for?
His next of kin?
This man is dead."
The snow was beginning to fall again, cold and wet and feathery, the wind lifting a perceptible fraction.
Vallery felt the first icy flakes, unseen in the darkness, brushing his cheeks, heard the distant moan of the wind in the rigging, lonely and forlorn.
He shivered.
"His heater's gone." Hartley withdrew an exploratory hand, straightened up.
He seemed tired. "These Oerlikons have black heaters bolted to the side of the cockpit.
The gunners lean against them, sir, for hours at a time... I'm afraid the fuse must have blown.
They've been warned against this, sir, a thousand times."
"Good God!
Good God!" Vallery shook his head slowly.
He felt old, terribly tired. "What a useless, futile way to die... Have him taken to the Canteen, Hartley."
"No good, sir." Nicholls straightened up also. "It'll have to wait. What with the cold and the quick onset of rigor mortis-well, it'll have to wait."
Vallery nodded assent, turned heavily away.
All at once, the deck 'speaker aft of the winch blared into raucous life, a rude desecration that shattered the chilled hush of the evening.
"Do you hear there?
Do you hear there?
Captain, or notify Captain, to contact bridge immediately, please."
Three times the message was repeated, then the 'speaker clicked off.
Quickly Vallery turned to Hartley.
"Where's the nearest phone, Chief?"
"Right here, sir." Hartley turned back to the Oerlikon, stripped earphones and chest mouthpiece from the dead man.
"That is, if the A.A. tower is still manned?"
"What's left of it is."
"Tower?
Captain to speak to bridge.
Put me through." He handed the receiver to Vallery. "Here you are, sir."
"Thank you.
Bridge?
Yes, speaking... Yes, yes... Very good.
Detail the Sirrus...
No, Commander, nothing I can do anyway-just maintain position, that's all."
He took the handset off, handed it back to Hartley.
"Asdic contact from Viking" he said briefly. "Red 90."
He turned, looked out over the dark sea, realised the futility of his instinctive action, and shrugged.
"We've sent the Sirrus after him.
Come on."
Their tour of the boat-deck gun-sites completed with a visit to the midships' pom-pom crew, bone-chilled and shaking with cold, under the command of the bearded Doyle, respectfully sulphurous in his outspoken comments on the weather, they dropped down to the main deck again.
By this time Vallery was making no protest at all, not even of the most token kind, against Petersen's help and support.
He was too glad of them. He blessed Brooks for his foresight and thoughtfulness, and was touched by the rare delicacy and consideration that prompted the big Norwegian to withdraw his supporting arm whenever they spoke to or passed an isolated group of men.