He hesitated a moment, then: "My compliments to Surgeon-Lieutenant Nicholls. Ask him to come to the bridge." He turned to the Commander, grinned faintly. "I somehow don't see Brooks at his athletic best in a breeches buoy on a day like this.
It's going to be quite a crossing."
Turner looked again at the Sirrus, occasionally swinging through a 40
"It'll be no picnic," he agreed. "Besides, breeches buoys aren't made to accommodate the likes of our venerable chief surgeon."
Funny, Turner thought, how matter-of-fact and offhand everyone was: nobody had as much as mentioned the Vectra since she'd rammed the U-boat.
The gate creaked.
Vallery turned round slowly, acknowledged Nicholls's sketchy salute.
"The Sirrus needs a doctor," he said without preamble. "How do you fancy it?"
Nicholls steadied himself against the canted bridge and the rolling of the cruiser.
Leave the Ulysses-suddenly, he hated the thought, was amazed at himself for his reaction.
He, Johnny Nicholls, unique, among the officers anyway, in his thorough-going detestation and intolerance of all things naval-to feel like that!
Must be going soft in the head.
And just as suddenly he knew that his mind wasn't slipping, knew why he wanted to stay.
It was not a matter of pride or principle or sentiment: it was just that-well, just that he belonged.
The feeling of belonging-even to himself he couldn't put it more accurately, more clearly than that, but it affected him strangely, powerfully.
Suddenly he became aware that curious eyes were on him, looked out in confusion over the rolling sea.
"Well?" Vallery's voice was edged with impatience.
"I don't fancy it at all," Nicholls said frankly. "But of course I'll go, sir.
Right now?"
"As soon as you can get your stuff together," Vallery nodded.
"That's now.
We have an emergency kit packed all the time." He cast a jaundiced eye over the heavy sea again. "What am I supposed to do, sir-jump?"
"Perish the thought!" Turner clapped him on the back with a large and jovial hand. "You haven't a thing to worry about," he boomed cheerfully, "you positively won't feel a thing, these, if I recall rightly, were your exact words to me when you extracted that old molar of mine two-three weeks back." He winced in painful recollection. "Breeches buoy, laddie, breeches buoy!"
"Breeches buoy!" Nicholls protested. "Haven't noticed the weather, have you?
I'll be going up and down like a blasted yo-yo!"
"The ignorance of youth." Turner shook his head sadly. "We'll be turning into the sea, of course.
It'll be like a ride in a Rolls, my boy!
We're going to rig it now." He turned away. "Chrysler-get on to Chief Petty Officer Hartley.
Ask him to come up to the bridge."
Chrysler gave no sign of having heard.
He was in his usual favourite position these days-gloved hands on the steam pipes, the top half of his face crushed into the rubber eyepiece of the powerful binoculars on the starboard searchlight control.
Every few seconds a hand would drop, revolve the milled training rack a fraction.
Then again the complete immobility.
"Chrysler!" Turner roared. "Are you deaf?"
Three, four, five more seconds passed in silence.
Every eye was on Chrysler when he suddenly jerked back, glanced down at the bearing indicator, then swung round.
His face was alive with excitement.
"Green one-double-oh!" he shouted. "Green one-double oh!
Aircraft.
Just on the horizon!" He fairly flung himself back at his binoculars. "Four, seven-no, ten!
Ten aircraft!" he yelled.
"Green one-double-oh?" Turner had his glasses to his eyes.
"Can't see a thing!
Are you sure, boy?" he called anxiously.
"Still the same, sir." There was no mistaking the agitated conviction in the young voice.
Turner was through the gate and beside him in four swift steps.
"Let me have a look," he ordered.
He gazed through the glasses, twisted the training rack once or twice, then stepped back slowly, heavy eyebrows lowering in anger.
"There's something bloody funny here, young man!" he growled. "Either your eyesight or your imagination?
And if you ask me-----"