H. M. S. Ulysses Read Online Free PDF

one?’ The transatlantic accent was very heavy.
    â€˜Likely enough, Marshall. Why?’
    â€˜Just how Ralston and I figured it, sir.’ He grinned. ‘We have an idea for dealing with it.’
    Vallery looked out through the driving sleet, gave helm and engine orders, then turned back to the Torpedo Officer. He was coughing heavily, painfully, as he pointed to the glassed-in anchorage chart.
    â€˜If you’re thinking of depth-charging our stern off in these shallow waters—’
    â€˜No, sir. Doubt whether we could get a shallow enough setting anyway. My idea—Ralston’s to be correct—is that we take out the motor-boat and a few 25-lb. scuttling charges, 18-second fuses and chemical igniters. Not much of a kick from these, I know, but a miniature sub ain’t likely to have helluva—er—very thick hulls. And if the crews are sitting on top of the ruddy things instead of inside— well, it’s curtains for sure. It’ll kipper ‘em.’
    Vallery smiled.
    â€˜Not bad at all, Marshall. I think you’ve got the answer there. What do you think, sir?’
    â€˜Worth trying anyway,’ Tyndall agreed. ‘Better than waiting around like a sitting duck.’
    â€˜Go ahead then, Torps.’ Vallery looked at him quizzically. ‘Who are your explosives experts?’
    â€˜I figured on taking Ralston—’
    â€˜Just what I thought. You’re taking nobody, laddie,’ said Vallery firmly. ‘Can’t afford to lose my torpedo officer.’
    Marshall looked pained, then shrugged resignedly.
    â€˜The chief TGM and Ralston—he’s the senior LTO. Good men both.’
    â€˜Right. Bentley—detail a man to accompany them in the boat. We’ll signal Asdic bearings from here. Have him take a portable Aldis with him.’ He dropped his voice. ‘Marshall?’
    â€˜Sir?’
    â€˜Ralston’s young brother died in hospital this afternoon.’ He looked across at the Leading Torpedo Operator, a tall, blond, unsmiling figure dressed in faded blue overalls beneath his duffel. ‘Does he know yet?’
    The Torpedo Officer stared at Vallery, then looked round slowly at the LTO. He swore, softly, bitterly, fluently.
    â€˜Marshall!’ Vallery’s voice was sharp, imperative, but Marshall ignored him, his face a mask, oblivious alike to the reprimand in the Captain’s voice and the lashing bite of the sleet.
    â€˜No, sir,’ he stated at length, ‘he doesn’t know. But he did receive some news this morning. Croydon was pasted last week. His mother and three sisters live there—lived there. It was a land-mine, sir— there was nothing left.’ He turned abruptly and left the bridge.
    Fifteen minutes later it was all over. The starboard whaler and the motor-boat on the port side hit the water with the Ulysses still moving up to the mooring. The whaler, buoy-jumper aboard, made for the buoy, while the motor-boat slid off at a tangent.
    Four hundred yards away from the ship, in obedience to the flickering instructions from the bridge, Ralston fished out a pair of pliers from his overalls and crimped the chemical fuse. The Gunner’s Mate stared fixedly at his stop-watch. On the count of twelve the scuttling charge went over the side.
    Three more, at different settings, followed it in close succession, while the motor-boat cruised in a tight circle. The first three explosions lifted the stern and jarred the entire length of the boat, viciously—and that was all. But with the fourth, a great gout of air came gushing to the surface, followed by a long stream of viscous bubbles. As the turbulence subsided, a thin slick of oil spread over a hundred square yards of sea . . .
    Men, fallen out from Action Stations, watched with expressionless faces as the motor-boat made it back to the Ulysses and hooked on to the falls just in time: the Hotchkiss steering-gear was badly twisted and