To Risks Unknown by Douglas Reeman Page A

himself to speak. He walked to the voice-pipes and felt his shoes slipping in the dead seaman’s blood. It was thick, like paint.
    â€˜Port twenty!’ He was sick and near to collapse and could not understand the empty calm of his own voice. ‘Midships. Steady.’
    Joicey was breathing heavily. His face must be right against the mouth of the voice-pipe so that he should not miss an order in the noise and roar of battle.
    â€˜Steer zero-one-zero.’ The compass dial was swimming in a mist. ‘Half ahead.’ He made himself look round. ‘Report damage and casualties.’
    He saw Griffin looking over the broken screen as the ship plunged back along her original course, brushing aside the smouldering flotsam and leaving the rest hidden in merciful darkness.
    Petty Officer Dunbar clattered up the bridge ladder and stared around as if surprised to find the bridge still standing. ‘Three men wounded, sir. One badly. ’E was aft on the quarterdeck and got a splinter in ’is thigh. Oh an’ a stoker broke ’is collarbone when ’e fell off a ladder in the boiler room.’ He saw the dead man beside the chart table and sucked his breath noisily. ‘Then there’s this one o’ course, sir.’ He sounded different. Relieved, exalted, sickened, it was impossible to say.
    Crespin took a handset from a messenger. ‘Captain speaking.’
    Magot’s voice seemed to come from miles away. ‘Nothin’ very bad down here, sir. Some leaks from that, er, explosion.’ He paused. ‘I thought we had been tinfished, sir.’
    Crespin dropped the handset. The stench of blood seemed to be all over him. ‘Get this man off the bridge.’ He saw Dunbar and Lennox the S.B.A. covering the dead seaman with an oilskin. He wanted to find compassion or disgust. But all he could think of was the unknown stoker who had broken his collarbone.
    â€˜Light in the water, sir! Two points off the port bow!’
    His legs moved automatically. ‘Slow ahead! Stand by with scrambling nets!’
    Somewhere, in another world it seemed, a single gun fired and a shell whimpered across the sea to explode with a muffled roar. Pantelleria’s coastal artillery had fired at last, but to no purpose.
    â€˜Stop engine.’ Crespin felt the side of the bridge pressing against his chest as he leaned out to watch the soldiers being pulled aboard. There were only two rafts and about half the men who had started out. He screwed up his eyes and tried to clear his brain. Less than four hours ago? It was a lifetime.
    Major Barnaby climbed heavily on to the bridge and glanced at the silent figures around him. ‘Lost fourteen chaps, including Mr. Muir. Several wounded, too.’ He sighed. ‘But still.’
    Scarlett asked harshly, ‘Did it go all right?’
    Barnaby seemed to come out of his daze. ‘Fair enough. We killed a few Jerries, I should think, and the rest are probably having a good drink before the last of it runs into the sea.’ Then he laughed. It was a toneless, empty sound.
    â€˜All clear aft, sir.’
    â€˜Very well.’ Crespin was still watching the soldier. ‘Full ahead. Starboard fifteen.’ He waited. ‘Steady. Steer three-three-zero.’
    Wemyss crossed to his side. ‘Sir, I think …’
    Crespin did not turn. ‘Keep your thoughts to yourself please. Work out the new course. We will change in thirty minutes.’
    When he did look again Wemyss had gone into the chart room and Scarlett and the soldier had disappeared.
    Somehow he managed to get into the chair and for several minutes sat staring at the water creaming away on either side of the stem. The raid had succeeded, and no doubt when daylight came Scarlett’s promised air cover would be there to see them safely back to base. Scarlett was efficient. Like Gleeson at Gibraltar who had said that results were more important than methods. Like