HMS Ulysses vs. The Cruel Sea

When The Cruel Sea, written by Nicholas Monsarrat (1910–1979), appeared in 1951, it was greeted with immediate acclaim. Only six years had passed since the end of the Second World War, and readers recognised in Monsarrat’s novel a truthful, unvarnished account of the Battle of the Atlantic. It became a bestseller almost overnight, praised for its sober realism and its refusal to romanticise naval warfare.

By contrast, the early reception of Alistair MacLean’s debut HMS Ulysses (1955) was far more turbulent. One of the first reviews notoriously described it as "the worst insult to the Royal Navy ever published." That denunciation, rather than harming the book, only sharpened public curiosity. Within weeks, HMS Ulysses had surged to the top of the bestseller lists. And as more critics weighed in, a consensus emerged: despite their different styles, MacLean’s novel deserved to stand beside The Cruel Sea as one of the most harrowing depictions of the North Atlantic campaign.

What, then, had MacLean written to provoke such a scalding reaction? HMS Ulysses is not a tale of polished heroism but a relentless chronicle of stress, exhaustion, and the brutal Arctic environment. The crew of the fictional cruiser 'Ulysses' is pushed beyond human endurance. So far, in fact, that a mutiny erupted on their previous voyage. The Admiralty, portrayed as remote and insulated from the realities of sea duty, grants the ship and her men one final chance to redeem themselves: escort a convoy to Murmansk and, if necessary, act as bait to draw out the German battleship 'Tirpitz', then lurking in a Norwegian fjord. In MacLean’s narrative, the enemy is not only the Germans but the Arctic itself — a force as lethal and indifferent as any torpedo.

Monsarrat’s The Cruel Sea shares this refusal to divide the war into neat categories of good and evil. His focus is the corvette 'Compass Rose', a small, under‑equipped vessel tasked with protecting convoys in the freezing Atlantic. Like MacLean, Monsarrat emphasises the grinding hardship of escort duty: the cold that never lifts, the constant threat of U‑boats, the moral weight of command decisions that may save one ship only by sacrificing another. His characters are not idealised heroes but ordinary men trying to endure an extraordinary burden.

Both novels, in their different ways, strip away the mythology of naval warfare. They show the sea as a battlefield where courage is measured not in grand gestures but in the ability to keep going — hour after hour, watch after watch — in conditions that erode the body and the mind. They also share a historical authenticity: Monsarrat served in corvettes throughout the war, while MacLean drew heavily on his own experience as a Royal Navy rating on Arctic convoys.

So which is the better novel? That is a matter of personal taste. The Cruel Sea is quieter, more reflective, shaped by Monsarrat’s documentary realism. HMS Ulysses is fiercer, more operatic, driven by MacLean’s instinct for drama and pacing. But the two books have more in common than in conflict. Together they form a dual testament to a campaign that was both essential and appallingly costly. A chapter of the war that, despite its significance, is too often overshadowed by events on land.

If anything, reading them side by side reminds us how quickly collective memory fades, and how vital it is to preserve the stories of those sailors who fought not only the enemy but the sea itself.

First publication: 08 April 2023
Second (updated) publication: 21 June 2025