The Good Shepherd (13 page)

“Steady on course-one-zero-zero,” said the quartermaster.

The time it had taken
Keeling
to make the turn was the measure of the time Krause’s instincts and training had taken to leap to the conclusion a logical speech would have consumed minutes over.

“Very well.”

“Captain, sir,” said Charlie up the voice-tube. “Yes?”

“Lieutenant Rudel is here. Can he speak to you ?”

“Very well.”

“Captain,” said Rudel’s voice, “I can try to line up this radar better. I don’t believe I can improve on it much, though. If at all, sir.”

“Can’t you do better than that?” snapped Krause.

“I made a written report on it four days ago, sir,” replied Rudel.

“So you did,” admitted Krause.

“I’d have to shut it down to work on it, sir.”

“How long for?”

“Two hours perhaps, sir. And I don’t guarantee results even then, sir, as I said.”

“Very well, Mr Rudel. Leave it as it is.”

Better a radar out of kilter than no radar at all. The night cometh when no man can work. There was much to do still.

The need to go down to the head was overpowering, and this seemed a favourable opportunity, the first since he had been called from his cabin. No; there was one other thing to do first. He was leaving
Cadena
to make her way back into the convoy by herself. She must not think she was being deserted; she did not have his knowledge of the tactical situation and must be reassured.

“Messenger! Write this. Comescort to
Cadena.
‘Sub. now seven miles astern. Good-bye and good luck.’ Take that to the signal-bridge, Mr Nystrom, take the conn.”

He dashed down below, even in his present need still revolving that message in his mind. It was a grim situation when a message to the effect that a hostile submarine was seven miles away was meant to be heartening. But
Cadena
might have the sense to understand all that he implied. She would undoubtedly leave off zigzagging and sprint for the convoy for all she was worth.

“Signal bridge reports
Cadena
acknowledges message, sir,” said the messenger in greeting to him as he emerged on the bridge again.

“Very well.”

There were his additional clothes, lying on the radiator. It was stimulating even to see them. He took off his sheepskin coat--it was so long ago since he had unbuttoned the first button with this in mind--and his uniform coat. The act of picking up his sweater called his attention to the fact that he was still wearing his helmet. All the other men in the ship had discarded theirs the moment he had secured from battle stations, several hours back. But he himself had not had one single second in which to do the same. He had been running around wearing it all this time, like a kid in his big brother’s uniform.

“Hang this up,” he snapped at the messenger, tearing the thing off and handing it over.

But it was instantly mollifying to put that sweater on over his shirt. The sweater was hot from the radiator, wonderful. So was the scarf that he wound round his neck. He put his uniform coat on over this miraculous warmth. The hood was warm too, embosoming his freezing head and ears. He made fast the clip under his chin with a sense of gratitude to a generous world. Then the sheepskin coat again. He pressed his icy hands on the radiator for as long as he could bear it--not long--and then drew on the gloriously warm fur gloves. It was fantastic how two minutes could alter one’s whole outlook for the better-- or for the worse.

Wednesday. Dog Watches
--
1600-2000

Nystrom was standing beside him awaiting his attention.

“Report having been relieved, sir,” he said, saluting. “Course one-zero-zero. Standard speed twelve knots. We are making twelve knots, sir.”

“Very well.”

So it was four o’clock. Past four, and the watch had been relieved. The men coming off duty had been at their stations since the time when he had been foolish enough to sound general quarters. But now they could relax and rest, and he could build up the battle reserve he had so recklessly drawn upon. There was a long period of strain ahead and he must not draw upon that reserve except in the most desperate crisis. He must fight, as he had fought just now, in Condition Two; half the ship would be off duty then, able to take what rest they could with guns firing and depth-charges exploding. Plenty of them would sleep through it, so his extensive experience of the American sailor told him.

Charlie Cole, as he expected, was here on the bridge when the watch was relieved.

“Be sure the third and fourth sections get hot food, Commander.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

There was approval in the executive officer’s eye at the sight of his captain at least hooded and gauntleted and wrapped up, but there was no leisure for the exchange of further words, not with
Keeling
heading back towards action again. Yes, and they were not doing as well as they should. Another lapse. When they had turned away from the submarine he had forgotten, clean forgotten, to order an increase in speed. Even the “twelve knots” in

Nystrom’s report had not reminded him. He had wasted perhaps as much as five minutes in transferring
Keeling
from one scene of action to the other.

Harbutt was the officer of the deck, the youngest of all the watch-standing officers, fresh-faced and pink-complexioned. His childlike eyes looked innocently out from his hood like a baby’s. He hardly looked old enough to entrust with a row-boat on the lake in Central Park.

“Mr Harbutt!”

“Sir!”

“Increase speed. Try her with twenty-four knots.”

“Twenty-four knots. Aye aye, sir.”

Doubling the speed meant multiplying by four the rate at which they were overtaking the convoy. He could not judge yet whether their present course would take them clear of the right flank.

“Twenty-four knots by pit, sir.”

“Very well.”

The increase in speed was obvious in the way
Keeling
was meeting the seas. Like the rushing of mighty waters. From within the pilot-house he could feel and hear, rather than see, how she was taking it. Well enough.

“Messenger!”

“Yes, sir.”

“Bring me a cup of coffee. A pot of coffee. A big pot of coffee. And a sandwich. Tell the mess-boy I want one of my specials.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

There was just light enough to see the rearmost ships of the convoy, still plodding along. Now the T.B.S. calling him again. He had to unclip the hood and let it dangle round his face to get the ear-phone to his ear.

“Dicky to George! Dicky to George! “

“George to Dicky. Go ahead.”

“Asdic contact, sir. Distant contact, on our port bow.”

“Go after it then. I’m coming up behind you.”

“Eagle to George. Shall I join in, sir?”

Viktor
and
Dodge
were three miles apart with the contact between them, nearer
Dodge
than
Viktor.
It would open a gap to call
Viktor
over. But the U-boat was only three miles ahead of the convoy. She only had to keep alive for twenty minutes to be in among it. If only he was up ahead where he could bring the weight of
Keeling
to bear!

“Very well, Eagle. Carry on. Good luck to you.” He was in a fever of impatience.

“Mr Harbutt, try her with another couple of knots. See if she can take it.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

They were close under the quarter of the last ship of the starboard column now, and overtaking her fast. Krause stepped out on to the port wing of the bridge to look at the convoy.
Keeling
took a deep roll as he did so, and his feet shot from under him. He saved himself from a bad fall by grabbing the rail, tried to stand, and lost his footing again as
Keeling
rolled the other way. This time his gloved hands almost lost their grip of the rail, and it was only by a convulsive effort that he caught himself again. The deck was glazed with ice as well as the rail. It called for the most elaborate precaution to stand at all. A wave smashed over
Keeling’s
port bow, clear over, rolling aft to burst in a leaping wall of water against the five-inch gun houses, a solid lump flying aft to hit him in the face as he stood.
Keeling
wallowed deeply and flung herself up the face of the next sea with a lunatic’s strength. By the time Krause had recovered his balance and his breath they had passed the rearmost ship and were closing up on the next ahead. It was so dark now that the ship farther on still, a bare half-mile from where he stood, was only visible as a thickening in the gloom. And it would soon be much darker than that.
Keeling
took another green wave on her bow, shuddering under the blow. Krause half slid, half walked back into the pilot-house.

“Slow her a bit, Mr Harbutt. She won’t take it.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

There was just light enough to see the Filipino mess-boy in his white coat. In his hands was a tray covered with a white napkin, as he had been taught to serve meals, and as he always would serve them, with U-boats on the horizon or not. He had obviously just tried to put the tray down on the pilot-house chart-table, and had as obviously been shooed away by the indignant quartermaster in jealous charge of the chart and instruments there. Now he stood unhappily holding it, surging with the heel of the ship--Krause knew exactly how, under the napkin, the cream--they still brought him up cream although they ought by now to know he never used it--and coffee were slopped over the tray-cloth. And worse might happen at any moment. The tray soared up and swooped down in the half-darkness as
Keeling
rose over a wave. Krause suddenly felt he could not bear the thought of that precious load falling to the deck. He grabbed at pot and cup, balanced himself, and poured the cup half-full. He balanced again, pot in one hand, cup in the other. In that second there was nothing in the whole world that he wanted as much as that coffee. His mouth was dry even though his face was still wet. He sipped thirstily at the scalding stuff, sipped again, and drained the cup. He could feel the comforting fire of it all the way down his throat. He smacked his lips like a savage, poured himself another half-cup, and, watching his moment, set the pot on the tray.

“Put that tray on the deck and don’t take your eye off it,” he said.

“Aye aye, sir.”

He drank again. It was only nine hours since he had breakfasted, but he did not think a man could possibly feel so thirsty or so hungry. The thought of pouring unlimited coffee into himself, and then of eating to ease his savage hunger filled him with exultation.

“Look-out reports gunfire on the port bow, sir,” said the talker.

Krause sprang to the T.B.S. He had been inattentive for three minutes. Eagle and Dicky were in rapid communication, the sentences snapping back and forth, straining at the leash of the trained manner; the English nonchalance was bursting at the seams.

“Bearing two-seven-oh from me.”

“I’ve got him on the screen.”

“I’m firing star-shell. Stand by.”

Gunfire. Star-shell. That meant a surfaced U-boat, And bearing two-seven-oh. That meant the U-boat was between the screen and the convoy, dashing in to charge. The darkness forward of the port beam was suddenly changed as the star-shell burst high in the sky, the brilliant white light dangling from its parachute. Wave tops caught the light. Close on the port beam the leading ship of the starboard column of the convoy was silhouetted against it.
Keeling
was back in the battle again.

“George to Dicky! George to Dicky! I’m turning across the convoy’s bows. Look out for me.”

“Wilco.”

“I’ll take her, Mr Harbutt.”

“Ave aye, sir.”

“Left full rudder. Meet her. Steady as you go.”

“Steady on course - - “

Krause did not trouble to listen to the figure given. He was content to be able to see that
Keeling
was shaving as near as he dared across the shadowy bows of the advancing convoy. The star-shell was extinguished. Reduce speed and start pinging? No time to spare for that; no need, with a sub on the surface. He rang the voice-tube bell, but at the same moment action began.

“Sub. Bearing broad on starboard bow. Range three-five-double oh.”

“Captain to gunnery control. ‘Do not fire without orders.’ “

Then down the voice-tube.

“See that we keep just clear of the convoy.”

He went to the T.B.S., and almost fell over the Filipino mess-boy still standing guard over the tray.

“Get below!”

Into the T.B.S.

“George to Dicky. George to Dicky. Star-shell again.”

Out on the starboard wing of the bridge he braced himself against the treacherous ice that glazed everything.

“Sub. bearing zero-four-two. Range three-two-double oh.”

Bearing changing as well as range. Somewhere in the darkness just ahead the U-boat was crossing
Keeling’s
bows, heading for the convoy.
Keeling
dipped and plunged in the high sea. Then it came, the streak of gold against the dark sky, and the miracle of light hanging in the heavens, lighting the sea, the wave tops, the ships; dazzling white, as bright as moonlight. And there, on
Keeling
’s starboard bow, not two miles ahead, the slinking grey shape hurrying over the silvered water, the grey wolf running at full stretch for the flock.

“Gunnery control. ‘Open fire!’ “

It would be a surprise for the U-boat; until the guns should open she would have no idea of the presence of the destroyer flying along across the convoy’s bows to intercept her. The guns went off with a blinding flash and a shattering crash. Krause clapped one gauntleted hand across his eyes while he kept his balance with the other on the slippery rail. Even though the range was so short it was rapidly changing; so was the bearing; and the sea was running high. But there was a chance that a hit might be scored. The burst of firing ended, and Krause looked again; he was one of the few men in the ship not blinded by the flashes. There was the grey shape; it was far nearer both to
Keeling
and to the convoy, and it was different-- there was a noticeable white bow wave in evidence. The U-boat had altered course directly for the convoy. The star-shell was still burning in the sky with hardly diminished light--the British certainly had the most efficient star-shell Krause had ever seen. Flash and crash again, blinding and shattering. The starboard side 40 mm were firing now as well, beating out a loud tonk-tonk-tonk against the frantic wang-o, wang-o, wang-o of the five-inch. Krause left his hand over his eyes and groped into the pilot-house.