The Good Shepherd (16 page)

“Zero-eight-zero, sir.”

“Right full rudder. Steer course one-seven-zero. Turn towards the target another time, Mr Carling.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

Carling had wasted all that time keeping
Keeling
on a course almost certainly divergent from the sub’s. He should never have gone below leaving Carling with the conn.

“Steady on course one-seven-zero.” “Very well.”

“Pip bearing two-one-eight--two-one-seven. Range seven-eight-double oh.”

Closing fast, but the bearing changing. The U-boat was crossing
Keeling’s
bows heading once more to overtake the convoy, as he had expected. She must have altered course about twelve points to starboard after dropping the
pillenwerfer
and have surfaced again when she thought all was clear. She was four miles away. At their last meeting he had been on the sub’s starboard bow. A slight alteration of course and he could intercept her again in the same fashion on her port bow. But she had sighted him in time to submerge in safety. It might be better to sneak up from behind her. She might not maintain as efficient a look-out aft as ahead. Dangerous to allow her to get between him and the convoy, but it might bring results. She was four miles away at present.

“Pip bearing two-one-six. Range seven-five-double oh.”

Krause shut his eyes to consider a problem of trigonometry. Even in the dark that was a help to concentration. He listened to the next bearing and range being called. Down below they would work out the problem for him, but only if he could explain exactly what was in his mind. That would take time, and he still might be misunderstood. With the next bearing and range his mind was made up. He was allowing her to get just a little too far ahead of the safety area. He opened his eyes and gave the order.

“Left smartly to course one-six-five.”

That was McAlister at the wheel--his trick had come round again. It was satisfactory that he had a reliable helmsman even if he had an O.O.D. who was doubtful.

“I’m going to try to sneak up behind her, Mr Carling,” he said.

“Y-yes, sir.”

It was a fact, strange but true, that Carling was not quite clear about the tactical situation, although there was nothing complex about it; it should be perfectly clear to anyone who had been on the bridge for the last half-hour. It could not be the complexity; Krause began to realize that Carling’s vagueness was the result of nerves. He was too excited, or too agitated, or--possibly--too frightened to think clearly. Men of that sort existed, Krause knew. He remembered his own buck-fever of the morning. His own hand had trembled with excitement, and more than once he had been guilty of sins of omission.

Carling might grow hardened; but that desire to sound general quarters this morning--perhaps that might have been evidence of anxiety on Carling’s part to rid himself of the responsibility of being officer of the deck. But there was no more time to waste on Carling. Luckily his mind had been recording the reported range and bearings as they came in.

“Target’s course and speed?” he asked down the voice-tube.

“Course zero-eight-five, speed eleven knots. That’s only approximate, sir.”

Approximate or not, it agreed with his own estimate.

“Where do I cross her wake on this course?”

“A mile astern of her. More. Less than two miles, sir.”

“Very well.”

That was what he was aiming at. The range was steadily closing although the bearing was not constant. Now, once more, gun or depth-charge? Gun flashes were blinding. Should he stake his vision at the crucial moment against the chances of a hit? At close range? But with a high sea running and with the range changing as rapidly as he could manage it? He decided against the gun.

“Torpedo officer on duty.”

“Yes, sir.”

Young Sand, J. G. He was having woman trouble at home, but he was a steady enough officer to all appearances.

“Stand by to fire a close pattern. We’ll be going at high speed over the target, so make it real close. And a shallow setting.”

“Close pattern. Shallow setting. Aye aye, sir.” In giving that last order he was taking a further chance. It did not take a sub long to go deep, and a sub surprised on the surface would almost certainly go deep as East as she could be driven down. He was counting on her not having time to dive far. With a deep setting the charges would explode harmlessly far below her, if his plan was successful. He wanted them to burst close alongside her.

He spoke into the telephone.

“Engineer officer on duty.”

It was Ipsen who answered. So he was not resting.

“Captain. Stand by to give us twenty-four knots as soon as you get the signal, Chief.”

“Twenty-four knots. Aye aye, sir. Sea’s running pretty high, sir.”

“Yes. It’ll only be for two or three minutes. Just time to work her up, and then we’ll come down to standard again.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

Now for the look-outs. He turned to the talker.

“Captain to look-outs. ‘I hope to sight a sub on the surface nearly dead ahead soon after our next turn. Keep on your toes.’ “

The talker repeated the message with Krause listening.

“Look-outs answer ‘aye aye, sir.’ “

“Sonar on stand-by.”

There was always a chance that the U-boat might pick up
Keeling’s
sonar impulses. For the next minute or two
Keeling
would be unguarded; that was a risk to be taken, but it would not be for long. Soon the increased speed would both protect her and render the sonar ineffective. The silence that fell as soon as the pinging stopped was uncanny.

“Target bearing zero-eight-seven. Range two-four-double oh.”

“Left full rudder. Steer course zero-eight-five.”

That would allow for the advance during the turn. “Target bearing zero-eight-five. Range two-five-double oh.”

Dead ahead.

“All engines ahead flank speed. Make turns for twenty-four knots.”

“All engines ahead flank speed. Engine-room answers twenty-four knots, sir.”

“Very well.”

This was the moment. A vast increase in vibration as
Keeling
began to pick up speed. He went out on to the starboard wing of the bridge into the howling darkness. He was overtaking the sub at thirteen knots. Four or five minutes before he would sight her. Then it would be say two and a half minutes before he was on top of her. Ample time for a sub in diving trim to submerge. But he hoped it would be less than that as he might not be detected immediately, overtaking from right aft. There would not be much time for the sub to go deep or far.

“Target bearing zero-eight-five. Range two-three-double oh. Two-two-double oh.”

Keeling
was picking up speed. He heard the crash, and felt the shudder, as she hit a sea with her port bow. Spray flew at him viciously. She leaped frantically. If the props came out of water he might strip a turbine.

“Range two thousand. One-nine-double oh.”

He could not judge of the visibility; it was only a guess that it was half a mile.

“One-eight-double oh. One-seven-double oh.”

He gulped. No; it was only a wave top, not the thing he was looking for. With his feet slipping on the treacherous deck, and the grip of his gloved hands insecure on the icy rail, he made himself lean forward with his arms over the pelorus, locking it in his armpits, even though he wanted instinctively to stand upright as if to extend his limited horizon.

“One-one-double oh. One thousand.”

Keeling
lurched wildly; he could hear the sea boiling over the main deck below.

“Sub ahead! Zero-zero-five! Zero-zero-five!”

He saw it on a wave-top, something solid in the inky night.

“Right rudder! Meet her!” He saw it again.

“Left rudder! Meet her! Steady as you go! “

The bow was pointing right at it as
Keeling
hurtled down a wave-face and it rose on another ahead. He saw it again. Four hundred yards at four hundred yards a minute. Gone? He could not be sure at first. Sand was beside him; twice Sand slipped on the heaving deck but he was holding on with his arm locked round a stanchion.

“Fire one! Fire two! ‘K’ guns, fire!”

“All engines ahead standard speed. Right standard rudder.”

Astern the depth-charges were exploding in the tossing black sea like lightning in a thunder cloud.

“Engine-room answers ‘All engines ahead standard speed,’ sir.”

“Very well. Quartermaster, call out your heading.”

“Passing one-one-zero. Passing one-two-zero. Passing one-three-zero.”

Keeling,
leaning over to the helm, was rolling confusedly with the changing course and the dwindling speed.

“Passing one-six-zero. Passing one-seven-zero.”

“Deep setting, Mr Sand. Wide pattern.”

“Deep setting, wide pattern. Aye aye, sir.”

“Standby.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

“Passing two-one-zero. Passing two-two-zero.”

Keeling
was turning to complete the circle, to depth-charge the strip next to the one she had already attacked.

“Resume sonar search.”

“Passing one-four-zero. Passing one-five-zero.”

“Sonar reports indications confused, sir.”

“Very well.”

The speed was probably still too high in any case, and there was
Keeling’s
eddying wake to be considered, and the circling whirlpools of the depth-charges.

“Passing one-eight-zero. Passing one-nine-zero.”

She had the sea on her quarter now, and heaved up her stern with a sickly motion, corkscrewing over a sea.

“Passing two-zero-zero. Passing two-one-zero.”

Was anything happening out there in the black night? A shattered U-boat breaking surface? Or “crunching” far below it? Despairing survivors struggling in the water? All perfectly possible but not likely.

“Passing two-two-zero.”

“Sonar reports indications still confused, sir.”

“Very well.”

“Passing two-three-zero.”

Krause was carrying in his mind the diagram of
Keeling’s
turning circle; he planned to parallel his former course and bomb the strip next to it; there was no knowing, and almost no guessing, what the U-boat’s reaction had been after she had dived and had been depth-charged; she could have turned in any direction and she could have gone to any depth within her limit--but the chances were she had dived as deep as she would dare.

“Standing by for deep pattern, sir.”

“Very well. Steady upon course two-six-seven.”

“Course two-six-seven, sir.”

“Very well.”

There was nothing whatever to be seen round about.

“Steady on course two-six-seven, sir.”

“Very well.”

Wait for it. They that wait upon the Lord shall renew their strength.

“Sonar reports indications confused.”

“Very well.”

Hopeless perhaps to expect water and sonar to get back to normal as quickly as
Keeling
could complete the circle. Now must be the time.

“Now, Mr Sand.”

“Fire one!“ said Sand. “Fire two!“

Thunder and lightning again under water astern. White pillars of water just visible rising in their wake. Wait one minute after the last explosion.

“Left standard rudder. Steer course zero-eight-seven.”

Back again for another parallel sweep. “Deep pattern again, Mr Sand.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

“Sonar reports indications confused.”

“Very well.”

“Steady on course eight-seven, sir.”

“Very well. Mr Sand, let ‘em have it.”

Another ellipse of explosions, beside the previous ones. Krause had gone through the course at the anti-submarine school at Casco Bay; he had read, with painful concentration, innumerable classified pamphlets digesting all the British experience acquired in two and a half years of war against submarines. Mathematicians had devoted their talents and their ingenuity to working out the odds for and against scoring a hit on a submerged U-boat. The most sensitive instruments had been devised, and the most powerful weapons developed. But no one had thought of a way yet to reach a U-boat captain’s mind, of making a certainty out of the simple guess as to whether he would turn to starboard or port, go deep or stay shallow. And there was no machinery to supply a destroyer captain with patience and pertinacity and judgment.

“Right standard rudder. Steer course two-six-seven. One more deep pattern, Mr Sand.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

“Steady on course two-six-seven, sir.”

“Very well, Mr Sand!“

“Fire one,” said Sand.

With the firing of this pattern it remained to conduct a final sweep. Helm orders to carry
Keeling
back diagonally over the bombed area, out to the northward, back to the eastward, round again to the south-westward, with the sonar’s impulses seeking out through the depths in an effort to make contact again. And nothing to report-- negative, negative, the ship wheeling hither and thither in the darkness, apparently aimlessly now in comparison with her previous orderly runs.

“Sir! “ Sand was on the wing of the bridge with him, looking out into the darkness, with the wind blowing lustily about them, piercing cold. “Sir--do you smell anything?”

“Smell?” said Krause.

“Yes, sir.”

Krause sniffed reflectively, sniffed again, pulling cold air into his nose from the hurtling wind. Not easy in those conditions to be sure of smelling anything, especially as, now that he was being really searching about it, he could not help being conscious of the raw onion he had eaten last watch. But it could not be that that Sand was referring to.

“It’s gone now, sir,” said Sand. “No. There it is again. May I ask Mr Carling, sir?”

“If you like.”

“Mr Carling, can you smell anything?” Carling came out and sniffed beside them.

“Oil?” he said, tentatively.

“That’s what I thought,” said Sand. “Don’t you smell it, sir?”

Oil! That would be an indication that the sub had at least been hard hit. And if there were much of it, a great lake of oil welling up from below and spreading over a mile of sea, it would be practically proof of destruction. Krause sniffed again. He could not be sure--or more definitely he was nearly sure he could smell nothing.