The Good Shepherd (20 page)

“Left standard rudder. Steer course zero-six-zero.”

It might certainly be called daylight now. At this time yesterday he had secured from general quarters. Today he had saved his men that fatigue. Was that only yesterday? Was it only last evening that those bullets had ripped through the pilot-house? It might well have been last year. And at this time yesterday he had been able to get below; he had eaten bacon and eggs and filled himself with coffee. He had said his prayers and he had had a shower. Unbelievable happiness. It reminded him that during the twenty-four hours since that time he had taken nothing except a sandwich and a half and a few cups of coffee. And he had been on his feet nearly all that time too; he was on them at this moment. He shuffled--he could not walk--to the stool and sat down again, the muscles of his legs throbbing painfully as they relaxed. Palate and throat were dry; he felt nauseated and hungry at the same time. He watched
Viktor
moving in; he listened to the reports from the talker.

“Permission to light the smoking lamp, sir?” asked Harbutt.

Krause’s mind struggled out of his concentration like a man with his feet embedded in a bog.

“Permission granted. Meet her, Quartermaster! Steady as you go.”

“Now hear this, hear this,” began the loudspeaker, broadcasting the permission he had just granted. Harbutt had a cigarette in his mouth and was filling his lungs with smoke, breathing deeply as if he were inhaling the air of Paradise. And all over the ship, Krause knew, the men whose duty kept them on deck were happily lighting cigarettes and breathing them in; through the night no one had been able to smoke whose post of duty was such that match or glowing cigarette could be seen by an enemy. Whiffs of cigarette smoke drifted past his nostrils, wafting with them a momentary memory again of Evelyn. She had smoked--she had been a little puzzled, almost amused, by the fact that her husband did not do so. Coming back from duty to the little house at Coronado he had always been conscious, on first entering the door, of the faint aroma of cigarette smoke combined with the tiniest hint of the perfume Evelyn used.

“Sonar reports contact bearing zero-six-four, range eleven hundred yards.”

The U-boat captain had outwitted him again, turning to starboard when he planned to head him off on a turn to port. It would call for a long circle to get at him again. He gave a careful order to the quartermaster and conveyed the information to
Viktor.

“Messenger! Ask the signal-bridge if they have Com-convoy in sight yet.”

Innumerable things to do even while he was wheeling about trying to kill a U-boat which would kill him at the first opportunity. Another turn;
Viktor
had been unable to come round sharply enough to depth-charge the U-boat; it might be possible for
Keeling
unless the U-boat captain did the right thing at the right time--as he had done repeatedly before.

“You timing that, Mr Pond?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Contact bearing zero-five-four, range eight hundred yards.”

Missed again; the U-boat’s smaller turning circle had saved her. Ten degrees on
Keeling’s
bow meant the U-boat was magically safe from her with both vessels turning as hard as they could.

“Eagle! This is George. Ten degrees on my port bow, range eight hundred yards, turning fast.”

“Our asdic’s got her on an indefinite range. We’ll come in on her, sir.”

“Very well. I’ll come round to starboard. Over. Quartermaster! Right standard rudder. Steer course zero-nine-five.”

“Right standard rudder. Steer course zero-nine-five, sir.”

The messenger was hovering beside him. “Signal-bridge reports Comconvoy in sight, sir. Message just coming in. Long message, sir.”

“Very well.”

And here was pink-faced Dawson, the communications officer, freshly shaved and spruce, with his clip-board of messages.

“Anything important, Mr. Dawson?”

“Nothing special, sir.” Thank God for that. “Except the two weather forecasts, sir.”

More freezing weather? Snowstorms? Gales?

“What do they say?”

“It’s going to moderate, sir. By twenty hundred wind south to south-west, force three.” “Thank you, Mr. Dawson.”

As Krause turned to the T.B.S. the fleeting thought passed through his mind that Dawson now would be going down to the wardroom and would have breakfast. Ham and eggs, probably, and buck-wheat cakes, a stack swimming in syrup. And coffee, gallons of coffee.

“She’s doubled round the other way, sir,” said the T.B.S. “We’re turning to port, course oh-six-oh, sir.”

“Very well. Keep after her. I’ll come round on to your starboard quarter. Over. Right standard rudder. Steer course one-two-five.”

“Right standard rudder. Steer course one-two-five, sir. Steady on course one-two-five.”

“Very well.”

The ranges and bearings reported by the talker were being noted by his mind as they came in. For the moment
Keeling
was not the active pursuer;
Viktor
had taken over that role and he was jockeying
Keeling
into position to charge in again if
Viktor
were balked. In this comparatively passive role--although they were likely to exchange at any moment--he had more leisure than when hot on the U-boat’s heels. More leisure, even though that was not a great deal, but time at least to take the signal-pad from the waiting messenger from the signal-bridge. Even time to feel, before his eyes focused on it, a feeling of sick apprehension in his stomach while he prepared to read.

COMCONVOY TO COMESCORT. KNOWN LOSSES DURING NIGHT . . .

Four names staring at him in the signalman’s ill-formed print; he went on to read that the convoy was straggling badly and that the list might not be complete.
Cadena
had saved some lives. Comconvoy went on to submit that it was necessary to cover the rear of the convoy in consequence of straggling.

CHANCE OF PICKING UP SURVIVORS.

“Eagle to George! Eagle to George! She’s still going on round. You’ll be crossing her bows, sir.”

“Very well. I’ll attack.”

Krause waited for a range and bearing. He did trigonometry in his head and thought about the U-boat skipper.

“I’ll come in on course one-two-zero. Over. Left smartly to course one-two-zero.”

But the next bearing told him that the submarine was turning back in the opposite direction.

“Right rudder--handsomely.”

He had been going to give a course when inspiration came to him, and then inspiration was confirmed by the next bearing that came in.

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

“Sonar reports contact dead ahead close range.”

Inspiration and prompt action had brought its reward; he had this elusive fellow right under his bows. It had been not a feint but a double feint and he was lunging past the disengaged foil.

“Mr Pond!”

“Standing by, sir.”

“Sonar reports no contact, sir.”

“Fire one! “ said Pond. “Fire two! “

Down went the depth-charges, and the first deep rumble and lofty pillar of water marked the descent of the first. Sonar, accurate and sensitive though it was, had many serious defects. It could make not even a rough estimate of the depth of the pursued submarine, it gave no results at a closer range than three hundred yards, it could only be used at speeds of twelve knots or less, and it was deafened for several minutes by depth-charge explosions. A destroyer captain was under the same handicap as a duck hunter with a beautiful hard-hitting gun would be with weights on his wrists to slow down his swing, with no power of estimating the height of the flying duck, and as if he had to shut his eyes two seconds before he pulled the trigger and keep them shut for half a minute afterwards.

“Right standard rudder. Steer course two-one-zero.”

The deficiencies of sonar should be made good one way or another; improvements in design might make it more robust; it should not be difficult to devise a gun or a sling that would throw a depth-charge a quarter of a mile ahead --but then the depth-charge would go off just as the destroyer was over it and it would blow the bottom out of her.

“Steady on course two-one-zero.”

“Very well.”

These thunderous explosions, those volcanoes of water, had brought no results. Not one of the four depth-charges in that pattern had burst within the necessary thirty yards of the hidden target.
Viktor
was coming round to take up the attack, and the messenger from the signal-bridge was still at his elbow. Krause had a brief interval available in which to divert his weary mind from the problem of fighting an individual U-boat to a consideration of the welfare of the convoy as a whole; he could re-read that horrible message. A chance of picking up survivors; a chance--the torpedoings had been some hours ago and they would be many miles behind. If they were on life-rafts they would be dead by now in this tossing icy sea. If they were in boats --no, it would take even a destroyer all day to go back, search for them, and rejoin the convoy.

“Eagle to George. We’ve got her ten degrees on our starboard bow, sir.”

“Very well. Come on round after her.”

Cover the rear of the convoy? He wished he had a ship to spare to do that. Four names on that list of the lost; that made six ships out of the convoy which had been sunk during this twenty-four-hour battle. Dead men by the hundred. And of the enemy one probable sinking and one faintly possible. Would Washington think that was a profitable exchange in this bloody game of beggar-your-neighbour? Would London? Would Doenitz, in his case-mated advance headquarters at Lorient? No matter what anyone thought, was it basically profitable? And no matter even then; he had his duty to do, whether it was a losing phase of the war or a winning one. He could only go on, fight on to the end of his strength.

“Eagle to George. Attacking now.”

Range and bearing from the talker, noted automatically by the weary mind. Lieutenant Fippler the gunner officer, awaiting his attention--what could he want?
Viktor’s
first depth-charge was exploding.

“Come right handsomely. Meet her! Steady!”

Keeling’s
bows were pointed at the fringe of the area of tortured water, to lose no time in making the next attack if one were possible. And still he held the message-pad in his hand, and still the wind blew--no sign of moderating as yet--and still
Keeling
rose and plunged and corkscrewed over the heaving sea. He handed back the message-pad.

“Very well,” he said. There was nothing else to say in that respect. He was doing all he could. This is the day which the Lord hath made.

“Stand by, Mr Pond!”

“Aye aye, sir.”

The next bearing showed that the U-boat had turned aside, as was to be expected.

“Right standard rudder. Steer course--three-two-zero.”

Krause was just conscious of that hesitation in his order, and was indignant with himself as far as there was time to be. He had had to glance at the repeater before giving that course; with these distractions he had not been able to carry the tactical situation in his head.

“Sonar reports no contact, sir.”

“Very well.”

“Fire one! “ said Pond.

Krause turned to Fippler now. Those seconds while the pattern was being fired, while the depth-charges tumbled down through the dark water, were for Krause moments of freedom, when he could turn his mind to other matters. He need not grow expectant or hopeful about the result of the attack until the depth-charges had had time to burst and the sub had had time to give evidence of damage--if she were damaged.

“Well, Mr Fippler?”

He raised his hand in reply to Fippler’s salute. Fippler was being very formal; not a good sign.

“If you please, cap’n, I have to report about the consumption of depth-charges.”

Depth-charges were exploding behind them at this moment.

“Well?”

“Thirty-four expended, sir. This pattern makes thirty-eight.”

In the last twenty-four hours
Keeling
had flung more than seven tons of high explosive over the side. “Well?”

“We’ve only six left, sir. That’s all. I got the extra ones up that we had up our sleeve from the crew’s living quarters last watch.”

“I see.”

One more burden on his shoulders. A destroyer without depth-charges might be as wise as a serpent, but would be as harmless as a dove. But the present pattern was completed. He had to handle his ship.

“Right standard rudder. Steer course zero-five-zero.”

A minute more--one only--to decide upon his orders. Yesterday, before he became an experienced fighting man, these seconds would be spent in eager watching, at a time when nothing could really be expected for quite an interval, a whole minute, perhaps.

“Thank you, Mr Fippler. We must leave off firing patterns, then.”

“That’s what I was going to suggest, sir.”

Six depth-charges left? One day’s fighting had consumed nearly all the supply. Not much more fighting would exhaust it altogether. Yet the mathematicians had calculated the odds; the size of the area searched by a pattern varied with the square of the number of depth-charges. Halve the pattern and the chances of a hit were only a quarter of the previous chance. Divide it by three and the chances were only one-ninth. Only one-ninth. Yet on the other hand a single depth-charge bursting within the hearing of a U-boat had an important moral effect, would deter it, would induce it to take evasive action, at least for a time.

There had been time enough now for the last pattern to have taken effect, if it had. Krause looked back over the starboard quarter, at the area where the foam of explosions was dying away. There was nothing but foam to be seen there.
Viktor
was hovering, waiting to pick up the contact.

Regarding the question of future patterns. To-morrow morning he would just be within the radius of air cover. All the classified pamphlets he had read, all the lectures he had heard at Casco Bay, had emphasized the reluctance of U-boats to engage under the menace of air attack. With the weather moderating he might expect some air cover. Moreover, it was notorious that recently U-boats had refrained from attacking convoys in the eastern quarter of the Atlantic. Those secret charts of sinkings, month by month, that he had seen, all demonstrated this fact.