The Good Shepherd (4 page)

“Execute, sir,” reported Carling. “Very well.”

It was Carling’s duty to report that hauling down even though Krause was aware of it; it was the executive moment, the signal that the wheel was to begin. Krause heard Carling give the order for the new course, and he had to train round his binoculars as
Keeling
turned. The ship leading the starboard column six miles away lengthened as he presented her side to his gaze; the three “islands” of her superstructure differentiated themselves in his sight now that she was nearly broadside on to him. A heavy roll on the part of
Keeling
swept the-ship out of the field of his binoculars; he found himself looking at the heaving sea, and he had to retrain the glasses, balancing and swaying with the roll to keep the convoy under observation. There was confusion almost instantly. The convoy changed from an almost orderly checker-board of lines and columns into a muddle of ships dotted haphazard, ships shearing out of line, ships trying to regain station, columns doubling up with the tail crowding on the head. Krause tried to keep the whole convoy under observation, even though the farthest ships were hardly visible in the thick weather; a collision might call for instant action on his part. He could detect none, but there must be some tense moments in the heart of the convoy.

The seconds, the minutes, were passing. The front of the convoy was an indented line. To all appearances there were not the nine columns that there should have been, but ten, eleven, no, twelve. On the starboard quarter of the Commodore an intrusive ship appeared. Ships were straying, as was only to be expected, out beyond the starboard leader. If one single ship did not obey orders exactly, did not reduce speed at the correct moment, or turned too soon or too late, ten ships might be forced out of station, jostling each other. As Krause watched he saw one of the most distant ships turning until her stern was presented to him. Someone out there of necessity or from recklessness was turning in a full circle; squeezed out from his position he was about to try to nose his way into it again. And out there on that heaving expanse of water could be a U-boat, possibly one commanded by a cautious captain, hanging on the outskirts of the convoy. An outlying ship like that would be a choice victim, to be torpedoed without any chance of one of the escort running down to the attack at all. Be sober, be vigilant, because your adversary the Devil as a roaring lion walketh about seeking whom he may devour.

There were flag-hoists ascending the Commodore’s halyards, presumably orders designed to straighten out the confusion. Inexperienced men would be trying to read them, through ancient telescopes, and with their ships heaving and swaying under their feet. Krause swung round to examine the port side column over
Keeling’s
quarter. That was in the least disorder, as might be expected; Krause looked beyond them. In the haze on the far horizon he could see a dot with a line above it. That was
Viktor,
coming up at her best speed to resume her station.
James,
with her poor sixteen knots, must be far astern of her.

As Krause turned back to re-examine the convoy a bright flash of light caught his eye, a series of flashes, from the Commodore. She was sending a searchlight signal, and her searchlight was trained straight at
Keeling.
It would be a signal for him; P-L-E- he fell behind with his reading of it, for the transmission was too fast for him. He looked up at his signallers; they were reading it without difficulty, one man noting down the letters as read to him by the other. A longish message, not one of desperate urgency then--and for moments of desperate urgency there were far more rapid means of communication. Up above they blinked back the final acknowledgment.

“Signal for you, sir,” called the signalman, stepping forward pad in hand.

“Read it.”

“ ‘Comconvoy to Comescort. Will you please direct your corvette on the starboard side to assist in getting convoy into order, question. Would be grateful.’ “

“Reply ‘Comescort to Comconvoy. Your last. Affirmative.’ “

“ ‘Comescort to Comconvoy. Your last. Affirmative.’ Aye aye, sir.”

Comconvoy had to word his signal like that, presumably; he was making requests of an associate, not giving orders to a subordinate. Let thy words be few, said Ecclesiastes; the officer drafting an order had to bear that recommendation in mind, but a retread admiral addressing an escort commander had to remember the Psalms and make his words smoother than butter.

Krause went back into the pilot-house, to the T.B.S.

“George to Dicky,” he said in that flat distinct voice. The reply was instant;
Dodge
was alert enough.

“Leave your station,” he ordered. “Go and - - “ he checked himself for a moment; then he remembered that it was a Canadian ship he was addressing so that the phrase he had in mind would not be misunderstood as it might be by the
James
or the
Viktor,
and he continued --”go and ride herd on the convoy on the starboard side.”

“Ride herd on the convoy. Aye aye, sir.”

“Look to the Commodore for instructions,” went on Krause, “and get those stragglers back into line.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

“Keep your sonar searching on that flank. That’s the dangerous side at present.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

I say to this man “Go,” and he goeth; and to another “Come” and he cometh. But what of the “great faith” that centurion had?
Dodge
was already wheeling round to carry out her orders. Now there was more to be done. The front of the convoy had been inadequately enough screened already, and now nearly all of it was wide open to attack. So there were more orders to give, orders to set
Keeling
patrolling along the whole five-mile front of the convoy, her sonar sweeping first on one side and then on the other as she steamed back and forth in a stout-hearted attempt to detect possible enemies anywhere in the convoy’s broad path, while
Dodge
moved about on the right flank of the convoy, her captain shouting himself hoarse through his bull-horn at the laggards--the words of the wise are as goads--at the same time as her sonar kept watch behind him. I was eyes to the blind, and feet was I to the lame.

Krause walked from the starboard wing of the bridge to the port side as
Keeling
made her second turn about. He wanted to keep his eye on the convoy; he wanted to use his own judgment as to when
Dodge
would have completed her task on the right flank, and as to when
Viktor
would be available to take her share of the patrol across the front. Even on the wing of the bridge, with the wind blowing, he was conscious, when he thought about it, of the monotonous ping-ping-ping of the ship’s sonar as it sent out its impulses through the unresponsive water. That noise went on ceaselessly, day and night, as long as the ship was at sea, so that the ear and the mind became accustomed to it unless attention were called to it.

The Commodore’s searchlight was blinking again, straight at him; another message. He glanced up at the signalman receiving it. The sharp rattle of the shutters of their light in reply told him that they had not understood a word and were asking for a repeat; he checked his irritation, for perhaps the Commodore was using some long-winded English polite form outside the man’s experience. But the time the message took to transmit did not indicate that it was long.

“Signal for you, sir.”

“Read it.”

The signalman, pad in hand as before, was a little hesitant.

“ ‘Comconvoy to Comescort,’ sir. ‘Huff-Duff‘ - - “

There was an inquiring note in the signalman’s voice there, and a second’s pause.

“Yes, Huff-Duff,” said Krause, testily. That was HFDF, high-frequency direction finding; his signalman had not met the expression before.

“ ‘Huff-Duff reports foreign transmission bearing eight-seven range from one-five to two-zero miles,’ sir.”

Bearing zero-eight-seven. That was nearly in. the path of the convoy. Foreign transmission; that could mean only one thing here in the Atlantic; a U-boat fifteen to twenty miles away. Leviathan, that crooked serpent. This was something far more positive and certain than
James’s
possible contact. This was something calling for instant decision as ever, and that decision had to be based as ever on a score of factors.

“Reply ‘Comescort to Comconvoy. Will run it down.’ “

“ ‘Comescort to Comconvoy. Will run it down.’ Aye aye, sir.”

“Wait. ‘Will run it down. Thank you.’ “

“ ‘Will run it down. Thank you.’ Aye aye, sir.”

Two strides took Krause into the pilot-house.

“I’ll take the conn, Mr Carling.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

“Right smartly to course zero-eight-seven.”

“Right smartly to course zero-eight-seven.”

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

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

“Mr. Carling, sound general quarters.”

“General quarters. Aye aye, sir.”

The warning horns blared through the ship as Carling pressed down on the handle; a din fit to wake the dead, to wake the exhausted sleepers in their bunks far below, summoning every man to his post, starting a torrent of men up the ladders. Clothes would be dragged on, unfinished letters flung aside, equipment snatched up. Through the din came the report, “Engine-room answers flank speed, sir.”
Keeling
was heeling as she turned; Heeling-Keeling was what the men called her, Heeling-Keeling, Reeling-Keeling.

“Steady on course zero-eight-seven,” said Parker.

“Very well. Mr Hart, how does the Commodore bear?”

Ensign Hart was at the pelorus in a moment.

“Two-six-six, sir,” he called.

Practically dead astern. The Huff-Duff bearing in itself would be exact enough. No need to plot a course to the estimated position of the U-boat.

Already the wheel-house was thronging with newcomers, helmeted figures, bundled-up figures, telephone talkers, messengers. There was much to be done; Krause went to the T.B.S.

“Eagle, I am running down a Huff-Duff indication bearing zero-eight-seven.”

“Oh-eight-seven. Aye aye, sir.”

“Take my place and cover the front of the convoy as quickly as you can.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

“You hear me, Harry?”

“I hear you, George.”

“Cover the left flank.”

“Cover the left flank. Aye aye, sir. We are four miles astern of the last ship, sir.”

“I know.”

It would be more than half an hour before
James
would be in her station; it would be nearly fifteen minutes before
Viktor
would be in hers. Meanwhile the convoy would be unprotected save by
Dodge
on the starboard wing. The risk run was one of the score of factors that had been balanced in Krause’s mind when the Commodore’s message came through. On the other hand there was this clear indication of an enemy ahead--Huff-Duff was highly reliable--and there was the poor visibility which would shroud
Keeling
while her radar could see through it. There was the need to drive the enemy under; there was the need to kill him. Even twenty miles ahead of the convoy
Keeling
would be of some protection to it.

Here was Lieutenant Watson, the navigator, reporting having taken over as officer of the deck from Carling. Krause returned his salute; it took only two sentences to inform him regarding the situation.

“Aye aye, sir.”

Watson’s handsome blue eyes shone in the shadow of his helmet.

“I have the conn, Mr Watson.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

“Messenger, my helmet.”

Krause put the thing on; it was for form’s sake, but at the same time the sight of the thickly-clad men about him reminded him that he was still only wearing his uniform coat and that he was already chilled through by his sojourn on the wing of the bridge.

“Go to my sea-cabin and bring me the sheepskin coat you’ll find there.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

The executive officer was reporting by voice-tube from the chartroom below. Down there was an improvisation of the combat information centre already fully developed in bigger ships. At the time when
Keeling
was launched sonar was in its infancy and radar had hardly been thought of. Lieutenant-Commander Cole was an old friend; Krause told him how matters stood.

“You’re likely to get her on the radar screen any time now, Charlie.”

“Yes, sir.”

Keeling
was pulsating as she tore along under nearly full power. She lurched and she shuddered as a green roller burst over her forecastle. But the huge rolling waves were just regular enough and convex enough to permit her to maintain her present high speed. Eighteen miles away or less was a surfaced U-boat; at any moment the radar antenna far above the wheel-house might pick her up; the reports had all come in that battle stations were manned. The men who had been roused from their tasks, even the men who had abandoned their routine work to seize their equipment and go to their posts, were ignorant of the reason for this sudden call. Down in the engine-room there must be plenty of men wondering why there had been the call for flank speed; the men at the guns and the men at the depth-charge racks must be warned to be ready for instant action. A second or two must be spared for that. Krause walked to the loudspeaker. The bosun’s mate stationed there saw him coming, put his hand to the switch and received an approving nod. The call sounded through the ship.

“Now hear this. Now hear this.”

“This is the captain.”

Long training and long-practised self-control kept his voice even; no one could guess from that flat voice the excitement which boiled inside him, which could master him if he relaxed that self-control for an instant.

“We’re running down a U-boat. Every man must be ready for instant action.”

It might almost be thought that
Keeling
quivered afresh with excitement at the message. In the crowded pilot-house as Krause turned back from the receiver every eye was upon him. There was tenseness in the air, there was ferocity. These men were on their way to kill; they might be on their way to be killed, although for most of those present neither consideration weighed beside the mere fact that
Keeling
was heading for action, towards success or failure.