He mastered the chattering of his teeth and hugged the coat to him in the comparative warmth of the pilothouse so as to make the chilly contact as brief as possible, for warmth to creep back from his revivifying body into the thick woollen underclothing against his skin. He would send for the rest of his clothes in a moment. The voice-tube summoned him.
“Two miles, sir.”
“Very well.” He swung round, too cold to use the full formula. “Standard speed.”
“Standard speed,” repeated the hand at the annunciator. “Engine-room answers ‘Standard speed.’ “
That was self-evident at once. The churning vibration died away magically, to be replaced by a more measured beat that seemed by contrast almost gentle, and Keeling ceased to crash, shatteringly, into the waves that met her bow. She had time to lift and to incline to them, to heave herself up the long grey slopes and to corkscrew herself over them, so that again by contrast her motion seemed almost moderate.
“Get the sonar going,” ordered Krause, and the words were hardly out of his mouth before the first ping made itself heard through the ship, succeeded before it had died away by another ping, and by another after that, and another, so that the ear, already long accustomed to the monotonous sound, would soon have omitted to record it, were it not that on this occasion everyone in the pilothouse was listening to it intently, wondering if it would reveal an enemy. That monotonous ping, each ping an impulse, feeling out through the dark water in search of a foe creeping along in the depths; it searched slowly to the left, and slowly to the right, searching and searching. This was the hearing ear of Proverbs Twelve, taking over the task of radar’s seeing eye.
Did the last ping sound different? Apparently not, for there was no report from sonar. Down below was Radioman First Class Tom Ellis. He was a graduate of the Key West Sound School and had been in the ship since the outbreak of war; presumably efficient when he came, he had spent the intervening months listening to pings, eternally listening, from watch to watch during all the time Keeling had been at sea. That was not to say he was more efficient than when he left the Sound School; it might mean the reverse. At Key West he had gone through a few hurried exercises. He had listened to the echo from a friendly submarine, had noted the variations of pitch as the submarine altered course under water, had taken the bearing and estimated the range; he had been hurried through a couple of lessons on enemy counter measures, and then he had been sent off to sea to listen to echoes. And never since had he heard one; the vibrations he had sent out had never bounced back to his listening ear from a submarine, friendly or hostile; he had no refresher exercise, and most certainly he had never played the deadly game of hide and seek with an enemy. It was humanly possible that now he would not recognize an echo if he heard one; it was certainly likely that he would not draw the instant deductions from the nature of the echo that were necessary if an attack were to be successful. A depth-charge dropped within ten yards of its target meant a probable victory; a depth-charge dropped twenty yards away meant a certain failure. The difference between ten and twenty yards could be accounted for by the difference between the prompt reactions of a practised operator and the tardy reactions of an unpractised one.
And that still left out of consideration the question of nerve; there was no way of knowing as yet whether Ellis was nervous or cool, which was not the same thing as being cowardly or brave. A man could grow flustered merely at the thought of failure, without even thinking as far as the possible censure of his division officer or his captain. Fingers became thumbs, quick wits became slow, in certain men, merely because much depended on accurate manipulation or rapid thinking. Ellis down there could hardly fail to be aware that success or failure hinged upon his sole efforts, upon the delicacy with which he turned his dial, the deductions he had to make from a variation in the quality of the echo. That could make him stupid or clumsy or both. The fact that failure might mean a torpedo into Keeling’s side which would blow Ellis and his instruments into fragments, was not so important, Krause knew. Plain cowardice was far rarer than idiocy, just as plain courage was more common than nerve. Krause thought about Ellis as he knew him, sandy-haired, a most ordinary type of young man, except perhaps for the slightest hint of a cast in his right eye. He had addressed him personally a dozen times at most. Those few sentences exchanged at inspections and brief interviews could tell him nothing about the man upon whom now everything depended, the young seaman standing at attention, the young seaman indistinguishable in a line of others at quarters.
The seconds were creeping on as Keeling rolled and pitched and staggered her way forward over the waves; Krause stood balancing on the heaving decks in the silence of the pilot-house--silent despite the din of wind and water outside. It was a surprise when the talker spoke.
“Sonar reports contact, sir.”
The talker was a short, stocky man with a misshapen nose; the large helmet, apparently over-large to accommodate his ear-phones, gave him a gnome-like appearance.
“Very well.”
Everyone in the pilot-house was doubly tense at the news. Watson took a step forward; other men fidgeted. No need to harass Ellis with questions; on the contrary, it might fluster him. Ellis must be presumed to know what was wanted of him until the contrary should be proved.
“Contact bearing zero-nine-one,” said the talker. Ellis was passing the first test, then. “Range indefinite.”
“Very well.”
Krause could not bring himself to say more than those words. He shared the tenseness of the others; he could feel the beating of his heart and the sudden dryness of his throat. He looked over at Watson and jerked his thumb; he knew that hand would tremble if he allowed it to; this was buck-fever, unmistakably. Watson sprang to the repeater with the order to McAlister, staring down at the compass repeater.
“Contact bearing dead ahead, sir,” said the talker. “Range still indefinite.”
“Very well.”
This talker was good at his job. Each word was uttered expressionless and distinct. It was like a schoolboy repeating a recitation learned by heart without any understanding at all. Emotion in a talker was a most undesirable quality.
“Contact bearing dead ahead, sir,” said the talker again. “Range two thousand.”
“Very well.”
They were bearing straight down at the U-boat, then. Krause had his watch in his hand; it was an effort to read the sweeping second-hand.
“Range nineteen hundred yards.”
A hundred yards in fourteen seconds? With Keeling going twelve knots? There was something quite impossible about that figure. That was just her time to go a hundred yards, and the U-boat would hardly be lying still. Any other figure than that would be more promising. Those range estimates depended entirely on the accuracy of Ellis’s ear. They could be completely wrong.
“Range eighteen hundred yards.”
“Very well.”
“No contact, sir. Contact lost.”
“Very well.”
It was to be guessed that the talker was repeating exactly word for word what Ellis down below was saying into his mouthpiece. On that evidence it was to be assumed that Ellis was not flustered, at least not as yet.
“Captain to sonar. ‘Search on the starboard bow.’ “
The talker released his button. “Sonar answers ‘Aye aye, sir.’ “
“Very well.”
What was the contact that had been made? Some will-o’-the-wisp effect of a cold layer? A pillenwerfer bubble released by a U-boat? It may have been a real contact broken off by some intervening condition. But it was important that they had made contact almost exactly at the point where contact was to be expected if the deductions he had made from the radar indication were correct. Then the U-boat had been on a course at a slight angle-to Keeling’s, crossing from port to starboard. The likeliest possibility was that she was still maintaining that course after letting off a pillenwerfer; but there was also the chance that she had been moving very slowl
y across Keeling’s bows--slowly enough for the reported range to have remained constant for a time--and had then taken sudden evasive action, going deep and turning; turning in which direction? The sonar pinged on monotonously; minutes were passing, precious minutes. Five minutes meant that Keeling was at the last indicated position; it also meant that the U-boat was half a mile or more from it. It might mean, too, that she was aiming a torpedo for Keeling’s vitals.
“Sonar reports contact, sir. Port beam, range indefinite.”
So he had been wrong in thinking she had continued her course to his starboard side; but there were no seconds to spare to think about it.
“Left full rudder.”
“Left full rudder,” repeated McAlister.
The desire to increase speed was passionate within him; he wanted to hurl Keeling down along the bearing of the new contact, but that was inadvisable. Already at this snail’s crawl he was going as fast as the sonar would tolerate.
“Report all bearings as relative,” he ordered. “Contact bearing port five-zero, sir.”
“Very well.”
Keeling was still turning; she had not come round far enough, when the echo returned, to be pointing straight in the direction of the previous one.
“Contact starboard zero-five. Range twelve hundred yards.”
Excellent. Keeling’s speed might be a snail’s crawl, but that of the submerged U-boat was slower still.
“Contact starboard one-zero. Range twelve hundred yards.”
The U-boat was turning too. Her turning circle submerged would be considerably smaller than Keeling’s.
“Right full rudder.”
“Right full rudder.”
Speed above versus manoeuvrability below. But with the rudder hard over Keeling would lose speed; two opponents evenly matched. Green water crashed over Keeling’s low waist as she heeled on the sharp turn.
“Contact starboard one-zero. Range steady at twelve hundred yards.”
“Very well.”
Turning exactly together. This high sea was reducing Keeling’s manoeuvrability; a moment’s smooth would give her the chance to come round more sharply, if only one would come.
“Range eleven hundred yards.”
They were cutting down on the U-boat.
“Bearing?” snapped Krause, to regret the question instantly. The talker could only repeat what was coming to him through his ear-phones.
“Bearing starboard one-zero.”
“Very well.”
Bearing constant, range growing less. Keeling’s greater speed was prevailing over the U-boat’s smaller turning circle. In time--in time--Keeling would cut across the U-boat’s track, would pass over her, would destroy her.
“Contact bearing starboard zero-five. Range one thousand.”
Closer! More nearly ahead! Keeling must be answering her helm better. Victory was nearer than he had thought. Keeling was shearing through white water now. She was crossing her own wake, having turned in a full circle.
“Contact bearing port zero-five. Range eleven hundred yards. Opening, sir.”
“Left full rudder! “ roared Krause.
The U-boat had fooled him. At the moment of the previous report she had been turning in the opposite direction. Now she was off on a different track entirely, with Keeling still swinging away from her. She had regained her lost hundred yards and would regain more before Keeling could come round again. McAlister was spinning the wheel round savagely. Keeling lay far over, took in another green sea, and staggered.
“Contact bearing port one-zero. Range twelve hundred.”
The U-boat might be getting clear away. She had made the best use of her superior manoeuvrability, and she had taken full advantage of the necessary time interval intervening between a change of course on her part and the news of it reaching her enemy’s captain. The information reaching Keeling was limited and slow; the deductions to be drawn from it could be faulty--we know in part, and we prophesy in part; the U-boat captain was aware of Keelings limitations.
“Contact bearing port one-five. Range indefinite.”
“Very well.”
Most assuredly had the U-boat fooled him. She had gained some considerable distance on him and widened her bearing. Three minutes ago he had been congratulating himself upon closing on her. Now he felt fear in case she should get clear away. But Keeling was swinging fast.
“Contact bearing port one-five. Range indefinite.”
“Very well.”
With left full rudder Keeling was chasing her tail again in the opposite direction. An ignorant observer might think the analogy to a kitten’s behaviour a close one, if he were not aware of the life-and-death battle she was waging against an invisible opponent.
“Contact bearing port one-five. Range twelve hundred yards.”
So that was the measure of what he had lost. If he were fooled a couple more times like this he might well find himself on an opposite course to the U-boat, and the latter would get clear away before he could turn again. The talker was sneezing, explosively, once and then twice. Now everyone was looking at him. The whole battle could hinge upon his mastering the convulsion; the sneeze of one single seaman might change the fate of empires. He straightened himself and pressed his telephone button.
“Repeat.”
Everyone waited until he spoke again. “Contact bearing port one-three. Range eleven hundred yards.”
So Keeling was regaining the lost ground.
“You going to do that again?” demanded Krause.
“No, sir. Don’t think so, sir.”
The talker had brought his handkerchief out from his bundled clothing, but was not attempting to use it with his instrument clamped before his face. If he was going to have further fits of sneezing it would be best to relieve him. He decided to risk it.
“Contact bearing port one-one. Range one thousand.”
“Very well.”
The U-boat had met with a limitation, too. Having gained in distance from Keeling she was out on a wider arc so that Keeling could turn within her, closing up until equilibrium was again established, for U-boat and destroyer to circle about each other again, like planet and satellite. The equilibrium could only be broken by an extra piece of good fortune on the part of the U-boat enabling her to break off contact altogether--or an extra piece of good management on the part of Keeling enabling her to close with her antagonist. And the time factor might incline to either party; if the struggle were sufficiently prolonged the U-boat would find her batteries and her air exhausted--but if the struggle were sufficiently prolonged Keeling might find herself so far from her post of duty with the convoy that she would have to turn away and rejoin. A game of catch, a game of hide and seek; but a game with table stakes played for keeps.
“Contact bearing port one-one. Range one thousand.”
“Very well.”
Destroyer and submarine were circling about each other. As long as this particular situation prevailed, Keeling had the edge. Time was on her side; the U-boat’s batteries would not last for ever, and the chances were more in favour of Keeling closing the gap through unusual conditions than that the U-boat could simply outrun and out-turn her. As with the last time they had circled, it was up to the U-boat to do something about the situation.
“Contact bearing port one-one. Range steady at one thousand.”
“Very well.”
Krause took a sudden decision. “Right full rudder.”
A fifth of a second’s hesitation in McAlister’s reply; the tiniest sharp note of surprise or protest in his tone. It was as if Keeling were breaking off the battle. McAlister was spinning the wheel round clockwise; Keeling lurched, rolled, shipped a hundred tons of water as her circular momentum was abruptly nullified and then reversed.
Two children running round a table, one in pursuit of the other. It was the oldest stratagem in the world for the pursuer to reverse direction, and run the other way round, for the pursued to run straight into his arms; it was up t
o the pursued to anticipate that turn and turn himself at the same moment. In this pursuit of U-boat by destroyer it was not possible for the destroyer to attempt the same manoeuvre; the destroyer turned far too slowly and far too wide, reversing her turn would take her far out of sonar range; it would be, as McAlister thought, an abandonment of the pursuit. But that was not all the story. In this pursuit it was up to the U-boat to do something different, for if she maintained her circling course indefinitely she would certainly be caught in the end.
There was really only one change she could make, to turn suddenly and head in another direction, in the opposite direction for choice. She had practised that trick once already with considerable success. She turned faster than the destroyer in any case; and she had the advantage of gaining time. There were the seconds it took for Ellis to note the change in the bearing. There were the seconds it took for that change to be reported to the bridge. There were the seconds it took for new helm orders to be given, and then there were the long, long seconds it took for Keeling to alter course. The U-boat could start her turn at her own selected moment, in response to a single order from her captain. It would be half a minute before the destroyer could begin to imitate her, and half a minute on practically reciprocating courses meant a divergence of some hundreds of yards, an enormous gain. The U-boat had only to repeat the manoeuvre successfully a few times to be out of sonar range and safe.
The Good Shepherd Page 5