“All engines ahead standard speed.”
“All engines ahead standard speed.”
“Engine-room answers ‘All engines ahead standard speed,’ sir.”
“Resume sonar search.”
Both life-boats were alongside Cadena now; she was rolling in the trough to give them a lee, and she had her scramble-nets down. Against her dark starboard side, which was just coming into Krause’s view as Keeling headed across her bows, Krause could just see through his glasses the specks which were men climbing her side.
“Torpedo to port!”
That was a scream from the port-side look-out.
“Right rudder.”
That was Krause’s instant order, given while the glasses were still at his eyes; the parry to the thrust, coming with the instinct more quick than thought. More likely a shot from slightly astern than from slightly ahead. Left rudder, towards the danger, might take Keeling across the torpedo’s course. Right rudder by a small balance of the odds was the safer, after that so recent reduction in speed. Krause sprang out on to the port wing of the bridge.
“There, sir!” shouted the look-out, pointing over the quarter. That transient white wake along the face of a lifting roller; a torpedo track, most likely. Krause estimated its direction, balancing it against Keeling ‘s course before her turn. Most likely it would have missed in any case passing close ahead. That would be because of the reduction in speed; the torpedo must have been launched a few seconds before he gave that order. If a spread had been fired this would be the right-most torpedo.
With the numbing wind blowing round him Krause’s mind went on with its hasty calculations. Then the U-boat was likely there, where Keeling’s stern was now pointing. Then--each step of the deduction was necessarily vaguer, with an accumulating uncertainty, but some plan must be made, and quickly, and acted upon--then the U-boat had approached the convoy from the flank, just outside Dodge’s sonar sweep, had fired into the mass of the convoy; her shot had passed between the ships of the outer column to hit this sinking ship of the second column. Then the U-boat had headed in to take a shot at Cadena lingering behind. Keeling had come down--possibly unexpectedly--between the U-boat and her target, and the U-boat had fired a spread at Keeling to eliminate her from the scene--she would have time to use gunfire against Cadena then. He must keep between the U-boat and Cadena, screening while he shepherded Cadena back into the convoy. It would be as well to make his own movements as erratic and unpredictable as possible.
“Left standard rudder!” he ordered, hastening back into the pilot-house.
“Left standard rudder, sir,” answered the quartermaster, and Keeling began the second loop of an “S.”
A long feather of steam blew away from Cadena’s upper works; he caught his breath with silly apprehension for a moment. It stopped and then started again; it was Cadena’s steam-whistle--the sound of the first blast was just reaching him across the wind. Four puffs.
“F for fox from the merchant ship, sir.”
“Very well.”
The typewritten signal-code hanging on the board told him that this meant “Rescue completed.”
“Still coming left, sir,” said Nystrom.
“Very well.”
By completing this circle he would bring Keeling into a suitable screening position.
“Messenger! Write this. Comescort to Cadena. C-A-D-E-N-A. ‘Rejoin convoy at best speed. Modified zigzag.’ Take that to the signal bridge. And tell them not to send too fast.”
“Signal bridge. Aye aye, sir.”
It was in the blood of all signalmen to send messages as rapidly as they could, and it was always a source of gratification to them if they could burn up the recipient. In this case the recipient was a merchant seaman, unpractised in reading messages; and it was important. His glance darted round the horizon, at Cadena, at the convoy, at the guessed-at bearing of the hidden U-boat.
“Ease the rudder,” he said.
“Ease the rudder.”
“Sonar reports distant contact port beam, sir.”
Port beam? Another U-boat? Krause looked out. No. That was the hull of the sinking ship.
“Steady as you go,” he snapped at the helmsman.
The sinking ship was still three-quarters over. But now she was farther down by the stern; a considerable length of her bottom-up bow was protruding at a small angle from the surface of the sea, and the rest of her was invisible. Against the bow waves were breaking as though against a rock.
“Steady on course zero-nine-five,” reported the helmsman.
“Very well.”
“Sonar reports heavy breaking-up noises, sir.”
“Captain to sonar. ‘The noises you hear come from a sinking ship. Search elsewhere.’ “
The bows of the wreck were rising higher. Those breaking-up noises which sonar reported told of cargo and engines and boilers tumbling aft down the slope. Now she was heaving over, bows still raised high. Her upper works came bursting out through the surface of the sea, water cascading from them. Right over, and then back again, like a creature struggling in torment. A message from the signal bridge.
“Cadena to Comescort. ‘Speed eleven point five knots.’ “
“Very well.”
Better than could be expected. But--his next glance at the convoy was a little disquieting. Six miles, he judged, by now. It would be well over two hours before Cadena was back in station again. One last glance back at the sinking ship. She hung vertical now, with a bare twenty feet of her bow straight up above the sea. She would soon be gone; two miles from her the two abandoned lifeboats rose and fell on the rollers, marking where the fortunate crew had climbed up Cadena’s side; fortunate, but he realized he did not know how many men had died when the torpedo struck. There were some fragments of wreckage floating on the surface, too, the miserable trophies of a Nazi victory.
“Right ten degrees rudder,” he said sharply to the helmsman; there was pressing work to be done, and not a moment to spare to think about the sunken ship, or about the report he would have to make regarding the loss. With a U-boat within torpedo range he must not keep Keeling on the same course for very long at one time.
“Ease the rudder. Steady as you go.”
He would like Cadena to zigzag widely as well, but that would make the interval before she rejoined interminable. He was between her and the enemy--or so he hoped--and his menacing presence would keep the U-boat far enough away to make it a very long shot if the U-boat commander was trying to get a torpedo into her.
“Steady on course one-zero-six,” reported the helmsman.
“Very well.”
With this overcast sky it would be quite dark by five o’clock. Cadena would have a hard job inserting herself into the ranks of the convoy then. The spray on the pilothouse windows was making it hard to see out. He shifted his position to take advantage of one of the two spinning discs of glass set in the windows, the centrifugal force of whose motion kept two circular areas clear enough to see through. The disc was not spinning; it was stationary, and as hard to see through as the rest of the glass.
“Mr Nystrom!”
“Sir! “
“Get this thing working again. Call the electrical officer.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
The other disc was still turning, but very slowly, too slowly to clear itself. Visibility through the glass was so bad that it would be better to go out on to the wing of the bridge. Out into the windy cold. But that was the T.B.S. demanding his attention.
“Harry to George! Harry to George! “
“George to Harry. Go ahead.”
“Pips on the radar screen, sir, bearing oh-nine-one. Range one-oh miles, sir. Two pips. Look like subs.”
“Very well.”
Two submarines right ahead, nearly in the track of the convoy.
“Orders, sir?”
“Dicky to George! “ This was Dodge breaking into the circuit.
“George to Dicky. Go ahead.”
“We’ve g
ot a pip, too. Bearing oh-nine-eight. Range one-four miles. Looks like a sub., too, sir.”
“Very well.”
James on one wing, Dodge on the other, reporting submarines ahead. Another close on his starboard bow, submerged. Wheresoever the carcass is there will the eagles be gathered together. Should he send his subordinates forward to the attack? With night approaching? With James having to be economical of fuel ? It might be best.
“Eagle to George! Eagle to George! “
“George to Eagle. Go ahead.”
“We’ve got Harry’s pips, sir, bearing oh-eight-five. But we’ve got another, bearing oh-nine-oh, range one-three miles.”
That was not Dodge’s pip. Four submarines ahead of the convoy. One at least close astern of it.
“Very well.”
“Harry to George. Range is closing fast. Range nine miles for one pip. Bearing oh-nine-oh. Other pip bearing oh-nine-two. Range nine miles.”
“Very well.”
It was time to think about his own ship.
“Left standard rudder!” he called over his shoulder to the helmsman and then addressed himself to the instrument again.
“George to escort. Keep your stations. Open fire when within range.”
Then back to the helmsman.
“Meet her! Steady as you go.”
Keeling was on a fresh zigzag. While he was speaking on the T.B.S. he must not forget that a U-boat was manoeuvring for a shot at him.
“Steady on course zero-nine-four, sir.”
“Very well.”
The T.B.S. was conveying the escort’s acknowledgments of his orders.
“Good luck, you fellows,” he said.
In the face of those numbers he could not send the escort forward to the attack. It would open too many gaps in a screen already far too weak.
Rudel, the electrical officer, was awaiting his attention; an electrician’s mate and his striker stood behind him. A glance showed the discs were still not spinning.
“Haven’t you got them working yet?” demanded Krause.
Rudel saluted.
“It’s not an electrical failure, sir. They’re frozen.”
“The spray’s freezing all over the glass, sir,” supplemented Nystrom. It was growing almost impossible to see out of the pilot-house.
“Then get to work on it,” snapped Krause.
He debated within himself; that was not an easy assignment for Nystrom. And Nystrom was not a brilliant officer.
“Put two men to work with buckets and swabs,” said Krause. “Warm water. Not boiling. Yes, and have that water salty--as salty as you can get it.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
“Very well, Mr Rudel.”
He returned Rudel’s salute, looking round him as he did so, forward at the distant convoy, to port at Cadena, to starboard where--perhaps--a U-boat was looking at him. The glass front of the pilot-house was already too spotted with ice to afford reasonable visibility, and he went out on to the starboard wing of the bridge.
“Left standard rudder!“ he ordered, and watched the ship come round.
“Meet her! Steady as you go! “
It was essential to keep Keeling zigzagging, and quite irregularly.
“Steady on course zero-eight-zero, sir.”
“Very well.”
He was converging now slightly on Cadena. The hands he laid upon the rail in front of him were numb, almost without sensation, but not quite numb enough for something different to be called to his notice. The forward curve of the rail was slick and smooth with a thin coating of ice. That and the wind which blew round him decided him to send for his additional clothing. Until then he had literally not had a moment in which to do so. Now this was an interval of leisure; leisure with a U-boat within torpedo range of him
“Messenger!”
Wink. Wink. Wink. Far ahead in the convoy a message was being flashed back, just visible in the gathering gloom. The Commodore, most likely--for certain.
“Yes, sir.” It was the bridge messenger; in those few seconds he had forgotten him.
“Go down to my cabin. I want the fur gloves you’ll see there. And I want the sweater and scarf. Wait. I want the hood, too. You’ll have to look for it in the second drawer down. Gloves, sweater, scarf, hood.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
The rattle of the lamp-shutters above him told him the signalmen were acknowledging the Commodore’s signal. He looked over at Cadena; he was drawing ahead of her and was well on her bow. The messenger from the signal bridge came clattering down.
COMCONVOY TO COMESCORT. NUMEROUS FOREIGN LANGUAGE TRANSMISSIONS TEN TO ONE-FIVE MILES AHEAD VARIOUS BEARINGS.
“Very well.”
The U-boats out ahead were talking to each other, setting their plans. Or perhaps they were reporting to Lorient where--what was that name? Doenitz--where Doenitz would co-ordinate their efforts. He was cold.
“T.B.S., sir!“ said Nystrom. “Eagle.”
As he went in to speak he decided that it would be better to order a new course now rather than wait until his conversation was finished.
“Alter course ten degrees to starboard, Mr Nystrom.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
“George to Eagle. Go ahead.”
“Pips are all on the move sir. Three to port, bearing oh-eight-five for two of them and oh-eight-one. Range constant at one-oh miles. Two to starboard, bearing oh-nine-eight and one-oh-four. Range one-one miles. They’re keeping their distance ahead of us. And they’re transmitting, sir. Signals all the time. And we think we got another pip, too, sir. Five minutes ago. Dead ahead range five miles. It faded out almost as soon as we saw it, but we’re pretty certain of it.”
“What’s your visibility there?”
“Just about five miles, sir. Look-outs saw nothing.”
“Very well. Retain your stations. Over.”
U-boats ahead making no attempt at concealment.
“Steady on course one-zero-four, sir,” reported Nystrom.
“Very well.”
And one--one at least--closer in, below the surface. An ambush, posted there ready for action whether the escort advanced to the attack or plodded forward in the screen. A momentary appearance, perhaps to transmit a message or perhaps involuntary, breaking surface while rising to periscope depth. It occurred to him to give a warning to Viktor, but he discarded the idea. No need to tell those Polish fellows to keep alert. Those U-boats on the surface must be waiting for darkness to attack. The pestilence that walketh in darkness. Here was Charlie Cole, saluting.
“Ship’s icing up, sir. I’ve been round. Footing’s bad aft by the tubes.”
“Depth-charges free?”
“Yes, sir. I’ve given orders for the steam-hoses.”
Trust Charlie to attend to these matters. With depth-charges frozen to the racks and unable to roll--it had been known to happen--Keeling would lose nine-tenths of her usefulness as an escort.
“Thank you,” said Krause.
“Thank you, sir,” said Charlie, saluting again with his usual exactness.
The messenger was standing by with his arms full of clothes.
“Fine!“ said Krause. He began to unbutton the sheepskin coat. That was the moment for the voice-tube from the chart-house below to call him. The bell was still vibrating as Krause sprang to the tube.
“Pip bearing two-zero-seven. Range eleven thousand.”
That was well abaft the starboard beam. It must be the U-boat from which he had been screening Cadena. Finding herself being left behind she had surfaced. A second or two more for thought in this new situation. Turn end on and attack? Could he be sure it was not a ruse to draw him away? Yes. There had so far been no pips on this sector. If there were two U-boats they could not have concerted any plan.
“Right standard rudder. Steer course two-zero-seven.”
“Right standard rudder. Steer course two-zero-seven.”
“Captain to gunnery control. ‘Prepare to open fire on radar direction
.’ “
The talker repeated the order. “Gunnery control answers ‘Aye aye, sir.’ “
“Steady on course two-zero-seven.”
“Very well.”
“Target bearing two-zero-eight. Range approximately one-oh-five-double oh.”
That was Charlie Cole’s voice. He must have dashed down below the moment he heard the pip reported. It was a comfort to know he had taken charge down there.
“What do you mean by ‘approximately,’ Charlie?”
“Screen’s fuzzy, sir, and it’s jumping a little.”
This accursed Sugar Charlie radar!
“Lieutenant Rudel to report to the chartroom immediately,” said Krause to the bosun’s mate at the loudspeaker. Perhaps Rudel could persuade the thing to give a little more definition.
“Bearing’s changing, sir. Two-zero-nine. Two-one-zero, approximately, sir. And I think the range is closing now. Range one-oh-four-double oh.”
Krause’s mind, accustomed to dealing with problems of vessels on all sorts of bearings, plotted out the present situation. The U-boat on the surface was hightailing it from Cadena’s starboard quarter round to her port quarter, doing an “end around.” With this sea running she could not do more than twelve knots, most likely. Fourteen, possibly. No, not very possibly. She was six miles almost astern of Cadena who was going at eleven and a half She was ten miles astern of the convoy. She was out of harm’s way, then, for two, three, perhaps four hours. He could make that interval longer still at small cost.
“Right ten degrees rudder. Steer course two-two-zero,” he ordered, and then addressed himself to Charlie again. “I'm leading him.”
As the hunter aims his gun at a point ahead of the flying duck, so he was aiming Keeling at a point ahead of the moving U-boat.
“Steady on course two-two-zero,” said the quartermaster.
“Very well.”
“Bearing approximately two-one-two,” said Charlie. “Range one-oh-three-double oh as near as I can make it out.”
The morning's problem was presenting itself again; the U-boat was within easy range of Keeling's five-inch. But was it worthwhile opening fire on an invisible foe located merely by a dancing spot on a radar screen? Not with a better opportunity possible in the near future.
“I think the bearing's staying constant, sir,” said Charlie. “Two-one-two. Yes, and the range is closing. One-oh-two-double oh. One-oh-one-double oh.”
The Good Shepherd Page 9