Keeling and U-boat were approaching each other on converging courses, a hundred yards nearer at every minute.
“Range ten thousand,” said Charlie.
Ten thousand yards; six miles. Visibility in this darkening afternoon was--he stared at the horizon--five miles? Four miles? Whether he opened fire with radar direction or with the U-boat in sight he would only be granted the short time it would take the U-boat to submerge in which to score a hit. Direct observation was far surer.
“Range nine-eight-double oh,” said Charlie. “Bearing two-one-two.”
“Captain to gunnery control. 'Hold fire until target is in sight.' “
The messenger with his arms full of clothes was still standing by.
“Spread those on the radiator,” said Krause with a gesture. He was so cold now that he could yearn to be warm even with a surfaced U-boat on a converging course.
“Bearing’s changing, sir,” said Charlie. “Changing fast. Two-zero-five. Two-zero-three. Range nine-three-double oh. Nine-two-double oh.”
The U-boat had altered course to starboard. She must have decided that she had gone far enough with her “end around’’ and that now she had the opportunity to close in on Cadena.
“Left standard rudder. Steer course one-eight-zero,” said Krause.
He was turning to meet her in full career. The U-boat had been long submerged before she had come up to the surface and was--it was a heartening thought to a man encompassed by enemies--far more ignorant of the situation than he was.
“Bearing changing,” said Charlie. “Range nine thousand--no, eight-eight-double oh.”
Not long before they would sight each other then.
“Steady on course one-eight-zero,” said the quartermaster.
“Very well.”
“Target bears two-zero-one. Range eight-six-double oh. Eight-five-double oh.”
The guns were training round to starboard. At any moment now the U-boat might appear out of the murk on the starboard bow.
“Bearing two-zero-two. Range eight-three-double oh.”
Much less than five miles. Then it happened. A yell from a look-out. Krause had his glasses in his numbed hands, on the point of raising them. Wang-o, wang-o, wang-o went the guns. He did not have the glasses trained in quite the right direction; it was the splashes of the shells that guided him. Then he saw it, the square grey silhouette of a U-boat’s bridge tiny in the distance, pillars of water a little to one side of it; the pillars moved in on it--wang-o, wang-o, wang-o. The pillars of water were all about it, hiding it; not for more than a second or two did he have it in sight. Then the ear-shattering din ended and there was nothing to be seen as the grey water rose into the field of his binoculars and sank again with the heave of the ship. All over. He had achieved his surprise. He had seen his shells beating all about his astonished enemy, but not once had he seen--he compelled himself to be realistic about it--had he seen the flash and the momentary glow that would mark a hit.
“Gunnery control to captain. ‘Fire opened on target bearing one-nine-nine,’ “ said the talker. “ ‘Range eight thousand. Twenty-seven rounds fired. No hits observed.’ “
No hits.
“Very well.”
Another decision to be made, with every second valuable, whether it was a question of dealing with one enemy four miles away in one direction or half a dozen twenty miles away in the other.
“Left standard rudder,” he ordered. “Steer course one-zero-zero.”
He was turning away from the enemy. He could see a glance or two exchanged among those in the pilot-house who could realize the implications of the order. He was tempted, by the use of a cutting phrase or two, captain to subordinates, to make them wipe that look off their faces, but of course he did nothing of the sort. He would not use his rank for such a purpose. He would not attempt to justify himself, either.
He could have run down towards where the U-boat had disappeared. In a quarter of an hour he would have been in the vicinity, conducting a sonar search. He might have made a contact, but it was ten to one, fifty to one, against it, with the convoy drawing away from him all the time that he would be conducting an hour-long search. And ahead of the convoy his three other ships were about to go into battle against heavy odds. He must hasten to their aid without wasting a moment. The U-boat he had fired upon had gone under. It might well be a long time before she would venture to surface again after this experience with an enemy who had dashed so unexpectedly out of the haze with guns firing. The U-boat was far astern of the convoy already; she would be farther astern still by the time she surfaced. Even with exact knowledge of the convoy’s position and speed and course it would take her the best part of the approaching night to overtake. He had forced her into uselessness for some hours. Better to head at once for certain action than to linger here trying to wring some unlikely further success out of a situation now unpromising. Even if--even if his shells had scored an unobserved hit. A U-boat’s superstructure was both tough and capable of receiving damage without crippling her underwater performance. It was the slimmest, the most unlikely of chances that she would be just under the surface, unable to dive deeper, perhaps leaking oil to reveal her position. It was not worth taking into account; he had made the right decision.
“Steady on course-one-zero-zero,” said the quartermaster.
The time it had taken Keeling to make the turn was the measure of the time Krause’s instincts and training had taken to leap to the conclusion a logical speech would have consumed minutes over.
“Very well.”
“Captain, sir,” said Charlie up the voice-tube. “Yes?”
“Lieutenant Rudel is here. Can he speak to you ?”
“Very well.”
“Captain,” said Rudel’s voice, “I can try to line up this radar better. I don’t believe I can improve on it much, though. If at all, sir.”
“Can’t you do better than that?” snapped Krause.
“I made a written report on it four days ago, sir,” replied Rudel.
“So you did,” admitted Krause.
“I’d have to shut it down to work on it, sir.”
“How long for?”
“Two hours perhaps, sir. And I don’t guarantee results even then, sir, as I said.”
“Very well, Mr Rudel. Leave it as it is.”
Better a radar out of kilter than no radar at all. The night cometh when no man can work. There was much to do still.
The need to go down to the head was overpowering, and this seemed a favourable opportunity, the first since he had been called from his cabin. No; there was one other thing to do first. He was leaving Cadena to make her way back into the convoy by herself. She must not think she was being deserted; she did not have his knowledge of the tactical situation and must be reassured.
“Messenger! Write this. Comescort to Cadena. ‘Sub. now seven miles astern. Good-bye and good luck.’ Take that to the signal-bridge, Mr Nystrom, take the conn.”
He dashed down below, even in his present need still revolving that message in his mind. It was a grim situation when a message to the effect that a hostile submarine was seven miles away was meant to be heartening. But Cadena might have the sense to understand all that he implied. She would undoubtedly leave off zigzagging and sprint for the convoy for all she was worth.
“Signal bridge reports Cadena acknowledges message, sir,” said the messenger in greeting to him as he emerged on the bridge again.
“Very well.”
There were his additional clothes, lying on the radiator. It was stimulating even to see them. He took off his sheepskin coat--it was so long ago since he had unbuttoned the first button with this in mind--and his uniform coat. The act of picking up his sweater called his attention to the fact that he was still wearing his helmet. All the other men in the ship had discarded theirs the moment he had secured from battle stations, several hours back. But he himself had not had one single second in which to do the same. He had been running around weari
ng it all this time, like a kid in his big brother’s uniform.
“Hang this up,” he snapped at the messenger, tearing the thing off and handing it over.
But it was instantly mollifying to put that sweater on over his shirt. The sweater was hot from the radiator, wonderful. So was the scarf that he wound round his neck. He put his uniform coat on over this miraculous warmth. The hood was warm too, embosoming his freezing head and ears. He made fast the clip under his chin with a sense of gratitude to a generous world. Then the sheepskin coat again. He pressed his icy hands on the radiator for as long as he could bear it--not long--and then drew on the gloriously warm fur gloves. It was fantastic how two minutes could alter one’s whole outlook for the better-- or for the worse.
Wednesday. Dog Watches--1600-2000
Nystrom was standing beside him awaiting his attention.
“Report having been relieved, sir,” he said, saluting. “Course one-zero-zero. Standard speed twelve knots. We are making twelve knots, sir.”
“Very well.”
So it was four o’clock. Past four, and the watch had been relieved. The men coming off duty had been at their stations since the time when he had been foolish enough to sound general quarters. But now they could relax and rest, and he could build up the battle reserve he had so recklessly drawn upon. There was a long period of strain ahead and he must not draw upon that reserve except in the most desperate crisis. He must fight, as he had fought just now, in Condition Two; half the ship would be off duty then, able to take what rest they could with guns firing and depth-charges exploding. Plenty of them would sleep through it, so his extensive experience of the American sailor told him.
Charlie Cole, as he expected, was here on the bridge when the watch was relieved.
“Be sure the third and fourth sections get hot food, Commander.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
There was approval in the executive officer’s eye at the sight of his captain at least hooded and gauntleted and wrapped up, but there was no leisure for the exchange of further words, not with Keeling heading back towards action again. Yes, and they were not doing as well as they should. Another lapse. When they had turned away from the submarine he had forgotten, clean forgotten, to order an increase in speed. Even the “twelve knots” in
Nystrom’s report had not reminded him. He had wasted perhaps as much as five minutes in transferring Keeling from one scene of action to the other.
Harbutt was the officer of the deck, the youngest of all the watch-standing officers, fresh-faced and pink-complexioned. His childlike eyes looked innocently out from his hood like a baby’s. He hardly looked old enough to entrust with a row-boat on the lake in Central Park.
“Mr Harbutt!”
“Sir!”
“Increase speed. Try her with twenty-four knots.”
“Twenty-four knots. Aye aye, sir.”
Doubling the speed meant multiplying by four the rate at which they were overtaking the convoy. He could not judge yet whether their present course would take them clear of the right flank.
“Twenty-four knots by pit, sir.”
“Very well.”
The increase in speed was obvious in the way Keeling was meeting the seas. Like the rushing of mighty waters. From within the pilot-house he could feel and hear, rather than see, how she was taking it. Well enough.
“Messenger!”
“Yes, sir.”
“Bring me a cup of coffee. A pot of coffee. A big pot of coffee. And a sandwich. Tell the mess-boy I want one of my specials.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
There was just light enough to see the rearmost ships of the convoy, still plodding along. Now the T.B.S. calling him again. He had to unclip the hood and let it dangle round his face to get the ear-phone to his ear.
“Dicky to George! Dicky to George! “
“George to Dicky. Go ahead.”
“Asdic contact, sir. Distant contact, on our port bow.”
“Go after it then. I’m coming up behind you.”
“Eagle to George. Shall I join in, sir?”
Viktor and Dodge were three miles apart with the contact between them, nearer Dodge than Viktor. It would open a gap to call Viktor over. But the U-boat was only three miles ahead of the convoy. She only had to keep alive for twenty minutes to be in among it. If only he was up ahead where he could bring the weight of Keeling to bear!
“Very well, Eagle. Carry on. Good luck to you.” He was in a fever of impatience.
“Mr Harbutt, try her with another couple of knots. See if she can take it.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
They were close under the quarter of the last ship of the starboard column now, and overtaking her fast. Krause stepped out on to the port wing of the bridge to look at the convoy. Keeling took a deep roll as he did so, and his feet shot from under him. He saved himself from a bad fall by grabbing the rail, tried to stand, and lost his footing again as Keeling rolled the other way. This time his gloved hands almost lost their grip of the rail, and it was only by a convulsive effort that he caught himself again. The deck was glazed with ice as well as the rail. It called for the most elaborate precaution to stand at all. A wave smashed over Keeling’s port bow, clear over, rolling aft to burst in a leaping wall of water against the five-inch gun houses, a solid lump flying aft to hit him in the face as he stood. Keeling wallowed deeply and flung herself up the face of the next sea with a lunatic’s strength. By the time Krause had recovered his balance and his breath they had passed the rearmost ship and were closing up on the next ahead. It was so dark now that the ship farther on still, a bare half-mile from where he stood, was only visible as a thickening in the gloom. And it would soon be much darker than that. Keeling took another green wave on her bow, shuddering under the blow. Krause half slid, half walked back into the pilot-house.
“Slow her a bit, Mr Harbutt. She won’t take it.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
There was just light enough to see the Filipino mess-boy in his white coat. In his hands was a tray covered with a white napkin, as he had been taught to serve meals, and as he always would serve them, with U-boats on the horizon or not. He had obviously just tried to put the tray down on the pilot-house chart-table, and had as obviously been shooed away by the indignant quartermaster in jealous charge of the chart and instruments there. Now he stood unhappily holding it, surging with the heel of the ship--Krause knew exactly how, under the napkin, the cream--they still brought him up cream although they ought by now to know he never used it--and coffee were slopped over the tray-cloth. And worse might happen at any moment. The tray soared up and swooped down in the half-darkness as Keeling rose over a wave. Krause suddenly felt he could not bear the thought of that precious load falling to the deck. He grabbed at pot and cup, balanced himself, and poured the cup half-full. He balanced again, pot in one hand, cup in the other. In that second there was nothing in the whole world that he wanted as much as that coffee. His mouth was dry even though his face was still wet. He sipped thirstily at the scalding stuff, sipped again, and drained the cup. He could feel the comforting fire of it all the way down his throat. He smacked his lips like a savage, poured himself another half-cup, and, watching his moment, set the pot on the tray.
“Put that tray on the deck and don’t take your eye off it,” he said.
“Aye aye, sir.”
He drank again. It was only nine hours since he had breakfasted, but he did not think a man could possibly feel so thirsty or so hungry. The thought of pouring unlimited coffee into himself, and then of eating to ease his savage hunger filled him with exultation.
“Look-out reports gunfire on the port bow, sir,” said the talker.
Krause sprang to the T.B.S. He had been inattentive for three minutes. Eagle and Dicky were in rapid communication, the sentences snapping back and forth, straining at the leash of the trained manner; the English nonchalance was bursting at the seams.
“Bearing two-seven-oh from me.”
“I’m firing star-shell. Stand by.”
Gunfire. Star-shell. That meant a surfaced U-boat, And bearing two-seven-oh. That meant the U-boat was between the screen and the convoy, dashing in to charge. The darkness forward of the port beam was suddenly changed as the star-shell burst high in the sky, the brilliant white light dangling from its parachute. Wave tops caught the light. Close on the port beam the leading ship of the starboard column of the convoy was silhouetted against it. Keeling was back in the battle again.
“George to Dicky! George to Dicky! I’m turning across the convoy’s bows. Look out for me.”
“Wilco.”
“I’ll take her, Mr Harbutt.”
“Ave aye, sir.”
“Left full rudder. Meet her. Steady as you go.”
“Steady on course - - “
Krause did not trouble to listen to the figure given. He was content to be able to see that Keeling was shaving as near as he dared across the shadowy bows of the advancing convoy. The star-shell was extinguished. Reduce speed and start pinging? No time to spare for that; no need, with a sub on the surface. He rang the voice-tube bell, but at the same moment action began.
“Sub. Bearing broad on starboard bow. Range three-five-double oh.”
“Captain to gunnery control. ‘Do not fire without orders.’ “
Then down the voice-tube.
“See that we keep just clear of the convoy.”
He went to the T.B.S., and almost fell over the Filipino mess-boy still standing guard over the tray.
“Get below!”
Into the T.B.S.
“George to Dicky. George to Dicky. Star-shell again.”
Out on the starboard wing of the bridge he braced himself against the treacherous ice that glazed everything.
“Sub. bearing zero-four-two. Range three-two-double oh.”
Bearing changing as well as range. Somewhere in the darkness just ahead the U-boat was crossing Keeling’s bows, heading for the convoy. Keeling dipped and plunged in the high sea. Then it came, the streak of gold against the dark sky, and the miracle of light hanging in the heavens, lighting the sea, the wave tops, the ships; dazzling white, as bright as moonlight. And there, on Keeling’s starboard bow, not two miles ahead, the slinking grey shape hurrying over the silvered water, the grey wolf running at full stretch for the flock.
The Good Shepherd Page 10