The Good Shepherd

by C. S. Forester

  While the coffee cooled he bit into the sandwich. No onion, just bread and cold corned beef and mayonnaise, but he found himself in the darkness snapping at it like a wolf, biting and chewing frantically. During the last sixteen hours or so of ceaseless activity he had eaten half a sandwich. The present one vanished in a few bites, and Krause lingeringly licked the traces of mayonnaise from his fingers before addressing himself to the coffee. It was now exactly cool enough--just hotter than most people would care to drink it--and he emptied the cup without taking it from his lips and poured himself another in passionate anticipation. He sipped at it; Keeling was pitching very considerably and heeling a good deal, but he held the cup level in the darkness even when an unexpected lurch caused him to shift his footing. A towering pitch on Keeling’s part sent the coffee, when next he sipped, surging up his upper lip as far as his nose, and it ran down to drip from his chin, but he drank all the rest and felt in the darkness for the pot hoping there would be a third cupful in it. Of course there was not--there never was; only, as far as he could guess, a thimbleful at the bottom of the pot which he tossed off.

  It crossed his mind that he could send for another pot, but he virtuously put the temptation aside. He would not be led astray into self-indulgence; he could be firm in the matter of coffee when he had had nearly enough. He had cast the napkin aside from the tray in his initial eagerness, and now it was hopeless to try to find it in the darkness; his handkerchief was out of reach in his bundled clothes, but he wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, secure in the knowledge no one could see him, and then pulled on his glove again. He had eaten and drunk without a moment’s interruption, and the food and drink brightened his outlook; his momentary depression had vanished. Yet as he moved away from the table he was very conscious of fatigue in his legs--the first time he had noticed it. He determined at that same moment not to notice it; he had often enough before stood balancing on a heaving deck for sixteen hours at a stretch. There was duty still to be done, and endless vistas of days and nights of duty.

  “What do you have on the screen?” he asked down the voice-pipe.

  Someone down there gave him distances and bearings; the convoy half a mile abaft his starboard beam although out of sight. A pip three miles ahead.

  “That’s the British corvette, sir.”

  “Very well.”

  “Screen’s very fuzzy, sir. And it’s jumping, too.”

  “Very well.”

  Over the T.B.S.

  “George to Harry. Do you hear me?”

  “Harry to George. I hear you. Strength three.”

  “You bear from me zero-eight-zero. Do you have me on your screen?”

  “Yes, we have you, bearing two-six-two, distance three and a half miles.”

  “Very well. I’ll cross astern of you. I’ll reduce speed and start sonar search now.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  He put down the hand-set.

  “Mr Nystrom, we’ll come down to standard speed. Start sonar search.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  “Set a course to pass astern of James and Viktor. Keep well clear of the convoy.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  Krause’s leg weariness asserted itself again, to his considerable annoyance. He had no business to feel tired yet. And he was gloomily conscious that despite his recent meal depression was only just over the horizon of his mind. He knew it because suddenly, agonizingly, the thought of Evelyn came up into his mind. Evelyn and her handsome black-haired young San Diego lawyer. That was a dreadful thought here in this dark Atlantic night, heaving over a black invisible ocean. Evelyn was quite justified in growing tired of him, he supposed. He was dull. And he had quarrelled with her--he should not have done so, but it was hard to avoid it when she resented the amount of time he spent in his ship; she could not understand--that was his fault for not being able to explain. A cleverer man would have made his feelings, his compulsions, clear to her. Three years ago now, and the memories as bitter as ever.

  Thinking about it was every bit as bad as the actual experience had been. “Fitted and retained”--those hideous words which meant so much to him and so little to Evelyn. The quarrels, and then the piercing frightful pain of the news about Evelyn and the lawyer. The pain was as bad as ever, far worse than anything physical Krause had ever experienced. Two years the marriage had lasted; a month of happiness--shamefaced happiness. Evelyn’s amused astonishment at finding she had married a man who knelt down and said his prayers in all sincerity night and morning; her slightly more irritated surprise that her husband would not leave some dull duty in his ship to his executive officer in order to attend a party; these spoilt it a little.

  Krause tried to shake off the memories; he was not self-analytical enough to be aware that this was typical mid-watch depression, that it was in these hours when vitality was at a low ebb between midnight and four in the morning that he was assailed by these regrets and yearnings, but he struggled against them. For that matter, it was because of that black-haired lawyer that he was here now, on the tossing Atlantic. He had asked for service on the Atlantic seaboard; he could not face the possibility of seeing Evelyn in San Diego or Coronado, or of hearing fragments of gossip about her. If it had not been for that lawyer he might have died along with so many of his friends at Pearl Harbour.

  That could have been a cheering thought, but Krause did not find it so. In part this black mood was due to the reaction from the tension of war-like operations. Krause, like many good fighting men, felt a sharp keying-up, something akin to exhilaration, in battle, and now, in this comparatively quiet moment, he was paying for it with interest, the more painfully because this was the first time he had had the experience. His infinite sadness encompassed him as closely and as impenetrably as the darkness of the night, while he stood on the bridge suffering useless agonies thinking about Evelyn and her lawyer, and wishing for the moon, wishing that in some impossible fashion he had been able to bring both experience and purity to his marriage. The ping-ping of the sonar was a dirge of his dead happiness.

  “Eagle on the T.B.S., sir,” said Nystrom, and Krause went to it.

  “Eagle to George! Eagle to George! “

  Urgency in that English voice.

  “George to Eagle. Go ahead.”

  “Contact bearing oh-five-oh from us. We’re running it down.”

  “I’ll turn towards it. What range?”

  “Very distant.”

  “Very well.”

  The sadness was gone, not only gone but forgotten, as if it had never been. Krause called down to the chartroom for a course.

  “I’ll take her now, Mr Nystrom.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  “Dicky to George. Dicky to George! “

  The T.B.S. summoned him at the moment when he had given the new course.

  “We’ve got a contact too. Distant, bearing nine-seven. And we’ve got a pip as well. Bearing one-oh-one, range twelve miles.”

  “Very well. I’ll come over to you after I’ve helped Eagle.”

  “George! George!” Another voice breaking into the circuit. “Harry here. Do you hear me?” “George to Harry. I hear you.”

  “We’ve got a pip. Range twelve miles, bearing two-four.”

  “Very well.” Something must be said besides “very well.” “I’ll send Eagle to you as soon as I can.”

  This was a fresh attack, perhaps the decisive one, timed for this moment, with the middle watch half-through and vitality and alertness at their lowest in the blackest part of the night.

  “Eagle to George. Contact’s turning. Looks as if she’s heading your way.”

  “Very well.”

  “Sonar reports contact, sir. Distant, bearing zero-nine-zero.”

  “Very well.”

  So nearly dead ahead that there was no purpose in altering course yet.

  “Eagle to George. Contact bearing two-seven-one from me. Range one mile.”

  “It bears zero-nine-zero from me,
distant contact.”

  “Oh-nine-oh, distant. Aye aye, sir. We’re turning after it.”

  “I’ll alter course to zero-eight-five.”

  “Oh-eight-five. Aye aye, sir.”

  Otherwise the two ships, not much more than two miles apart, would be heading straight for each other in the darkness.

  “Left smartly to course zero-eight-five.”

  “Left smartly to course zero-eight-five, sir. Steady on course zero-eight-five.”

  “Sonar reports contact ahead, bearing indefinite. Strong up Doppler.”

  Strong up Doppler; as he had expected, U-boat and Keeling were heading almost straight for each other at the moment the report was transmitted.

  “Eagle to George. Contact’s still turning. Bearing two-seven-six. Range one-five-double oh. We’re still turning after it.”

  “I’ll hold my course at present.”

  Two ships setting to partners in the dark. The sub might complete its circle; she might double back in an “S” turn. The problem was either to intercept her or drive her back upon Viktor, and to do one or other of these things, or both, without collision and without interference with each other’s instruments.

  “Dicky to George! I am attacking.”

  The Canadian voice had broken in.

  “Very well.”

  This was like a juggler keeping three balls in the air at once.

  “Sonar reports contact bearing zero-eight-seven. Range one mile. No Doppler.”

  “Who’s on the sonar?”

  “Ellis, sir,” replied the talker.

  That was good; there was less chance of being deceived by a pillenwerfer.

  “Eagle to George. It looks as if she’s turning back again.”

  “Very well. I’ll go on holding my course.”

  “Sonar reports distant explosions, sir.”

  “Very well.”

  That would be Dicky’s depth-charges going off.

  “Sonar reports contact dead ahead. Strong up Doppler. Range fifteen hundred yards.”

  “Very well. George to Eagle. He’s coming right at me again. Keep clear.”

  “Eagle to George. Aye aye, sir.”

  That English voice was cold and steady, bearing no hint of the excitement of the hunt.

  “Eagle to George. We are on course oh-one-oh.”

  Viktor was squarely astern of the U-boat, and heading to intercept her if she turned to starboard.

  “Sonar reports contact dead ahead. Strong up Doppler. Range twelve hundred yards.”

  Apparently the U-boat had not detected Keeling’s presence as yet. All her attention had been directed to evading Viktor, possibly; or her listening devices had been confused by Viktor’s nearness; or the fact that U-boat and Keeling were exactly bow to bow might be rendering them ineffective.

  “Sonar reports contact confused, sir. Approximately dead ahead. No Doppler. Range approximately eleven hundred.”

  “Very well.”

  The U-boat must by now have become aware of Keeling’s presence, and was doing something about it.

  “Sonar reports contact dead ahead. It’s a pill, sir. Range one thousand.”

  She had let loose a pillenwerfer; Ellis had detected that, but the bubbling thing had prevented him from ascertaining what new course the U-boat had taken.

  “Sonar reports possible contact bearing zero-nine-two, range eleven hundred yards. Pill, still dead ahead.”

  So the U-boat had altered course to port most likely; that was its best chance. And thanks to the pillenwerfer she had increased her distance--she had stolen a march on Keeling.

  “Right standard rudder. Steer course one-zero-zero. George to Eagle. Contact seems to have altered course to port and dropped a pill. I am altering course to starboard. One-zero-zero.”

  “One-double oh. Aye aye, sir.”

  “Sonar reports confused contact, sir, on port bow.”

  With Keeling turning, the contact would be likely to be indefinite.

  “Eagle to George. We’ve only got the pill, sir. No other contact.”

  “Very well.”

  Keeling and Viktor had the sub between them, and although on their present courses they would be rapidly separating it was the best arrangement until the situation cleared up.

  “Sonar reports confused contact bearing zero-eight-five. Range twelve hundred yards. Sounds like the pill.”

  Undoubtedly it was the pill; but it was hard to imagine what the sub was doing. A sudden sharp alteration of depth might have added to the confusion. Better to hold on as he was doing even though both he and Viktor were diverging from the last-known position of the sub

  “Sonar reports contact bearing zero-eight-zero. Range thirteen hundred yards. Contact weak.”

  Getting too far away altogether.

  “Left smartly to zero-nine-zero. George to Eagle. I am turning to port. Course zero-nine-zero.”

  “Course oh-nine-oh. Aye aye, sir.”

  “Steady on course zero-nine-zero.”

  “Very well.”

  “Sonar reports faint additional contact, range indefinite, bearing three-five-zero.”

  Three-five-zero? Right abaft his beam despite his turn?

  “George to Eagle. Do you get anything bearing three-five-zero from me? Range indefinite.” “We’ll try, sir. Three-five-oh.”

  There was something strange about this. But there was always likely to be something strange about a blindfold hunt for an enemy below water.

  “Eagle to George! Eagle to George! We’ve got something. Very faint. Bearing two-two-oh from us.”

  “Get after it, then, quick.”

  Abaft Viktor’s beam, too. Much nearer the safety of the convoy with its propeller noises. Almost out of the danger circles drawn by the wheeling destroyer. The sub had fooled them both completely. Hard to imagine what she had done. Perhaps she had dropped two pillenwerfers and circled sharply between them and had got away at a very different depth. Viktor had less of a turn to make than he had. Better to send her after the contact while he turned away out of her wake and came down on the outside.

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

  Keeling came round, wallowing in the trough, corkscrewing on the quartering sea, and the hunt went on again. Round and round went the destroyers, chasing the faint contacts, dodging each other as they passed in the darkness. Viktor just headed off the U-boat from the convoy; Keeling missed her as she circled, and Viktor missed her as she doubled back. Then closer contacts. Depth-charges from Viktor. Depth-charges from Keeling, rumbling in the windy night, momentarily illuminating the fathomless depths below, and deafening the sonar so that there were long anxious waits before the search could be resumed. Bearings and courses called back and forth between the ships. Circle and turn. This U-boat captain was a foxy fellow. Seas coming in over the low freeboard as Keeling turned her defenceless quarter into them; seas crashing against the forecastle as she wheeled towards them. Hunting and hunting, with every small indication of vital importance; straining to keep the mind alert to draw rapid deductions from vague data. Sudden reports coming in from James and Dodge, out on the flanks, fighting their own battles, but with their situation having to be borne in mind as well. “Left rudder.” “Right rudder.” Orders repeated. Orders countermanded as Viktor turned unexpectedly. A tiring game with death, but never tedious with every moment tense.

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

  “Right standard rudder to - - “

  “Sonar reports torpedoes fired, sir.”

  The talker broke in on the quartermaster’s repetition of Krause’s order, and tension acutely rose in the pilothouse where it had seemed as if tension could not possibly be screwed up any tighter.

  “George to Eagle. Torpedoes fired.”

  “We heard ‘em, sir.”

  “Steady on course zero-four-zero,” said the quartermaster. There was discipline in the pilot-house.

  Torpedoes; the quarry had poison
fangs and was slashing back with them at its tormentors.

  “Sonar reports torpedoes’ sound fading out,” said the talker.

  They were not aimed at Keeling, therefore. That had seemed likely to Krause already, bearing in mind her changing course and distance from the contact.

  “Eagle to George. We are turning away.” The English liaison officer’s voice was positively more languid than usual. “Course oh-seven-oh. Oh-eight-oh.”

  Krause stared out into the darkness where the torpedoes were speeding at fifty knots towards Viktor. There might be a sheet of flame and a detonating explosion out there in five more seconds. Subs, did not fire torpedoes at escorting vessels as often as one might have expected. They were too small and too elusive a target and of too shallow a draft. And probably Doenitz’s orders were strict that each U-boat should do her best to expend all her twenty-two torpedoes on bulging cargo vessels.

  “Sonar reports - - “

  “Eagle to George. Those torpedoes have missed, sir.”

  “Very well.” He could be as nonchalant as any Englishman. No; better not to pose; better to try to establish a warm relationship. “Thank God for that. I was worried about you.”

  “Oh, we can look after ourselves, sir. Thank you all the same.”

  But those were precious seconds to waste on amenities. No time to spare, not with a U-boat trying to break out of the circle. Krause snapped an order over his shoulder at the helmsman before speaking into the T.B.S. again.

  “We’re coming in on course zero-eight-zero.”

  “Oh-eight-oh. Aye aye, sir. We’ll keep away to starboard.”

  Viktor’s compulsory turn away had stretched the circle almost to breaking point--it was to gain herself that relief that the sub had fired the torpedoes, perhaps; only with a faint hope of making a hit. It was necessary to narrow the circle again, to press the pursuit, to continue the contest, as always with one destroyer trying to close in, one steering to intercept, each ready to exchange roles in the intricate figures of the movements in the stormy dark--desperate manoeuvres like nothing ever contemplated by admirals a few years ago planning peace-time exercises under “simulated wartime conditions.” Left rudder Right rudder. Deep pattern. Thunder and storm and strain. And James firing star-shells out on the left flank, while look-outs reported gunfire in that direction, and sonar reported distant explosions as Dodge fought off attackers on the right, and the convoy lumbered along in the darkness, heading eastward, steadily eastward, towards infinitely distant safety.