The Good Shepherd

by C. S. Forester

  “Right standard rudder. Steer course zero-nine-five, sir.”

  The messenger was hovering beside him. “Signal-bridge reports Comconvoy in sight, sir. Message just coming in. Long message, sir.”

  “Very well.”

  And here was pink-faced Dawson, the communications officer, freshly shaved and spruce, with his clip-board of messages.

  “Anything important, Mr. Dawson?”

  “Nothing special, sir.” Thank God for that. “Except the two weather forecasts, sir.”

  More freezing weather? Snowstorms? Gales?

  “What do they say?”

  “It’s going to moderate, sir. By twenty hundred wind south to south-west, force three.” “Thank you, Mr. Dawson.”

  As Krause turned to the T.B.S. the fleeting thought passed through his mind that Dawson now would be going down to the wardroom and would have breakfast. Ham and eggs, probably, and buck-wheat cakes, a stack swimming in syrup. And coffee, gallons of coffee.

  “She’s doubled round the other way, sir,” said the T.B.S. “We’re turning to port, course oh-six-oh, sir.”

  “Very well. Keep after her. I’ll come round on to your starboard quarter. Over. Right standard rudder. Steer course one-two-five.”

  “Right standard rudder. Steer course one-two-five, sir. Steady on course one-two-five.”

  “Very well.”

  The ranges and bearings reported by the talker were being noted by his mind as they came in. For the moment Keeling was not the active pursuer; Viktor had taken over that role and he was jockeying Keeling into position to charge in again if Viktor were balked. In this comparatively passive role--although they were likely to exchange at any moment--he had more leisure than when hot on the U-boat’s heels. More leisure, even though that was not a great deal, but time at least to take the signal-pad from the waiting messenger from the signal-bridge. Even time to feel, before his eyes focused on it, a feeling of sick apprehension in his stomach while he prepared to read.

  COMCONVOY TO COMESCORT. KNOWN LOSSES DURING NIGHT . . .

  Four names staring at him in the signalman’s ill-formed print; he went on to read that the convoy was straggling badly and that the list might not be complete. Cadena had saved some lives. Comconvoy went on to submit that it was necessary to cover the rear of the convoy in consequence of straggling.

  CHANCE OF PICKING UP SURVIVORS.

  “Eagle to George! Eagle to George! She’s still going on round. You’ll be crossing her bows, sir.”

  “Very well. I’ll attack.”

  Krause waited for a range and bearing. He did trigonometry in his head and thought about the U-boat skipper.

  “I’ll come in on course one-two-zero. Over. Left smartly to course one-two-zero.”

  But the next bearing told him that the submarine was turning back in the opposite direction.

  “Right rudder--handsomely.”

  He had been going to give a course when inspiration came to him, and then inspiration was confirmed by the next bearing that came in.

  “Meet her! Left rudder! Steady as you go! “

  “Sonar reports contact dead ahead close range.”

  Inspiration and prompt action had brought its reward; he had this elusive fellow right under his bows. It had been not a feint but a double feint and he was lunging past the disengaged foil.

  “Mr Pond!”

  “Standing by, sir.”

  “Sonar reports no contact, sir.”

  “Fire one! “ said Pond. “Fire two! “

  Down went the depth-charges, and the first deep rumble and lofty pillar of water marked the descent of the first. Sonar, accurate and sensitive though it was, had many serious defects. It could make not even a rough estimate of the depth of the pursued submarine, it gave no results at a closer range than three hundred yards, it could only be used at speeds of twelve knots or less, and it was deafened for several minutes by depth-charge explosions. A destroyer captain was under the same handicap as a duck hunter with a beautiful hard-hitting gun would be with weights on his wrists to slow down his swing, with no power of estimating the height of the flying duck, and as if he had to shut his eyes two seconds before he pulled the trigger and keep them shut for half a minute afterwards.

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

  The deficiencies of sonar should be made good one way or another; improvements in design might make it more robust; it should not be difficult to devise a gun or a sling that would throw a depth-charge a quarter of a mile ahead --but then the depth-charge would go off just as the destroyer was over it and it would blow the bottom out of her.

  “Steady on course two-one-zero.”

  “Very well.”

  These thunderous explosions, those volcanoes of water, had brought no results. Not one of the four depth-charges in that pattern had burst within the necessary thirty yards of the hidden target. Viktor was coming round to take up the attack, and the messenger from the signal-bridge was still at his elbow. Krause had a brief interval available in which to divert his weary mind from the problem of fighting an individual U-boat to a consideration of the welfare of the convoy as a whole; he could re-read that horrible message. A chance of picking up survivors; a chance--the torpedoings had been some hours ago and they would be many miles behind. If they were on life-rafts they would be dead by now in this tossing icy sea. If they were in boats --no, it would take even a destroyer all day to go back, search for them, and rejoin the convoy.

  “Eagle to George. We’ve got her ten degrees on our starboard bow, sir.”

  “Very well. Come on round after her.”

  Cover the rear of the convoy? He wished he had a ship to spare to do that. Four names on that list of the lost; that made six ships out of the convoy which had been sunk during this twenty-four-hour battle. Dead men by the hundred. And of the enemy one probable sinking and one faintly possible. Would Washington think that was a profitable exchange in this bloody game of beggar-your-neighbour? Would London? Would Doenitz, in his case-mated advance headquarters at Lorient? No matter what anyone thought, was it basically profitable? And no matter even then; he had his duty to do, whether it was a losing phase of the war or a winning one. He could only go on, fight on to the end of his strength.

  “Eagle to George. Attacking now.”

  Range and bearing from the talker, noted automatically by the weary mind. Lieutenant Fippler the gunner officer, awaiting his attention--what could he want? Viktor’s first depth-charge was exploding.

  “Come right handsomely. Meet her! Steady!”

  Keeling’s bows were pointed at the fringe of the area of tortured water, to lose no time in making the next attack if one were possible. And still he held the message-pad in his hand, and still the wind blew--no sign of moderating as yet--and still Keeling rose and plunged and corkscrewed over the heaving sea. He handed back the message-pad.

  “Very well,” he said. There was nothing else to say in that respect. He was doing all he could. This is the day which the Lord hath made.

  “Stand by, Mr Pond!”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  The next bearing showed that the U-boat had turned aside, as was to be expected.

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

  Krause was just conscious of that hesitation in his order, and was indignant with himself as far as there was time to be. He had had to glance at the repeater before giving that course; with these distractions he had not been able to carry the tactical situation in his head.

  “Sonar reports no contact, sir.”

  “Very well.”

  “Fire one! “ said Pond.

  Krause turned to Fippler now. Those seconds while the pattern was being fired, while the depth-charges tumbled down through the dark water, were for Krause moments of freedom, when he could turn his mind to other matters. He need not grow expectant or hopeful about the result of the attack until the depth-charges had had time to burst and the sub had had time to give
evidence of damage--if she were damaged.

  “Well, Mr Fippler?”

  He raised his hand in reply to Fippler’s salute. Fippler was being very formal; not a good sign.

  “If you please, cap’n, I have to report about the consumption of depth-charges.”

  Depth-charges were exploding behind them at this moment.

  “Well?”

  “Thirty-four expended, sir. This pattern makes thirty-eight.”

  In the last twenty-four hours Keeling had flung more than seven tons of high explosive over the side. “Well?”

  “We’ve only six left, sir. That’s all. I got the extra ones up that we had up our sleeve from the crew’s living quarters last watch.”

  “I see.”

  One more burden on his shoulders. A destroyer without depth-charges might be as wise as a serpent, but would be as harmless as a dove. But the present pattern was completed. He had to handle his ship.

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

  A minute more--one only--to decide upon his orders. Yesterday, before he became an experienced fighting man, these seconds would be spent in eager watching, at a time when nothing could really be expected for quite an interval, a whole minute, perhaps.

  “Thank you, Mr Fippler. We must leave off firing patterns, then.”

  “That’s what I was going to suggest, sir.”

  Six depth-charges left? One day’s fighting had consumed nearly all the supply. Not much more fighting would exhaust it altogether. Yet the mathematicians had calculated the odds; the size of the area searched by a pattern varied with the square of the number of depth-charges. Halve the pattern and the chances of a hit were only a quarter of the previous chance. Divide it by three and the chances were only one-ninth. Only one-ninth. Yet on the other hand a single depth-charge bursting within the hearing of a U-boat had an important moral effect, would deter it, would induce it to take evasive action, at least for a time.

  There had been time enough now for the last pattern to have taken effect, if it had. Krause looked back over the starboard quarter, at the area where the foam of explosions was dying away. There was nothing but foam to be seen there. Viktor was hovering, waiting to pick up the contact.

  Regarding the question of future patterns. To-morrow morning he would just be within the radius of air cover. All the classified pamphlets he had read, all the lectures he had heard at Casco Bay, had emphasized the reluctance of U-boats to engage under the menace of air attack. With the weather moderating he might expect some air cover. Moreover, it was notorious that recently U-boats had refrained from attacking convoys in the eastern quarter of the Atlantic. Those secret charts of sinkings, month by month, that he had seen, all demonstrated this fact.

  “Eagle to George! He’s turning inside us again. On our starboard bow. Range about one-one-double oh.”

  Krause gauged the distances and bearings with his eye.

  “Very well. Keep after him now. We’ll come in on him next time round.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  “Quartermaster, right standard rudder. Steer course zero-nine-five.”

  Krause visualized the pattern of three depth-charges, in line, and the pattern of four, diamond shaped, and the other pattern of three, “V” shaped. He remembered the blackboard at Casco Bay, and the diagrams there with the small circles showing the “limits of lethal effect” dotted over the three-hundred-yard circle marking “limits of possible position of sub” Mathematically the pattern of four was far superior to the pattern of three.

  He listened to Eagle again on the T.B.S., gauged her course, waited for the next sonar report, and turned Keeling again further to starboard.

  During the past twenty-four hours he had been prodigal with his depth-charges, as he had when a little boy been prodigal with his pennies on his first entrance into the County Fair. But in those days when, with empty pockets, he had ruefully contemplated all the other things for which he needed money a kindly father and a smiling mother had each of them smuggled a dime, a whole dime each, into his hot hands; when dimes were important to buy food in that household. But now there was no one to refill Keeling’s magazines with the depth-charges he had squandered. Krause shook off the memories which had crowded, in one single second, into his tired brain. For that one second in that bleak and cheerless pilot-house he had felt the hot Californian sunshine, and heard the barkers and the calliope, and smelt the cattle, and tasted the spun sugar--and known the utter confidence of the child with a loving parent on either side of him. Now he was alone, with decisions to make.

  “We’ll fire single charges, Mr Fippler,” he said. “The timing will have to be exact. Allow for the last estimated course of the target and for the time of the drop according to the depth setting.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  “See that the torpedo officers at the release stations are instructed to that effect before they come on duty. I won’t have time.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  “Tell Mr Pond now. Very well, Mr Fippler.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Right standard rudder. Steer course two-eight-seven.”

  That was the best course to intercept.

  “George to Eagle! I’m coming in now.”

  The single depth-charge could make no attempt to allow for the U-boat’s evasive action. It could only be dropped where she would be if she took none. That was not a likely spot; but the odds against any other spot were far higher. The single charge made it more urgent than ever that he should take Keeling in to the attack with the utmost exactitude. But he always had tried to do that; he could not be more exact than he had been. He had to think clearly, methodically, and unemotionally, even if he had to goad his exhausted mind to perform its functions, even though it was becoming agonizingly urgent that he should get down to the head, even though he was thirsty and hungry and his joints ached vilely.

  It was time to vary his methods; the U-boat captain might have grown accustomed to the routine Keeling had been employing lately.

  “George to Eagle. I shall come straight through after attacking this time. Keep on my port bow and move in down my wake as soon as I am clear.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  Thursday. Forenoon Watch--0800-1200

  He listened to the ranges and bearings; there was no chance of the sub turning inside him. He realized now that some time back, when Fippler was addressing him, the watch had been changing. A different voice had repeated his helm orders; there had been a coming and going in the pilot-house. Carling was back again awaiting an opportunity to report; but Nourse was at the depth-charge release, the telephone instrument at his lips. He was glad to see him there.

  “Very well, Mr Carling.”

  Carling had had some hours of sleep, and his belly was full of ham and eggs, and he was in no pressing hurry to get to the head.

  “Contact bearing two-eight-two. Range close.”

  A good interception, tangential to the circle in which the U-boat was presumably turning, as far as he could calculate.

  “Mr Noursel”

  Nourse was timing the moment carefully. “Fire one! “ said Nourse.

  The single depth-charge seemed strange and out of place after all those patterns of four. Keeling kept steadily on her course. Here came Viktor, steering to pass port side to port side, very close indeed, changing rapidly from a full face silhouette to a detailed picture of a ship in profile in frosted ice, the Polish ensign blowing briskly in the breeze, her commission pennant streaming; the muffled-up figures of her look-outs were clearly visible, the people on her bridge--Krause did not know if the British liaison officer to whom he was talking was there or lower down-- and then the depth-charge crews at their exposed station astern.

  “Eagle to George. Do we look as cold as you do, sir?”

  So he had to joke as well as fight U-boats. He had to goad his weary mind into a prompt reaction, and think of some light-hearted wisecrack, and he was a man who joked with d
ifficulty. He thought academically along the lines of what he believed would be considered funny, and produced an academic pun.

  “George to Eagle. You look North Polish.”

  Keeling’s port bow smacked into Viktor’s wake as soon as she passed. Back to business.

  “George to Eagle. I am turning to port. Quartermaster, left standard rudder. Steer course zero-zero-zero.”

  He had reversed the circle, turning anti-clockwise now after several clockwise circles. But perhaps the U-boat captain was paralleling his thoughts.

  He went out on to the port wing of the bridge, treading warily on the treacherous surface, and watched Viktor going down to attack. With the bearing changing so rapidly it was not easy to tell by eye if she was altering course at all while running down her contact. The pilothouse even with its shattered windows was warmer, when he returned to it, than the wing of the bridge.

  “Eagle to George. We’ve got her right ahead.”

  He hoped it would be an unpleasant surprise for the U-boat captain to emerge from one attack and find himself steering straight into another. He hoped more passionately that the attack would be successful, that Viktor’s next pattern would shatter the sub into an uncontrollable derelict. He saw the depth-charge explosions; three only, one in the wake and one on each side. Viktor was using a “V” shaped pattern, then, one charge for the place where the U-boat ought to be and one on each side allowing for a turn to starboard or to port.

  “George to Eagle. I am turning to port. Keep away.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  “Left full rudder. Steer course zero-six-nine.”

  Keeling headed for the centre of the magic circle that she and Viktor marked out with their wakes.

  “Contact bearing zero-seven-nine. Range distant.”

  That looked as if the U-boat had doubled back after Viktor’s attack. He would know better with the next reading; meanwhile he must keep his bows on the target.

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

  “Sonar reports contact dead ahead. Range distant.”

  Was the U-boat on a reciprocal course, then? Towards? or away ?

  “Captain to sonar. ‘Is there any Doppler effect?’ “