He could take his breakfast. And then he could bathe and change even though it seemed highly irregular to do so at this time and not at the beginning of a new day.
He turned away from the stranger in the mirror, satisfied that he was properly shaved, and then he stood still, with one hand on the chair back and his eyes cast down to the deck on which he stood.
“Yesterday, and today, and forever,” he said to himself, as he always did when he had passed his own inspection. That was a passage from Hebrews XIII; it marked the fact that he was starting out on a fresh stage of his journey through the temporary world, to the grave and to immortality beyond it. He gave the necessary attention to that train of thought; and while his mind was so occupied his body automatically retained its balance, for the ship was rolling and pitching as only a destroyer can roll and pitch—as she had rolled and pitched without ceasing for the past several days. The deck was rising and falling beneath his feet, inclining sharply to port and starboard, forward and aft, sometimes seemingly changing its mind, with a tremor, in mid-movement, interrupting the rhythm of the rattle of the scant furnishings of the cabin under the urging of the vibration of the propellers.
Of the twenty years which had elapsed since Krause’s graduation from Annapolis, thirteen had been spent at sea, and mostly in destroyers, so that his body was amply accustomed to retaining its balance in a rolling ship, even at those moments when Krause himself was thinking about the immortality of the soul and the transience of earthly things.
Krause raised his eyes and reached for the sweater that was the next garment he had planned to put on. Before his hand touched it there came a loud note from the bell on the bulkhead, and from the voice tube issued the voice of Lieutenant Carling, who had taken over the deck when the ship secured from general quarters.
“Captain to the bridge, sir,” said Carling. “Captain to the bridge, sir.”
There was urgency in the voice. Krause’s hand changed its objective. It snatched, not the sweater, but the uniform coat dangling on its hanger. With his other hand Krause swept aside the fiberglass curtain that screened the doorway, and in his shirtsleeves, still holding the coat, he plunged for the bridge. Seven seconds elapsed between the time when the bell sounded its note to the time when Krause entered the pilothouse. He did not have another second in which to look around him.
“Harry’s made a contact, sir,” said Carling.
Krause sprang to the radio telephone—the T.B.S., the “talk between ships.”
“George to Harry. George to Harry. Go ahead.”
He swung to his left as he spoke, staring out over the heaving sea. Three and a half miles to port was the Polish destroyer Viktor; three and a half miles beyond her was H.M.S. James; she was on Viktor’s quarter, considerably aft; from the pilothouse she was only just visible around the corner of the superstructure, and at that distance she was often invisible, when both she and Keeling were down in the trough. Now she was off her course, heading northward away from the convoy, presumably following up her contact. It was the James who called herself Harry in the T.B.S. code. As Krause’s eyes focused on her the telephone bleated. No amount of distortion could disguise the peculiar English intonation of the voice.
“Distant contact, sir. Bearing three five five. Request permission to attack.”
Eleven words, one of which might possibly be omitted; but they presented a problem of enormous complexity, in which a score of factors had to be correlated—and to which a solution had to be found in as few seconds as possible. Krause’s eye sought the repeater and a well-accustomed mind simplified one factor in a moment. A contact bearing three five five lay, on the present leg of the zigzag, just forward of the port beam. James, as the wing ship of the four-ship escort, was three miles to port of the convoy. The U-boat—if indeed the contact indicated the presence of a U-boat, which was by no means certain—then must lie several miles from the convoy, and not far forward of the convoy’s port beam. A glance at the clock; in fourteen minutes another change of course was due. This would be to starboard, turning the convoy definitely away from the U-boat. That was a point in favor of leaving the U-boat alone.
There were other factors favoring the same decision. There were only four fighting ships for the whole screen, only sufficient when all were in station to cover the whole immense front of the convoy by sonar search. Detach one—or two—and there would be practically no screen, only gaps through which other U-boats might well slip. It was a weighty factor, but there was a factor more weighty still, the question of fuel consumption—the factor that had burdened the mind of every naval officer since sail. James would have to work up to full speed; she would be detached far off the convoy’s course. She might be searching for hours, and whatever the result of the search, she would have to rejoin the convoy, which most likely would be heading away from her during the whole search. That would mean an hour, or two, or three, at high speed, with an extra consumption of some tons of fuel. There was fuel to spare, but little enough, only a small reserve. Was it advisable, at this moment, with action only just beginning, to make inroads upon that reserve? During Krause’s lifetime of professional training no point had been more insisted on than that every wise officer kept a reserve in hand to employ at the crisis of a battle. It was an argument—the constant argument—in favor of caution.
But then on the other hand a contact had been made. It was possible—it might even just be called likely—that a U-boat might be killed. The killing of a U-boat would be a substantial success in itself. And the consequences might be more important still. If that U-boat were allowed to depart unharmed, she could surface, and by her radio she could inform German U-boat headquarters of the presence of shipping at this point in the Atlantic—shipping that could only be Allied shipping, that could only be targets for U-boat torpedoes. That was the least the U-boat might do; she might surface, and, making use of her surface speed, twice that of the convoy, she might keep the latter under observation, determine its speed and base course, and call up—if German headquarters had not already issued such orders—a wolf pack of colleagues to intercept and to launch a mass attack. If she were destroyed, nothing of this could happen; if she were even kept down for an hour or two while the convoy again made good its escape, the business of finding the convoy again would be made much more difficult for the Germans, much more prolonged, possibly too difficult altogether.
“Still making contact, sir,” squawked the telephone.
It was twenty-four seconds since Krause had arrived on the bridge, fifteen seconds since he had been confronted with the complex problem in its entirety. It was fortunate that during hours on the bridge, during hours solitary in his cabin, Krause had thought deeply about similar problems. No possible amount of thinking could envisage every circumstance; the present case—the exact bearing of the contact, the current fuel situation, the position of the convoy, the time of day—added up to one out of thousands of possible situations. And there were other factors that Krause had envisaged as well; he was an American officer whom the chances of war had tossed into the command of an Allied convoy. A freak of seniority had put under the orders of him, who had never heard a shot fired in anger, a group of hard-bitten young captains of other nations with the experience of thirty months of war. That introduced a number of factors of enormous importance but not susceptible of exact calculation like a fuel-consumption problem—not even as culable as the chances of effecting a kill after making a contact. What would the captain of the James think of him if he refused permission to attack? What would the seamen in the convoy think of him if other U-boats got in through the screen so dangerously attenuated by that permission? When the reports started to come in would one government querulously complain to another that he had been too rash? Or too cautious? Would officers of one navy shake their heads pityingly, and officers of another navy try halfheartedly to defend him? Gossip flies rapidly in an armed service; seamen can talk even in wartime
until their complaints reach the ears of congressmen or members of parliament. Allied goodwill depended to some extent on his decision; and upon allied goodwill depended ultimate victory and the freedom of the world. Krause had envisaged these aspects of his problem, too, but in the present case they could not affect his decision. They merely made his decision more important, merely added to the burden of responsibility that rested on his shoulders.
“Permission granted,” he said.
“Aye aye, sir,” said the telephone.
The telephone squawked again instantly.
“Eagle to George,” it said. “Request permission to assist Harry.”
Eagle was the Polish destroyer Viktor, on Keeling’s port beam between her and the James, and the voice was that of the young British officer who rode in her to transmit T.B.S. messages.
“Permission granted,” said Krause.
“Aye aye, sir.”
Krause saw the Viktor wheel about as soon as the words were spoken; her bows met a roller in a fountain of spray, and she heaved up her stern as she soared over it, still turning, working up speed to join the James. Viktor and James were a team that had already achieved a “probable sinking” in a previous convoy. James had the new sound-range recorder and had developed a system of coaching Viktor in to make the kill. The two ships were buddies; Krause had known from the moment the contact was reported to him that if he detached one it would be better to detach both, to make a kill more likely.
It was now fifty-nine seconds since the summons to Krause in his cabin; it had taken not quite a minute to reach an important decision and to transmit the orders translating that decision into action. Now it was necessary to dispose his two remaining escort ships, Keeling and H.M.C.S. Dodge, out on his starboard quarter, to the best advantage; to attempt with two ships to screen thirty-seven. The convoy covered more than four square miles of sea, an immense target for any torpedo fired “into the brown,” and such a torpedo could be fired advantageously from any point of a semicircle forty miles in circumference. The best attempt to cover that semicircle with two ships would be a poor compromise, but the best attempt must still be made. Krause spoke into the telephone again.
“George to Dicky.”
“Sir!” squawked the telephone back to him instantly. Dodge must have been expecting orders.
“Take station three miles ahead of the leading ship of the starboard column of the convoy.”
Krause spoke with the measured tones necessary for the transmission of verbal orders; it called attention to the unmusical quality of his voice.
“Three miles ahead of the leading ship of the starboard column,” said the telephone back to him. “Aye aye, sir.”
That was a Canadian voice, with a pitch and a rhythm more natural than the British. No chance of misunderstanding there. Krause looked at the repeater and then turned to the officer of the deck.
“Course zero zero five, Mr. Carling.”
“Aye aye, sir,” answered Carling, and then to the quartermaster, “Left standard rudder. Steer course zero zero five.”
“Left standard rudder,” repeated the helmsman, turning the wheel. “Course zero zero five.”
That was Parker, quartermaster third class, aged twenty-two and married and no good. Carling knew that, and was watching the repeater.
“Make eighteen knots, Mr. Carling,” said Krause.
“Aye aye, sir,” answered Carling, giving the order.
“Make turns for eighteen knots,” repeated the man at the annunciator.
Keeling turned in obedience to her helm; the vibration transmitted from the deck up through Krause’s feet quickened as the ship headed for her new station.
“Engine room answers eighteen knots,” announced the hand at the engine room telegraph. He was new to the ship, a transfer made when they were in Reykjavik; serving his second hitch. Two years back he had been in trouble with the civil authorities for a hit-and-run automobile offense while on leave. Krause could not remember his name, and must remedy that.
“Steady on course zero zero five,” announced Parker; there was the usual flippant note to his voice that annoyed Krause and hinted at his unreliability. Nothing to be done about it at present; only the mental note made.
“Making eighteen by pit, sir,” reported Carling.
“Very well.” That was the pitometer log reading. There were more orders to give.
“Mr. Carling, take station three miles ahead of the leading ship of the port column of the convoy.”
“Three miles ahead of the leading ship of the port column of the convoy. Aye aye, sir.”
Krause’s orders had already set Keeling on an economical course towards that station, and now that she was crossing ahead of the convoy would be a good moment to check on it. But he could spare a moment now to put on his coat; until now he had been in his shirtsleeves with his coat in his hand. He slipped into it; as his arm straightened he dug the telephone talker beside him in the ribs.
“Pardon me,” said Krause.
“Quite all right, sir,” mumbled the telephone talker.
Carling had his hand on the lever that sounded the general alarm, and was looking to his captain for orders.
“No,” said Krause.
Calling the ship to general quarters would bring every single man on board to his post of duty. No one would sleep and hardly anyone would eat; the ordinary routine of the ship would cease entirely. Men grew fatigued and hungry; the fifty odd jobs about the ship that had to be done sooner or later to keep her efficient would all be left until later because the men who should be doing them would be at their battle stations. It was not a condition that could long be maintained—it was the battle reserve, once more, to be conserved until the crucial moment.
And there was the additional point that some men, many men, tended to become slack about the execution of their duty if special demands were continually made on them without obvious reason. Krause knew this from observation during his years of experience, and he knew it academically, too, through study of the manuals, in the same way that a doctor is familiar with diseases from which he has never suffered himself. Krause had to allow for the weaknesses of the human flesh under his command, and the flightiness of the human mind. Keeling was already in Condition Two, with battle stations largely manned and watertight integrity—with its concomitant interference with the routine of the ship—strictly maintained. Condition Two meant a strain on the hands, and was bad for the ship, but the length of time during which Condition Two could be endured was measurable in days, compared with the hours that Battle Stations could be endured.
The fact that James was running down a contact at some distance from the convoy, with Viktor to help her, was not sufficient justification for sounding the general alarm; it was likely that dozens more such contacts would be reported before the convoy reached home. So Krause said “No” in reply to Carling’s unvoiced inquiry. Glance, decision, and reply consumed no more than two or three seconds of time. It would have taken at least several minutes for Krause to have given verbally all the reasons for that decision; it would have taken him a minute or two at least to assemble them in his mind. But long habit and long experience made the reaching of decisions easy to him, and long thought had familiarized his mind beforehand with the conditions surrounding this particular emergency.
And at the same time his memory made a note of the incident, even though apparently it passed out of his mind as soon as it was disposed of. Carling’s readiness to sound general quarters was an item added to Krause’s mental dossier about Carling. It would affect, to some possibly infinitesimal extent, how much Krause could trust Carling as officer of the deck. It might eventually affect the “fitness report” which in course of time Krause would be making on Carling (assuming both of them lived long enough for that report to be made), with special bearing on the paragraph regarding Carling’s “fitness for com
mand.” A tiny incident, one in thousands that made a complex whole.
Krause picked up his binoculars, hung them round his neck, and trained them towards the convoy. In the crowded pilothouse it was impossible to get a clear sight, and he stepped out onto the port wing of the bridge. The transition was instant and prodigious. The northeast wind, from almost dead ahead on this course, shrieked round him. As he raised the glasses to his eyes his right armpit felt the bitter cold strike into it. He should be wearing his sweater and his greatcoat; he would have been doing so if he had been left undisturbed for a minute longer in his cabin.
They were passing the convoy flagship, an ancient passenger vessel with upper works lofty in comparison with the rest of the convoy. The convoy commodore whose pennant flew in her was an elderly British admiral back from retirement, undertaking a difficult, monotonous, dangerous and inglorious duty of his own free will, as of course he ought to do as long as the opportunity presented itself, even though that meant being under the orders of a young commander of another nation. His present duty was to keep the ships of the convoy as nearly in order as possible, so as to give the escort every chance of protecting it.
Beyond the convoy flagship the rest of the convoy spread itself in irregular lines; Krause swept his binoculars round to examine them. The lines were certainly irregular, but not nearly as irregular as they had been when he examined them at the end of the night, in the first light of dawn. Then the third column from starboard had been revealed in two halves, with the last three ships—five ships in that column, four in each of the others—trailing far astern, out of the formation altogether. Now the gap had been nearly closed. Presumably No. 3 ship, the Norwegian Kong Gustav, had experienced an engine room defect during the night and had fallen astern; in the radio silence and the blackout that were so strictly enforced, and with flag signals invisible in the darkness, she had been unable to inform the others of her plight, and had fallen farther and farther astern, with the ships following her conforming to her movements. Apparently the defect had been made good and Kong Gustav and her two followers were slowly crawling up into position again. The Southland, immediately astern of Kong Gustav—Krause had checked the name on his list soon after dawn—was smoking badly, perhaps in the effort to steam an extra half knot to regain station, and several other ships were making more smoke than they should. Luckily with the wind from ahead, and blowing hard, the smoke was lying low and dispersing rapidly. In calmer conditions the convoy would have been surmounted by a pillar of cloud visible fifty miles away. The commodore had a signal hoist flying; almost for certain it was the signal so frequently displayed in every navy—“Make less smoke.”
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