“Signal for you, sir.”
“Read it.”
The signalman, pad in hand as before, was a little hesitant.
“‘Comconvoy to Comescort,’ sir. ‘Huff Duff’—”
There was an inquiring note in the signalman’s voice there, and a second’s pause.
“Yes, Huff Duff,” said Krause, testily. That was HFDF, high frequency direction findings; his signalman had not met the expression before.
“‘Huff Duff reports foreign transmission bearing eight seven range from one five to two zero miles,’ sir.”
Bearing eight seven. That was nearly in the path of the convoy. Foreign transmission; that could mean only one thing here in the Atlantic; a U-boat fifteen to twenty miles away. Leviathan, that crooked serpent. This was something far more positive and certain than James’s possible contact. This was something calling for instant decision as ever, and that decision had to be based as ever on a score of factors.
“Reply. ‘Comescort to Comconvoy. Will run it down.’”
“‘Comescort to Comconvoy. Will run it down.’ Aye aye, sir.”
“Wait. ‘Will run it down. Thank you.’”
“‘Will run it down. Thank you.’ Aye aye, sir.”
Two strides took Krause into the pilothouse.
“I’ll take the conn, Mr. Carling.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
“Right smartly to course zero eight seven.”
“Right smartly to course zero eight seven.”
“All engines flank speed. Make turns for twenty-two knots.”
“All engines flank speed. Make turns for twenty-two knots.”
“Mr. Carling, sound general quarters.”
“General quarters. Aye aye, sir.”
The warning horns blared through the ship as Carling pressed down on the handle; a din fit to wake the dead, to wake the exhausted sleepers in their bunks far below, summoning every man to his post, starting a torrent of men up the ladders. Clothes would be dragged on, unfinished letters flung aside, equipment snatched up. Through the din came the report, “Engine room answers flank speed, sir.” Keeling was heeling as she turned; Heeling-Keeling was what the men called her, Heeling-Keeling, Reeling-Keeling.
“Steady on course zero eight seven,” said Parker.
“Very well. Mr. Hart, how does the commodore bear?”
Ensign Hart was at the pelorus in a moment.
“Two six six, sir,” he called.
Practically dead astern. The Huff Duff bearing in itself would be exact enough. No need to plot a course to the estimated position of the U-boat.
Already the pilothouse was thronging with newcomers, helmeted figures, bundled up figures, telephone talkers, messengers. There was much to be done; Krause went to the T.B.S.
“Eagle, I am running down a Huff Duff indication bearing zero eight seven.”
“Oh eight seven. Aye aye, sir.”
“Take my place and cover the front of the convoy as quickly as you can.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
“You hear me, Harry?”
“I hear you, George.”
“Cover the left flank.”
“Cover the left flank. Aye aye, sir. We are four miles astern of the last ship, sir.”
“I know.”
It would be more than half an hour before James would be in her station; it would be nearly fifteen minutes before Viktor would be in hers. Meanwhile the convoy would be unprotected save by Dodge on the starboard wing. The risk run was one of the score of factors that had been balanced in Krause’s mind when the commodore’s message came through. On the other hand there was clear indication of an enemy ahead—Huff Duff was highly reliable—and there was the poor visibility which would shroud Keeling while her radar could see through it. There was the need to drive the enemy under; there was the need to kill him. Even twenty miles ahead of the convoy Keeling would be of some protection to it.
Here was Lieutenant Watson, the navigator, reporting having taken over as officer of the deck from Carling. Krause returned his salute; it took only two sentences to inform him regarding the situation.
“Aye aye, sir.”
Watson’s handsome blue eyes shone in the shadow of his helmet.
“I have the conn, Mr. Watson.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
“Messenger, my helmet.”
Krause put the thing on; it was for form’s sake, but at the same time the sight of the thickly clad men about him reminded him that he was still wearing only his uniform coat and that he was already chilled through by his sojourn on the wing of the bridge.
“Go to my cabin and bring me the sheepskin coat you’ll find there.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
The executive officer was reporting by voice tube from the chartroom below. Down there was an improvisation of the combat information center already fully developed in bigger ships. At the time when Keeling was launched, sonar was in its infancy and radar had hardly been thought of. Lieutenant Commander Cole was an old friend; Krause told him how matters stood.
“You’re likely to get her on the radar screen any time now, Charlie.”
“Yes, sir.”
Keeling was pulsating as she tore along under nearly full power. She lurched and she shuddered as a green roller burst over her forecastle. But the huge rolling waves were just regular enough and convex enough to permit her to maintain her present high speed. Eighteen miles away or less was a surfaced U-boat; at any moment the radar antenna far above the pilothouse might pick her up; the reports had all come in that battle stations were manned. The men who had been roused from their tasks, even the men who had abandoned their routine work to seize their equipment and go to their posts, were ignorant of the reason for this sudden call. Down in the engine room there must be plenty of men wondering why there had been the call for flank speed; the men at the guns and the men at the depth charge racks must be warned to be ready for instant action. A second or two must be spared for that. Krause walked to the loudspeaker. The bosun’s mate stationed here saw him coming, put his hand to the switch and received an approving nod. The call sounded through the ship.
“Now hear this. Now hear this.”
“This is the captain.”
Long training and long-practiced self-control kept his voice even; no one could guess from that flat voice the excitement which boiled inside him, which could master him if he relaxed that self-control for an instant.
“We’re running down a U-boat. Every man must be ready for instant action.”
It might almost be thought that Keeling quivered afresh with excitement at the message. In the crowded pilothouse as Krause turned back from the loudspeaker every eye was upon him. There was tenseness in the air, there was ferocity. These men were on their way to kill; they might be on their way to be killed, although for most of those present neither consideration weighed beside the mere fact that Keeling was heading for action, towards success or failure.
Something obtruded itself upon Krause’s attention; it was the sheepskin coat he had sent for, offered him by the young messenger. Krause was about to take it.
“Captain!”
Krause was at the voice tube in a flash.
“Target bearing zero nine two. Range fifteen miles.”
Charlie Cole’s voice was genuinely calm. He was speaking with the unhurried care of a thoughtful parent addressing an excitable child—not that he thought of Krause as an excitable child.
“Right smartly to course zero nine two,” said Krause.
At the wheel now was Quartermaster First Class McAlister, a short skinny Texan; Krause had been his division officer in the old days in the Gamble. McAlister would have made Chief by now had it not been for a couple of deplorable incidents in San Pedro in the early thirties. As he dryly repeated the order, no one would i
magine the fighting madman he had been with liquor in him.
“Steady on course zero nine two,” said McAlister, his eyes not moving from the compass repeater.
“Very well.”
Krause turned back to the voice tube.
“What do you make of the target?”
“Dead ahead, sir. Not too clear,” said Charlie.
This Sugar Charlie radar was a poor job. Krause had heard of Sugar George, the new radar; he had never seen one, but he wished passionately that Keeling had been equipped with one.
“Small,” said Charlie Cole. “Low in the water.”
A U-boat for certain, and Keeling was rushing down upon her at twenty-two knots. We have made a covenant with death, and with hell are we at agreement. Comconvoy’s radio operator must be wonderfully good to have estimated the distance so accurately merely by the strength of the signals.
“Bearing’s changing a little,” said Charlie. “Bearing zero nine three. No, zero nine three and a half. Range fourteen miles. She must be on a nearly reciprocal course.”
The range had decreased by a mile in one minute and sixteen seconds. As Charlie said, she must be heading nearly straight towards Keeling, coming to meet her. Hell from beneath is moved for Thee to meet Thee at Thy coming. In five more miles, in seven minutes—less than seven minutes now—she would be within range of the five-inch. But Keeling had only two guns that could bear dead ahead. It would be better not to open fire at extreme range. With a high sea running, the range rapidly changing, and a radar that might or might not be accurately lined up, instant hits with a two-shell salvo were unlikely. Better to wait; better to hold on in the hope that Keeling might come rushing out of the murk to find her adversary in plain sight at easier range.
“Range thirteen miles,” said Charlie. “Bearing zero nine four.”
“Right smartly,” said Krause, “to course zero nine eight.”
The U-boat was apparently holding a steady course. This turn to starboard would intercept her, and if the target were to reveal itself it would be fine on the port bow instead of right ahead; only a small additional turn would then be necessary to bring the after guns to bear as well.
“Steady on course zero nine eight,” said McAlister.
“Very well.”
“Stop that noise,” barked Watson, his voice suddenly cutting through the tension. He was glowering at a telephone talker, a nineteen-year-old apprentice seaman, who had been whistling through his teeth into the receiver before his mouth. From the telephone talker’s guilty start it was obvious that he had been quite unconscious of what he was doing. But Watson’s sharp order had been as startling as a pistol shot in the tense atmosphere of the crowded pilothouse.
“Range twelve miles,” said Charlie. “Bearing zero nine four.”
Krause turned to the telephone talker.
“Captain to gunnery officer. Do not open fire without orders from me unless enemy is in sight.”
The talker pressed the button of his mouthpiece and repeated the words, with Krause listening carefully. That was not a good order, but it was the only one that would meet the present situation, and he could rely upon Fippler to understand it.
“Gunnery officer replies aye aye, sir,” said the talker.
“Very well.”
That boy was one of the new draft, fresh out of boot camp, and yet it was his duty to pass messages upon which the fate of a battle might depend. But in a destroyer there were few stations which carried no responsibility, and the ship had to fight even with seventy-five recruits on board. With two years of high school to his credit the boy had at least the educational requirements for his station. And only experience would tell if he had the others; if he would stand at his post amid dead and wounded, amid fire and destruction, and still pass on orders without tripping over a word.
“Range twenty thousand,” said the talker. “Bearing zero nine four.”
This marked an important moment. Calling the range in thousands of yards instead of in miles was the proof that the enemy was almost within range; eighteen thousand yards was the maximum for the five-inch. Krause could see the guns training round ready to open fire on the instant. Charlie was speaking on the circuit to gunnery control and captain. And the bearing had not altered either; Keeling was on a collision course with the U-boat. The climax was approaching. What was the visibility? Seven miles? Twelve thousand yards? Apparently about that. But that estimate was not to be relied upon; there might be a clear patch, there might be a thick patch. At any moment the U-boat might come into sight over there, where the guns were pointing. Then the shells would be sent winging to the target. It must be hit, shattered, before the U-boat crew could get below at the sight of the destroyer rushing down upon them, before they could dive, before they could armor themselves with a yard of water as impenetrable to Keeling’s shells as a yard of steel, and armor themselves with invisibility as well. Hide thyself as it were for a little moment, until the indignation be overpast.
“Range one nine oh double oh. Bearing steady on zero nine four,” said the talker.
A constant bearing. U-boat and destroyer were nearing each other as fast as was possible. Krause could look round the crowded pilothouse, at the tense faces shadowed by the helmets. The silence and the immobility showed that discipline was good. Forward of the bridge he could see the crew of one of the starboard side forty-millimeter guns, staring out in the direction the five-inch were pointing. The tremendous spray that Keeling was flinging aft from her bows must be driving against them but they were not taking shelter. They certainly were keen.
“Range one eight five double oh. Bearing steady on zero nine four.”
The silence was of course even more impressive because the pinging of the sonar had ceased for the first time in thirty-six hours. Sound ranging was quite ineffective with the ship making twenty-two knots.
“Range one eight oh double oh. Bearing steady on zero nine four.”
He could open fire now. The five-inch were straining upwards, their muzzles pointing far above the gray horizon. A word and they would hurl their shells upwards and outwards; there was the chance that one of them might crash into the U-boat’s hull. One shell would be enough. The opportunity was his. So was the responsibility for refusing to take advantage of it.
“Range one seven five double oh. Bearing steady on zero nine four.”
On the U-boat’s bridge would be an officer and one or two men. The shell would come through the murk instantaneously for them; one moment they would be alive and the next moment they would be dead, ignorant of what had happened. In the control room below the Germans would be stunned, wounded, flung dying against the bulkheads; in the other compartments the crew would hear the crash, would feel the shock, would stagger as the boat staggered, would see with horrified eyes the water rushing in upon them, in those few seconds before death overtook them as their boat went down, spouting great bubbles of air forced out by the inrushing water.
“Range one seven oh double oh, bearing steady on zero nine four.”
On the other hand the salvo might plunge into the sea half a mile from the U-boat. The columns of water thrown up would be clear warning. Before another salvo could be fired the U-boat would be gliding down below the surface, invisible, unattainable, deadly. Better to make sure of it. This was only a Sugar Charlie radar.
“Range one six five double oh. Bearing steady on zero nine four.”
Any moment now. Any moment. Were the lookouts doing their duty?
“Target disappeared,” said the talker.
Krause stared at him; for a couple of seconds he was uncomprehending. But the boy met his gaze without flinching. He was clearly aware of what he had said, and showed no disposition to amend it. Krause sprang to the voice tube.
“What’s this, Charlie?”
“Afraid he’s dived, sir. It looked like it the way the pip faded ou
t.”
“Radar’s not on the blink?”
“No, sir. Never known it so good before.”
“Very well.”
Krause turned back from the voice tube. The crowd in the pilothouse were looking at each other under their helmet brims. By their attitudes, heavily clothed though they were, their disappointment was clearly conveyed. They seemed to sag in their bundled clothing. Now every eye was on him. For two and a half minutes it had been in his power to open fire on a U-boat on the surface; every officer in the United States Navy craved an opportunity like that, and he had made no use of it. But this was no time for regret; this was not the moment to be self-conscious under the gaze of eyes that might or might not be accusing. There was too much to be done. More decisions had to be taken.
He looked up at the clock. Keeling must be about seven miles ahead of her station in the convoy screen. Viktor would be there by now, with her own sonar trying to search five miles of front. The convoy might now be in order, with Dodge on the starboard flank free to pay all her attention to antisubmarine duty; James would be fast coming up on the other flank. Meanwhile Keeling was still hurtling forward, away from them, at twenty-two knots. And the enemy? What was the enemy doing? Why had he dived? Watson, the ranking officer on the bridge, ventured to voice his opinion.
“He couldn’t have seen us, sir. Not if we couldn’t see him.”
“Maybe not,” said Krause.
Keeling’s lookouts were perched high up; if the U-boat had been visible to them only Keeling’s upper works would have been visible to the U-boat. But visibility was a chancy phenomenon. It was possible, barely possible, that in the one direction visibility had been better than in the other, that the U-boat had sighted them without being sighted herself. She would have dived promptly enough in that case.
But there could be other theories almost without limit. The U-boat might be newly fitted with radar—that was a development that must be expected sooner or later, and this might be the time. Naval Intelligence could debate that point when the reports came in. Or she might have been informed of the course and position of the convoy and have merely gone down to periscope depth as soon as she was squarely in its path—her course up to the moment of disappearing had been apparently laid to intercept the convoy. That was a good tactical possibility, perhaps the likeliest. There were others, though. It might be merely a routine dive—she might be exercising her crew at diving stations. Or more trivial yet. It might be the U-boat crew’s dinnertime and the cook might have reported that he could not prepare a hot meal with the boat tossed on the sea that was running, and that might have decided the captain to take her down into the calm below the surface. Any explanation was possible; it would be best to retain an open mind on the subject, to remember that about eight miles ahead there was a U-boat under the surface, and to come to a prompt decision regarding what should be done next.
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