Greyhound (Movie Tie-In)

by C. S. Forester

  “Leading ship of the second column bears two five five, sir,” reported Silvestrini from the pelorus.

  “Very well,” said Nystrom.

  Ensign Silvestrini was a pert little fellow newly graduated from officers’ school. Previously he had been majoring in modern languages at an Eastern university.

  “Left standard rudder. Steer course zero nine two,” said Nystrom, and the helmsman repeated the order.

  Keeling came steadily round to take up her station. Everything was well and in order. Krause decided not to send for his clothes. He wanted to get down to the head in any case, and at the same time the thought of a cup of coffee came up into his mind. Instantly he was yearning for it, hot, stimulating, comforting. One cup? Two cups. He was moderately hungry too; the thought of a sandwich along with the cups of coffee made a sudden appeal to him. And a few minutes’ warmth, and the leisure to dress himself properly. It all seemed like an astonishingly good idea to him. Here was Watson with the noon position, unreported until now with the ship at battle stations. Krause acknowledged the report; the noon position was no news to him, closely coinciding as it did with the Admiralty’s predicted position for the assembling of a wolf pack. But by the time he had glanced at it, Ipsen, the chief engineer, was waiting with the fuel report for noon. That called for closer attention, and a word or two with Ipsen about the fuel situation, and even those few words were a trifle distracted, for Krause, while he talked, was aware out of the tail of his eye that Dodge was blinking a message to the ship. The message was at his elbow as he returned Ipsen’s salute. It was Dodge’s noon fuel report. That had to be studied too with some care; Dodge was fortunate in having a considerable reserve in hand. There were two more messages waiting for him by the time he had completed his study of it. Here was Viktor’s fuel report, and then James’s. Kraus pulled a long face as he studied the James report. A minimum of fast steaming for James in future. He dictated a carefully worded reply.

  “‘Comescort to James. Use utmost efforts to conserve fuel.’”

  Now it was Charlie Cole, up from the chartroom, with a smile on his face and words of congratulation about the sinking of the U-boat. It was pleasant to exchange those few sentences with Charlie. But then Charlie came a little closer, and dropped his voice to a confidential tone so as not to be heard by the others on the bridge.

  “There’s Flusser to be dealt with, sir,” said Charlie.

  “Hell,” said Krause. His use of that word was proof of his irritation at the delay.

  Yesterday Flusser had punched a petty officer in the nose and was under arrest for this gravest of crimes. In a ship of war with general quarters being repeatedly sounded the presence of a criminal in a cell is a continual nuisance. And Navy Regs demanded that his case be considered as promptly as possible.

  “It’s more than twenty-four hours, sir,” prompted Charlie.

  “Hell,” said Krause again. “Oh, all right. I’ve got to get down to the head. I’ve got to have a sandwich. Then—”

  That was the moment when a talker suddenly made his announcement.

  “After lookout reports two white rockets from the convoy, sir.”

  It was a surprise, worse than that time when the French fencer’s riposte had gone clear past Krause’s foil during the Olympic games at Amsterdam and he had felt the touch of the button on his breast just when he himself had been about to make the decisive lunge. It was two full seconds before Krause reacted, even though his brain had been instantly aware that two white rockets meant a torpedoing. For those two seconds he stared at the talker, but then he ran out onto the wing of the bridge, glasses to his eyes. It was hard to see anything; Keeling was three miles ahead of the leading ships and five miles ahead of the rearmost. He hailed the after lookout.

  “What do you see?”

  “Two white rockets, sir.”

  “Where?”

  “Back there, sir, ’bout the last ship in our line.”

  “Signal from the commodore, sir.” This came from the signal bridge. “General alarm.”

  “Very well.”

  Keeling rose high on a wave; now he could see that the third ship in the second column was out of position; the ship following her was swerving to avoid her. If he sent back the Canadian corvette she would be left behind, and with her small excess of speed it would be long before she rejoined the convoy. A destroyer was needed; there was only the choice between Keeling and Viktor, and Keeling was the nearer. He went back into the pilothouse.

  “I’ll take the conn, Mr. Nystrom.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  “Right full rudder. Steer course one eight zero.”

  The helmsman repeated the order as Krause went to the T.B.S.

  “George to Eagle. George to Dicky. I am going to the rear of convoy. Close up to protect the van.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  “Wilco.”

  Keeling had turned as he spoke. She was on a collision course now towards Dodge.

  “Right standard rudder. Steer course two seven five.”

  “Right standard rudder. Course two seven five, sir.”

  Round she came again, turning on her heel into the gap between Dodge and the convoy.

  “All engines ahead full speed.”

  Keeling leaped forward as the man at the annunciator reported.

  “Engine room answers all engines ahead full, sir.”

  “Steady on course two seven five, sir.”

  A glance was enough to make sure that they would just shave the starboard line of ships. On opposite courses they passed the leading ship at a hundred yards’ distance. She was wallowing ponderously along, meeting the seas on her bow more submissively than a ship of war. She was battered and dingy, with rust showing along her sides. There were one or two heads in sight as they went by, and somebody waved an arm. They seemed to pass her in a flash. Another ship succeeded her, and another after that, each one plodding steadily forward; they were leaving behind them a sister, hard hit, probably mortally wounded, but all they could do was to hold their course fatalistically. Through the gap between third and fourth Krause caught sight of the upper works of a ship already far astern of the convoy. The glimpse of the smokestack and foremast that he caught told him that she was Cadena, the designated rescue ship of the convoy; the fourth ship passed on and he could see again. Nothing besides Cadena, some three miles on the starboard bow. No; there were two boats visible as they rose on the crest. And what was that, heaving up on the crest? A long dark straight line, like a log floating on a river, bigger than any log ever seen by man. It rose again in a wide smother of spray; a ship nearly bottom up; that long dark line was the turn of her bilge. She was three quarters over and nine tenths submerged, still floating.

  “All engines ahead standard speed.”

  “All engines ahead standard speed.”

  “Engine room answers all engines ahead standard speed, sir.”

  “Resume sonar search.”

  Both lifeboats were alongside Cadena now; she was rolling in the trough to give them a lee, and she had her scramble nets down. Against her dark starboard side, which was just coming into Krause’s view as Keeling headed across her bows, Krause could barely see through his glasses the specks which were men climbing her side.

  “Torpedo to port!”

  That was a scream from the port lookout.

  “Right rudder.”

  That was Krause’s instant order, given while the glasses were still at his eyes; the parry to the thrust, coming with the instinct more quick than thought. More likely a shot from slightly astern than from slightly ahead. Left rudder, towards the danger, might take Keeling across the torpedo’s course. Right rudder by a small balance of the odds was the safer, after that so recent reduction in speed. Krause sprang out onto the port wing of the bridge.

  “There, sir!” shouted the lookout, p
ointing over the quarter. That transient white wake along the face of a lifting roller; a torpedo track, most likely. Krause estimated its direction, balancing it against Keeling’s course before her turn. Most likely it would have missed in any case, passing close ahead. That would be because of the reduction in speed; the torpedo must have been launched a few seconds before he gave that order. If a spread had been fired this would be the rightmost torpedo.

  With the numbing wind blowing round him Krause’s mind went on with its hasty calculations. Then the U-boat was likely there, where Keeling’s stern was now pointing. Then—each step of the deduction was necessarily vaguer, with an accumulating uncertainty, but some plan must be made, and quickly, and acted upon—then the U-boat had approached the convoy from the flank, just outside Dodge’s sonar sweep, had fired into the mass of the convoy; her shot had passed between the ships of the outer column to hit this sinking ship of the second column. Then the U-boat had headed in to take a shot at Cadena lingering behind. Keeling had come down—possibly unexpectedly—between the U-boat and her target, and the U-boat had fired a spread at Keeling to eliminate her from the scene—she would have time to use gunfire against Cadena then. He must keep between the U-boat and Cadena, screening while he shepherded Cadena back into the convoy. It would be as well to make his own movements as erratic and unpredictable as possible.

  “Left standard rudder!” he ordered, hastening back into the pilothouse.

  “Left standard rudder, sir,” answered the quartermaster, and Keeling began the second loop of an S.

  A long feather of steam blew away from Cadena’s upper works; he caught his breath with silly apprehension for a moment. It stopped and then started again; it was Cadena’s steam whistle—the sound of the first blast was just reaching him across the wind. Four puffs.

  “F for Fox from the merchant ship, sir.”

  “Very well.”

  The typewritten signal code hanging on the board told him that this meant “Rescue completed.”

  “Still coming left, sir,” said Nystrom.

  “Very well.”

  By completing this circle he would bring Keeling into a suitable screening position.

  “Messenger! Write this. ‘Comescort to Cadena. C—A—D—E—N—A. Rejoin convoy at best speed. Modified zigzag.’ Take that to the signal bridge. And tell them not to send too fast.”

  “Signal bridge. Aye aye, sir.”

  It was in the blood of all signalmen to send messages as rapidly as they could, and it was always a source of gratification to them if they could burn up the recipient. In this case the recipient was a merchant seaman, unpracticed in reading messages; and it was important. His glance darted round the horizon, at Cadena, at the convoy, at the guessed-at bearing of the hidden U-boat.

  “Ease the rudder,” he said.

  “Ease the rudder.”

  “Sonar reports distant contact port beam, sir.”

  Port beam? Another U-boat? Krause looked out. No. That was the hull of the sinking ship.

  “Steady as you go,” he snapped at the helmsman.

  The sinking ship was still three quarters over. But now she was farther down by the stern; a considerable length of her bottom-up bow was protruding at a small angle from the surface of the sea, and the rest of her was invisible. Against the bow waves were breaking as though against a rock.

  “Steady on course zero nine five,” reported the helmsman.

  “Very well.”

  “Sonar reports heavy breaking-up noises, sir.”

  “Captain to sonar. The noises you hear come from a sinking ship. Search elsewhere.”

  The bows of the wreck were rising higher. Those breaking-up noises which sonar reported told of cargo and engines and boilers tumbling aft down the slope. Now she was heaving over, bows still raised high. Her upper works came bursting out through the surface of the sea, water cascading from them. Right over, and then back again, like a creature struggling in torment.

  A message from the signal bridge.

  “‘Cadena to Comescort. Speed eleven point five knots.’”

  “Very well.”

  Better than could be expected. But—his next glance at the convoy was a little disquieting. Six miles, he judged, by now. It would be well over two hours before Cadena was back in station again. One last glance back at the sinking ship. She hung vertical now, with a bare twenty feet of her bow straight up above the sea. She would soon be gone; two miles from her the two abandoned lifeboats rose and fell on the rollers, marking where the fortunate crew had climbed up Cadena’s side; fortunate, but he realized he did not know how many men had died when the torpedo struck. There were some fragments of wreckage floating on the surface, too, the miserable trophies of a Nazi victory.

  “Right ten degrees rudder,” he said sharply to the helmsman; there was pressing work to be done and not a moment to spare to think about the sunken ship, or about the report he would have to make regarding the loss. With a U-boat within torpedo range he must not keep Keeling on the same course for very long at one time.

  “Ease the rudder. Steady as you go.”

  He would like Cadena to zigzag widely as well, but that would make the interval before she rejoined interminable. He was between her and the enemy—or so he hoped—and his menacing presence would keep the U-boat far enough away to make it a very long shot if the U-boat commander was trying to get a torpedo into her.

  “Steady on course one zero six,” reported the helmsman.

  “Very well.”

  With this overcast sky it would be quite dark by five o’clock. Cadena would have a hard job inserting herself into the ranks of the convoy then. The spray on the pilothouse windows was making it hard to see out. He shifted his position to take advantage of one of the two spinning disks of glass set in the windows, the centrifugal force of whose motion kept two circular areas clear enough to see through. The disk was not spinning; it was stationary, and as hard to see through as the rest of the glass.

  “Mr. Nystrom!”

  “Sir!”

  “Get this thing working again. Call the electrical officer.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  The other disk was still turning, but very slowly, too slowly to clear itself. Visibility through the glass was so bad that it would be better to go out onto the wing of the bridge. Out into the windy cold. But that was the T.B.S. demanding his attention.

  “Harry to George! Harry to George!”

  “George to Harry. Go ahead.”

  “Pips on the radar screen, sir, bearing oh nine one. Range ten miles, sir. Two pips. Look like subs.”

  “Very well.”

  Two submarines right ahead, nearly in the track of the convoy.

  “Orders, sir?”

  “Dicky to George!” This was Dodge breaking into the circuit.

  “George to Dicky. Go ahead.”

  “We’ve got a pip, too. Bearing oh nine eight, range fourteen miles. Looks like a sub, too, sir.”

  “Very well.”

  James on one wing, Dodge on the other, reporting submarines ahead. Another close on his starboard bow, submerged. Wheresoever the carcass is, there will the eagles be gathered together. Should he send his subordinates forward to the attack? With night approaching? With James having to be economical of fuel? It might be best.

  “Eagle to George! Eagle to George!”

  “George to Eagle. Go ahead.”

  “We’ve got Harry’s pips, sir, bearing oh eight five. But we’ve got another, bearing oh nine oh, range thirteen miles.”

  That was not Dodge’s pip. Four submarines ahead of the convoy. One at least close astern of it.

  “Very well.”

  “Harry to George. Range is closing fast. Range nine miles for one pip. Bearing oh nine oh. Other pip bearing oh nine two. Range nine miles.”

  “Very well.
”

  It was time to think about his own ship.

  “Left standard rudder!” he called over his shoulder to the helmsman and then addressed himself to the instrument again.

  “George to escort. Keep your stations. Open fire when within range.”

  Then back to the helmsman.

  “Meet her! Steady as you go.”

  Keeling was on a fresh zigzag. While he was speaking on the T.B.S. he must not forget that a U-boat was maneuvering for a shot at him.

  “Steady on course zero nine four, sir.”

  “Very well.”

  The T.B.S. was conveying the escort’s acknowledgments of his orders.

  “Good luck, you fellows,” he said.

  In the face of those numbers he could not send the escort forward to the attack. It would open too many gaps in a screen already far too weak.

  Rudel, the electrical officer, was awaiting his attention; an electrician’s mate and his striker stood behind him. A glance showed the disks were still not spinning.

  “Haven’t you got them working yet?” demanded Krause.

  Rudel saluted.

  “It’s not an electrical failure, sir. They’re frozen.”

  “The spray’s freezing all over the glass, sir,” supplemented Nystrom. It was growing almost impossible to see out of the pilothouse.

  “Then get to work on it,” snapped Krause.

  He debated within himself; that was not an easy assignment for Nystrom. And Nystrom was not a brilliant officer.

  “Put two men to work with buckets and swabs,” said Krause. “Warm water. Not boiling. Yes, and have that water salty—as salty as you can get it.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  “Very well, Mr. Rudel.”

  He returned Rudel’s salute, looking round him as he did so, forward at the distant convoy, to port at Cadena, to starboard where—perhaps—a U-boat was looking at him. The glass front of the pilothouse was already too spotted with ice to afford reasonable visibility, and he went out onto the starboard wing of the bridge.