“Left standard rudder!” he ordered, and watched the ship come round.
“Meet her! Steady as you go!”
It was essential to keep Keeling zigzagging, and quite irregularly.
“Steady on course zero eight zero, sir.”
“Very well.”
He was converging now slightly on Cadena. The hands he laid upon the rail in front of him were numb, almost without sensation, but not quite too numb for something different to be called to his notice. The forward curve of the rail was slick and smooth with a thin coating of ice. That and the wind which blew round him decided him to send for his additional clothing. Until then he had literally not had a moment in which to do so. Now this was an interval of leisure; leisure with a U-boat within torpedo range of him.
“Messenger!”
Wink. Wink. Wink. Far ahead in the convoy a message was being flashed back, just visible in the gathering gloom. The commodore, most likely—for certain.
“Yes, sir.”
It was the bridge messenger; in those few seconds he had forgotten him.
“Go down to my cabin. I want the fur gloves you’ll see there. And I want the sweater and scarf. Wait. I want the hood, too. You’ll have to look for it in the second drawer down. Gloves, sweater, scarf, hood.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
The rattle of the lamp shutters above him told him the signalmen were acknowledging the commodore’s signal. He looked over at Cadena; he was drawing ahead of her and was well on her bow. The messenger from the signal bridge came clattering down.
“Comconvoy to Comescort. Numerous foreign language transmissions ten to fifteen miles ahead various bearings.”
“Very well.”
The U-boats out ahead were talking to each other, setting their plans. Or perhaps they were reporting to L’Orient, where—what was that name? Doenitz—where Doenitz would co-ordinate their efforts. He was cold.
“T.B.S., sir!” said Nystrom. “Eagle.”
As he went in to speak he decided that it would be better to order a new course now rather than wait until his conversation was finished.
“Alter course ten degrees to starboard, Mr. Nystrom.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
“George to Eagle. Go ahead.”
“Pips are all on the move, sir. Three to port, bearing oh eight five for two of them and oh eight one. Range constant at ten miles. Two to starboard, bearing oh nine eight and one oh four. Range eleven miles. They’re keeping their distance ahead of us. And they’re transmitting, sir. Signals all the time. And we think we got another pip, too, sir. Five minutes ago. Dead ahead. Range five miles. It faded out almost as soon as we saw it, but we’re pretty certain of it.”
“What’s your visibility there?”
“Just about five miles, sir. Lookouts saw nothing.”
“Very well. Retain your stations. Over.”
U-boats ahead making no attempt at concealment.
“Steady on course one zero four, sir,” reported Nystrom.
“Very well.”
And one—one at least—closer in, below the surface. An ambush, posted there ready for action whether the escort advanced to the attack or plodded forward in the screen. A momentary appearance, perhaps to transmit a message or perhaps involuntary, breaking surface while rising to periscope depth. It occurred to him to give a warning to Viktor, but he discarded the idea. No need to tell those Polish fellows to keep alert. Those U-boats on the surface must be waiting for darkness to attack. The pestilence that walketh in darkness.
Here was Charlie Cole, saluting.
“Ship’s icing up, sir. I’ve been round. Footing’s bad aft by the tubes.”
“Depth charges free?”
“Yes, sir. I’ve given orders for the steam hoses.”
Trust Charlie to attend to these matters. With depth charges frozen to the racks and unable to roll—it had been known to happen—Keeling would lose nine tenths of her usefulness as an escort.
“Thank you,” said Krause.
“Thank you, sir,” said Charlie, saluting again with his usual exactness.
The messenger was standing by with his arms full of clothes.
“Fine!” said Krause. He began to unbutton the sheepskin coat. That was the moment for the voice tube from the chartroom below to call him. The bell was still vibrating as Krause sprang to the tube.
“Pip bearing two zero seven. Range eleven thousand.”
That was well abaft the starboard beam. It must be the U-boat from which he had been screening Cadena. Finding herself being left behind she had surfaced. A second or two more for thought in this new situation. Turn end on and attack? Could he be sure it was not a ruse to draw him away? Yes. There had so far been no pips on this sector. If there were two U-boats they could not have concerted any plan.
“Right standard rudder. Steer course two zero seven.”
“Right standard rudder. Steer course two zero seven.”
“Captain to gunnery control. Prepare to open fire on radar direction.”
The talker repeated the order.
“Gunnery control answers aye aye, sir.”
“Steady on course two zero seven.”
“Very well.”
“Target bearing two zero eight. Range approximately one oh five double oh.”
That was Charlie Cole’s voice. He must have dashed down below the moment he heard the pip reported. It was a comfort to know he had taken charge down there.
“What do you mean by ‘approximately,’ Charlie?”
“Screen’s fuzzy, sir, and it’s jumping a little.”
This accursed Sugar Charlie radar!
“Lieutenant Rudel to report to the chartroom immediately,” said Krause to the bosun’s mate at the loudspeaker. Perhaps Rudel could persuade the thing to give a little more definition.
“Bearing’s changing, sir. Two zero nine. Two one zero, approximately, sir. And I think the range is closing now. Range one oh four double oh.”
Krause’s mind, accustomed to dealing with problems of vessels on all sorts of bearings, plotted out the present situation. The U-boat on the surface was hightailing it from Cadena’s starboard quarter round to her port quarter, doing an “end around.” With this sea running she could not do more than twelve knots, most likely. Fourteen, possibly. No, not very possibly. She was almost six miles astern of Cadena, who was going at eleven and a half. She was ten miles astern of the convoy. She was out of harm’s way, then, for two, three, perhaps four hours. He could make that interval longer still at small cost.
“Right ten degrees rudder. Steer course two two zero,” he ordered, and then addressed himself to Charlie again. “I’m leading him.”
As the hunter aims his gun at a point ahead of the flying duck, so he was aiming Keeling at a point ahead of the moving U-boat.
“Steady on course two two zero,” said the quartermaster.
“Very well.”
“Bearing approximately two one two,” said Charlie. “Range one oh three double oh as near as I can make it out.”
The morning’s problem was presenting itself again; the U-boat was within easy range of Keeling’s five-inch. But was it worthwhile opening fire on an invisible foe located merely by a dancing spot on a radar screen? Not with a better opportunity possible in the near future.
“I think the bearing’s staying constant, sir,” said Charlie. “Two one two. Yes, and the range is closing. One oh two double oh. One oh one double oh.”
Keeling and the U-boat were approaching each other on converging courses, a hundred yards nearer at every minute.
“Range ten thousand,” said Charlie.
Ten thousand yards; five miles. Visibility in this darkening afternoon was—he stared at the horizon—five miles? Four miles? Whether he opened fire with radar direction or with th
e U-boat in sight he would only be granted the short time it would take the U-boat to submerge in which to score a hit. Direct observation was far surer.
“Range nine eight double oh,” said Charlie. “Bearing two one two.”
“Captain to gunnery control. Hold fire until target is in sight.”
The messenger with his arms full of clothes was still standing by.
“Spread those on the radiator,” said Krause with a gesture. He was so cold now that he could yearn to be warm even with a surfaced U-boat on a converging course.
“Bearing’s changing, sir,” said Charlie. “Changing fast. Two zero five. Two zero three. Range nine three double oh. Nine two double oh.”
The U-boat had altered course to starboard. She must have decided that she had gone far enough with her “end around” and that now she had the opportunity to close in on Cadena.
“Left standard rudder. Steer course one eight zero,” said Krause.
He was turning to meet her in full career. The U-boat had been long submerged before she had come up to the surface and was—it was a heartening thought to a man encompassed by enemies—far more ignorant of the situation than he was.
“Bearing changing,” said Charlie. “Range nine thousand—no, eight eight double oh.”
Not long before they would sight each other, then.
“Steady on course one eight zero,” said the quartermaster.
“Very well.”
“Target bears two zero one. Range eight six double oh. Eight five double oh.”
The guns were training round to starboard. At any moment now the U-boat might appear out of the murk on the starboard bow.
“Bearing two zero two. Range eight three double oh.”
Much less than five miles. Then it happened. A yell from a lookout. Krause had his glasses in his numbed hands, on the point of raising them. Wang-o, wang-o, wang-o went the guns. He did not have the glasses trained in quite the right direction; it was the splashing of the shells that guided him. Then he saw it, the square gray silhouette of a U-boat’s bridge tiny in the distance, pillars of water a little to one side of it; the pillars moved in on it—wang-o, wang-o, wang-o. The pillars of water were all about it, hiding it; not for more than a second or two did he have it in sight. Then the ear-shattering din ended and there was nothing to be seen as the gray water rose into the field of his binoculars and sank again with the heave of the ship. All over. He had achieved his surprise. He had seen his shells beating all about his astonished enemy, but not once—he compelled himself to be realistic about it—had he seen the flash and the momentary glow that would mark a hit.
“Gunnery control to captain. Fire opened on target bearing one nine nine,” said the talker. “Range eight thousand. Twenty-seven rounds fired. No hits observed.”
No hits.
“Very well.”
Another decision to be made, with every second valuable, whether it was a question of dealing with one enemy four miles away in one direction or half a dozen twenty miles away in the other.
“Left standard rudder,” he ordered. “Steer course one zero zero.”
He was turning away from the enemy. He could see a glance or two exchanged among those in the pilothouse who could realize the implications of the order. He was tempted, by the use of a cutting phrase or two, captain to subordinates, to make them wipe that look off their faces, but of course he did nothing of the sort. He would not use his rank for such a purpose. He would not attempt to justify himself, either.
He could have run down towards where the U-boat had disappeared. In a quarter of an hour he would have been in the vicinity, conducting a sonar search. He might have made a contact, but it was ten to one, fifty to one against it, with the convoy drawing away from him all the time that he would be conducting an hour-long search. And ahead of the convoy his three other ships were about to go into battle against heavy odds. He must hasten to their aid without wasting a moment. The U-boat he had fired upon had gone under. It might well be a long time before she would venture to surface again after this experience with an enemy who had dashed so unexpectedly out of the haze with guns firing. The U-boat was far astern of the convoy already; she would be farther astern still by the time she surfaced. Even with exact knowledge of the convoy’s position and speed and course, it would take her the best part of the approaching night to overtake. He had forced her into uselessness for some hours. Better to head at once for certain action than to linger here trying to wring some unlikely further success out of a situation now unpromising. Even if—even if his shells had scored an unobserved hit. A U-boat’s superstructure was tough and capable of receiving damage without crippling her underwater performance. It was the slimmest, the most unlikely of chances that she would be just under the surface, unable to dive deeper, perhaps leaking oil to reveal her position. It was not worth taking into account; he had made the right decision.
“Steady on course one zero zero,” said the quartermaster.
The time it had taken Keeling to make the turn was the measure of the time Krause’s instincts and training had taken to leap to the conclusions a logical speech would have consumed minutes over.
“Very well.”
“Captain, sir,” said Charlie up the voice tube.
“Yes?”
“Lieutenant Rudel is here. Can he speak to you?”
“Very well.”
“Captain,” said Rudel’s voice, “I can try to line up this radar better. I don’t believe I can improve on it much, though. If at all, sir.”
“Can’t you do better than that?” snapped Krause.
“I made a written report on it four days ago, sir,” replied Rudel.
“So you did,” admitted Krause.
“I’d have to shut it down to work on it, sir.”
“How long for?”
“Two hours perhaps, sir. And I don’t guarantee results even then, sir, as I said.”
“Very well, Mr. Rudel. Leave it as is.”
Better a radar out of kilter than no radar at all. The night cometh, when no man can work. There was much to do still.
The need to go down to the head was overpowering, and this seemed a favorable opportunity, the first since he had been called from his cabin. No; there was one other thing to do first. He was leaving Cadena to make her way back into the convoy by herself. She must not think she was being deserted; she did not have his knowledge of the tactical situation and must be reassured.
“Messenger! Write this. ‘Comescort to Cadena. Sub now seven miles astern. Good-by and good luck.’ Take that to the signal bridge. Mr. Nystrom, take the conn.”
He dashed down below, even in his present need still revolving that message in his mind. It was a grim situation when a message to the effect that a hostile submarine was seven miles away was meant to be heartening. But Cadena might have the sense to understand all that he implied. She would undoubtedly leave off zigzagging and sprint for the convoy for all she was worth.
“Signal bridge reports Cadena acknowledges message, sir,” said the messenger in greeting to him as he emerged on the bridge again.
“Very well.”
There were his additional clothes, lying on the radiator. It was stimulating even to see them. He took off his sheepskin coat—it was so long ago since he had unbuttoned the first button with this in mind—and his uniform coat. The act of picking up his sweater called his attention to the fact that he was still wearing his helmet. All the other men in the ship had discarded theirs the moment he had secured from battle stations, several hours back. But he himself had not had one single second in which to do the same. He had been running around wearing it all this time, like a kid in his big brother’s uniform.
“Hang this up,” he snapped at the messenger, tearing the thing off and handing it over.
But it was instantly mollifying to put that sweater on over his s
hirt. The sweater was hot from the radiator, wonderful. So was the scarf that he wound round his neck. He put his uniform coat on over this miraculous warmth. The hood was warm too, embosoming his freezing head and ears. He made fast the clip under his chin with a sense of gratitude to a generous world. Then the sheepskin coat again. He pressed his icy hands on the radiator for as long as he could bear it—not long—and then drew on the gloriously warm fur gloves. It was fantastic how two minutes could alter one’s whole outlook for the better—or for the worse.
WEDNESDAY. DOG WATCHES: 1600–2000
Nystrom was standing beside him awaiting his attention.
“Report having been relieved, sir,” he said, saluting. “Course one zero zero. Standard speed twelve knots. We are making twelve knots, sir.”
“Very well.”
So it was four o’clock. Past four, and the watch had been relieved. The men coming off duty had been at their stations since the time when he had been foolish enough to sound general quarters. But now they could relax and rest, and he could build up the battle reserve he had so recklessly drawn upon. There was a long period of strain ahead and he must not drawn upon that reserve except in the most desperate crisis. He must fight, as he had fought just now, in Condition Two; half the ship would be off duty then, able to take what rest they could with guns firing and depth charges exploding. Plenty of them would sleep through it, so his extensive experience of the American sailor told him.
Charlie Cole, as he had expected, was on the bridge when the watch was relieved.
“Be sure the third and fourth sections get hot food, Charlie.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
There was approval in the executive officer’s eye at sight of his captain at last hooded and gauntleted and wrapped up, but there was no leisure for the exchange of further words, not with Keeling heading back towards action again. Yes, and they were not doing as well as they should. Another lapse. When they turned away from the submarine he had forgotten, clean forgotten, to order an increase in speed. Even the “twelve knots” in Nystrom’s report had not reminded him. He had wasted perhaps as much as five minutes in transferring Keeling from one scene of action to the other.
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