“Well?”
“We’ve only six left, sir. That’s all. I got the extra ones that we had up our sleeve up 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 had become an experienced fighting man, these seconds would have been 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 induct 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. Tomorrow morning he would be just 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 farther 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 pilothouse 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 evasion 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 into 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’s 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 pilothouse. 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. Nourse!”
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 lookouts 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 lighthearted wisecrack, and he was a man who joked with difficulty. 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.�
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He had reversed the circle, turning counterclockwise now after several clockwise circles. But perhaps the U-boat captain was paralleling his thoughts.
He went out onto 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 most 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 center 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?”
“Sonar answers no, sir.”
“Very well.”
“Sonar reports contact dead ahead. Range fifteen hundred yards.”
Suspicions grew in Krause’s mind—unless the U-boat, crippled, was lying stationary. That was too good to hope for, and the next report strengthened Krause’s suspicions.
“Sonar reports contact dead ahead. Range thirteen hundred yards. Sonar reports it sounds like a pill, sir.”
That was it, then. It was some time since this U-boat had used that device. But which way had she turned after dropping the thing? Had she dropped it before Viktor made her attack or after? It seemed to be a matter of pure chance, but he made himself analyze the situation, looking over at Viktor’s position, judging the distance ahead, trying to think of what the U-boat captain would do when he heard Viktor moving straight in on him, and quite ignorant of whether Keeling had turned to starboard or port. It was the first time in a long while that Keeling had turned to port. The U-boat captain would guess she would turn to starboard, and would himself turn to port. Then he must make a further turn to starboard.
“Right smartly to course zero eight nine.”
While the helmsman was repeating the order the next report came in.
“Contact dead ahead. Range eleven hundred yards. Still sounds like a pill, sir.”
“George to Eagle. He’s dropped a pill. I am moving out to starboard. Move in on my port beam and search.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
The sub had won itself a respite of two or three, or four or five minutes.
“Sonar reports contact with pill bearing zero nine nine, range nine hundred yards.”
If he knew what the endurance of those things was it would help him with his estimates, but—he searched back through his memory of all he had heard and read—no data on that point had been supplied to him.
“Sonar reports no contact, sir.”
The bubbles had ended, then; the pillenwerfer had ceased to bob precariously in the limbo of the deep, hauled up by its bubbles and drawn down by gravity. Gravity had won and the mysterious thing was now sinking down and down in the darkness to the seabed.
“Sonar reports no contact, sir.”
The ripples were widening in the pond; with the passage of every second the circle marking “possible position of U-boat” was growing larger and larger.
“George to Eagle. I’ve had no contact.”
“Neither have we, sir.”
Maybe that last attack of Viktor’s had hit home, maybe the moment after dropping the pillenwerfer the U-boat had been crushed in by a depth charge close alongside; maybe she had gone down without trace. No; that was unlikely enough to be quite disregarded. The U-boat was still somewhere near, malignant, dangerous. But at twelve knots Keeling was very near the circumference of the circle outside which the U-boat could not possibly be as yet. Viktor was well advanced beyond the center of that circle.
“Left standard rudder. Quartermaster, call out your heading. George to Eagle. I am circling to port. Turn to port too.”
“Aye aye, sir. Asdic’s getting echoes from cold layers, sir.”
Very likely. Perhaps the U-boat captain, with a sharp eye on the thermometer readings recording the outside water temperature, had noted a steep rise in the temperature gradient, had sought the cold layer which that indicated, and was now lying deep deep down, trimmed to a milligram, deathly silent, balanced miraculously upon the invisible and fragile support of a stratum of denser water. The Lord is in His holy temple; let all the earth keep silence before Him—that was a blasphemous thought.
“Passing zero four zero. Passing zero three zero. Passing zero two zero.”
Keeling was coming round; seconds were passing rapidly, and every second precious. Over the port quarter Viktor was turning less sharply, searching in a quarter so far unexplored.
“Passing three four zero. Passing three three zero. Passing three two zero.”
Now Viktor was on her port bow; now she was right ahead.
“Sonar reports no contact, sir.”
“Very well.”
“Passing two eight zero. Passing two seven zero. Passing two six zero.”
“Sonar reports echoes, sir. No contact.”
“Very well.”
The same kind of echoes that Viktor had reported from a little farther away. Many cold streaks of water here, deflecting away the sonar beam if the U-boat was indeed lying stationary here. But she might have slipped away unobserved; she might be two miles, three miles distant by now, her crew laughing derisively at the spectacle of two destroyers circling round and round and round seeking where they could not possibly find.
“Passing two zero zero. Passing one nine zero. Passing one eight zero.”
They were completing the circle. Was it any use going on with the search? Krause considered the question with the rigid and unrelenting analysis he applied to his nightly review of his actions during the day before his evening prayers. Would it be feeble, faint-hearted, irresolute, light-minded to abandon the search? He was aware of his fatigue; was he allowing his fatigue to influence his judgment? He wanted to get down to the head; he wanted food and drink. Was he allowing these human weaknesses to deflect him from a determination which he ought to maintain? This was the only kind of self-analysis that Krause ever knew. With his mind’s eye he looked coldly at the wriggling worm, the weak and sinful creature which was Commander Krause, spineless in the presence of temptation and untrustworthy in the presence of an opportunity to err. Yet he came, reluctantly, to admit that perhaps in this case the feeble creature was right.
“Passing one two zero. Passing one one zero.”
“Steady on course zero eight zero,” he ordered, and then, into the T.B.S., “I am going east to the head of the convoy. My course zero eight zero.”
“Oh eight oh. Aye aye, sir.”
“Make one more sweep and then patrol round the stragglers.”
“Patrol round the stragglers. Aye aye, sir.”
“Steady on cou
rse zero eight zero, sir.”
“Very well.”
He could not quite remember when he had begun this hunt, but it must be seven hours ago or so. Now he was giving it up. He felt a moment of regret, a moment of self-doubt. Submarine hunts had been called off before this, often enough; but that did not mitigate the feeling of failure even so. Over on Keeling’s port side, from just forward of the beam to the quarter, the convoy was barely in sight over the horizon. It had certainly straggled during the night as a result of the torpedo attack; it was spread out like smoke trailing from a stack. Viktor would have her hands full covering all that vulnerable flank and herding the stragglers back into formation. He went wearily over to the stool and sank down on it. Thigh muscles and calf muscles, knee joints and hip joints were all aching horribly, and in those first few seconds after he had sat down they ached even more sharply with the returning circulation. The physical exhaustion and discomfort were sufficient at the moment to distract his mind from his disappointment and feeling of mental lassitude. Hours and hours ago he had told James he would send Viktor over to help her; and he had told Dodge he would bring Keeling to her assistance. Lightheartedly he had made the promises, conditional ones—“as soon as I can”; “after I’ve helped Eagle”—without a suspicion of how long and how fruitless his chase would be. He called up Dodge and James on the T.B.S. and listened to their reports, bracing himself to pay close attention. Dodge was seven miles away on his starboard bow—that was how far her operations during the night had drawn her—making her way back to her station, having lost contact with the enemy. Looking in that direction through his binoculars, he could just see her, a more solid nucleus in the hazy horizon. James was over on the left flank beyond the convoy, out of sight but close up to station.
“One moment, please sir,” said the T.B.S., the wording, so oddly like that of a long-distance operator, in quaint contrast with the precise English accent. A new voice made itself heard in Krause’s listening ear.
“This is Lieutenant Commander Rode, commanding, sir.”
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