Greyhound (Movie Tie-In)

by C. S. Forester

  “Can you estimate the range of that pip now?” he asked.

  “Well, no, sir. Can’t say that I can.”

  Another voice came up the tube immediately after that unsatisfactory reply. It was Charlie Cole. Krause could not believe he had been asleep; probably he had been prowling round the ship inspecting.

  “The bearing’s constant, sir,” said Cole. “And I’d say there are two pips for certain.”

  “Thank you, Charlie.”

  “And I’d say we’re overtaking them fast.”

  “Very well.”

  Two pips being rapidly overtaken could only mean stragglers. There was no urgent anxiety, then. Krause reached that comforting conclusion and a second afterwards caught himself from swaying forward unconscious. Sleep was waiting like some half-tamed beast of prey ready to spring the moment he relaxed his vigilance. He was nearing the end of his second day without any sleep at all; two days of almost constant tension and strain. Two days spent almost entirely on his feet, too; there was no possible chance of forgetting that. Krause was glad when the bell pinged again.

  “I got it tuned for a second just then, sir. Two pips for certain. And range four miles—that might be pretty accurate. Bearing zero eight six.”

  “Very well.”

  Better not to close too fast. Better to have the sonar working. Wait five minutes.

  “All engines ahead standard speed. Resume sonar search.”

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

  The abrupt diminution of vibration, the reduction in the sound of Keeling’s passage through the water told their own story, as did the resumption in the steady pinging of the sonar.

  “Sonar reports indications confused, sir.”

  That would right itself as soon as Keeling’s speed fell to twelve knots.

  “Forward lookout reports objects dead ahead, sir.”

  “Very well.”

  That would be three miles ahead, if Cole’s estimate of range had been accurate. The lookout was doing his work well to sight the objects at that distance on a night like this.

  “Captain to forward lookout. Continue to report what you see.”

  FRIDAY. MORNING WATCH: 0400–0800

  He himself was standing staring forward. At present he could see nothing there in the darkness. Nystrom was beside him, also gazing forward, and Krause became aware out of the tail of his eye that another figure was standing beside Nystrom—young Harbutt. The watch was changing.

  “Forward lookout reports objects appear to be two ships, sir.”

  “Very well.”

  “Ships for sure, sir,” said Harbutt.

  Now Krause could see them, something more than solid nuclei in the darkness. They were just ships, stragglers from the convoy. He felt considerable exasperation at having been subjected to his recent tension merely on their account.

  “Forward lookout reports two merchant ships dead ahead about two miles close together, sir.”

  “Very well. Captain to forward lookout. We have those ships in sight from the bridge.”

  “Reporting having been relieved, sir,” said Nystrom, and went on through the time-honored formula.

  “Very well, Mr. Nystrom.”

  “Sir,” said Harbutt, “have you any orders about general quarters this morning?”

  Something else he had forgotten all about. In an hour, unless he countermanded his standing orders as he had done yesterday, general quarters would be sounded and the whole ship would be roused. The reasons that motivated his cancellation yesterday still held good. His men were doing four on and four off; they might as well have all the rest they could. He ought to have remembered it.

  “No general quarters this morning unless it’s the real thing,” he said. “Put it on the loudspeaker.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  As they approached the dark ships he heard the announcement made.

  “Now hear this. There’ll be no—”

  One of Uncle Sam’s ships had acquired the nickname a few years ago of “the beno ship” because of the numerous announcements over her loudspeaker beginning that way; but those announcements had given warning that there would be no liberty that afternoon, and similar unpleasant news. This was different.

  They were close up to the nearer ship now; he could see her churning wake.

  “Left rudder. Meet her. Steady as you go.”

  Now he could recognize her; a tanker with bridge and engines aft. That was Hendrikson. They were hailing already from her bridge by megaphone. Krause stepped out to the bullhorn; on his way he collided violently with a figure who had suddenly appeared at his elbow.

  “Admiralty message, sir,” said the figure. It was Dawson’s voice.

  “One minute,” said Krause, although the words brought a surge of life and excitement back into his numb body. He bellowed into the bull horn. “Comescort. What are you doing back here?”

  “Ve touched that bastard over dere,” said a voice in reply. “Buckled our bow plates. Yust saved ourselves. He vill hear from my owners.”

  “You don’t seem to be much hurt. What did you do to him?”

  “Hope I did plenty.”

  “Can you maintain course and speed?”

  “Yes.”

  Keeling was fast drawing past Hendrikson; they were almost out of hailing distance.

  “Maintain your course with modified zig. Plan Number Seven. Look out for Cadena coming up astern.”

  “O.K.”

  “Mr. Harbutt, take the conn. Hail that fellow over there and find out what his damage is. If he’s all right get him into column astern of the tanker and screen them both.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  “Now, Mr. Dawson.”

  Dawson had his clipboard; he had taken the dim red flashlight from the chart table and shone it on the message. Krause took both clipboard and flashlight from him.

  “Some of it’s badly scrambled, sir,” apologized Dawson. “I’ve done the best I can with it.”

  Some of the words were only jumbles of letters. The others stood out with startling effect as Krause read them in the faint red light.

  REINFORCEMENT DISPATCHED. A muddle of letters. ESCORT GROUP CAPTAIN BARL OF BANFF SNO. More muddles. EXPECT AIRCRAFT OP ORD 278—42 APPENDIX HYPO. More muddles.

  “I’m sure of that, sir,” said Dawson, stabbing a finger at OP ORD. “Here it is.”

  Attached to the clipboard in addition to the message was the reference: HIS CHALLENGE UW YOUR ANSWER BD.

  “Just as well,” said Krause. “Messenger!”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Ask the exec to come to the bridge.” He had hesitated before speaking. The sentence he had framed in his mind—‘My compliments to the executive officer and I would be glad if he were to come to the bridge’—had been ridiculously pompous, an echo of old battleship days in peacetime, and he had had to reframe it to suit wartime conditions in a destroyer.

  He studied the message again. It was nearly twelve hours old, having taken much longer to come through than the previous Admiralty message, which had been given priority. The channels were congested but the Admiralty must have worked out that this would reach him in time for him to take the necessary action. But it was wonderful news that reinforcements were on their way. SNO meant senior naval officer in accordance with British usage, not one of those odd collections of letters like DSO or MBE which merely meant a decoration. And the SNO was a captain. That meant that he would be superseded in the command. His responsibility for the convoy would be ended. Krause found himself madly regretting that—regret without any alloy of relief. He would have liked to finish the job himself. His woolly fatigue was stirred into a resentment.

  “I didn’t dare guess at those scrambles, sir,” said Dawson. “There were some numerals—”


  “Very well, Mr. Dawson.”

  It was a little odd—strangely British—that the Admiralty should go to the trouble of informing him that Captain Earl, who was going to take over command, came from Banff. Krause thought of the Canadian Rockies and Lake Louise; but there might be a Banff in Britain, the same as there was a Boston and a Newport. But in that case why mention it? It could only be of importance if Earl was a Canadian. The explanation suddenly shot up in Krause’s mind, adding a trifle of amusement to temper his irritation and resentment. This must be one of those English lords—Captain the Earl of Banff. And with the British, “aircraft” was the usual and not the unusual way of saying “plane.”

  “Yes, Cap’n?” said Cole, arriving.

  “Read this,” said Krause, handing over clipboard and flashlight.

  Cole bent to read, the flashlight held within two inches of the paper. It was Krause’s bounden duty to inform his second in command of news as important as this.

  “That’s fine, sir,” said Cole. “You’ll be able to take a rest.”

  He could not in the darkness see the expression on Krause’s face, or he might have used other words.

  “Yes,” said Krause, harshly.

  “Sent at eighteen hundred GCT,” commented Cole. “And it says the relief has already been dispatched. Won’t be long before we meet them. They’ll do a high speed run without zigzagging. Well, they can’t arrive too early.”

  “No,” said Krause.

  “Do you know this Captain Earl, sir?” asked Cole.

  “That’s not his name,” said Krause, and for the life of him he could not help feeling superior. “He’s a lord. The Earl of Banff.”

  “An Earl? But you haven’t ever spoken to him, sir?”

  “No,” said Krause. “Not to remember. I mean I am sure I haven’t.”

  The last sentence was jerked out of him by conscience to make up for the one before it. Krause had met many British naval officers, but he would certainly have remembered meeting the Earl of Banff, and it was dishonest to imply that he was capable of forgetting it.

  ”You can’t risk a guess about these cipher groups, Dawson?” asked Cole.

  “No, sir. I was saying so to the captain. There are numerals in them, which makes it hard.”

  “No doubt about the numerals,” commented Cole. “Time of meeting not stated. Position not stated. But that plane will be here within an hour of sunrise, sir. You can be sure of that.”

  “I think so,” said Krause.

  “I never heard better news in my life, sir,” said Cole. “Thank you for letting me in on it.”

  It was quite obvious that Cole had not the least notion that Krause could feel any bitterness regarding his supersession.

  “Cap’n, sir,” said Harbutt.

  During this last conversation they had been aware of Harbutt carrying on a bellowed conversation through the loud-hailer, giving orders to the wheel, and occasionally swearing to himself.

  “Yes, Mr. Harbutt?”

  “The other freighter’s Southland, sir. She’s pretty well caved in on the starboard quarter, they tell me. But most of the damage is above waterline and they can cope with the leaks. Hendrikson’s damage is all above waterline. I’ve got ’em into column, Southland leading. She says she can make ten and a half knots, and Hendrikson’s good for eleven. And here’s Cadena coming up astern, sir.”

  “How far ahead’s the convoy?”

  “Four miles is what radar guesses, sir. Can’t see ’em yet.”

  “Very well, Mr. Harbutt. Get Cadena into column as well and patrol ahead of them.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  Cole addressed himself to Dawson as Harbutt withdrew.

  “You’re sure of this challenge and reply?” he asked.

  “As sure as I am of anything, sir,” said Dawson.

  It was necessary to size up Dawson’s capabilities and mentality. He had not spoken overboldly or pathetically.

  “Just as well,” said Cole. “We might have him here in two hours.”

  “How do you make that out, Charlie?” asked Krause. In the nick of time he had repressed an exclamation of surprise.

  “We’re on GCT now, sir,” replied Cole. “Sunrise this morning here will be zero-six-thirty-five. It’s zero-five-twenty now. You can see it’s getting light already, sir.”

  So it was. Undoubtedly it was. Cole’s and Dawson’s figures were not black shadows; a hint of their white faces was perceptible. Two hours! It was fantastically unbelievable.

  “We’re well on schedule,” said Krause.

  “Ahead of where they’ll expect us to be, sir,” supplemented Cole.

  The Admiralty could have no certainty about the position of the convoy. In view of their recommendation of two days ago—two days? It seemed more like two weeks—of a radical change of course, and in view of the numerous D.F. bearings on U-boats that they must have had, they might guess that the convoy was far behind schedule. But it had plowed steadily on with almost no delay.

  “Dodge and James have to know about this,” said Krause, tapping the clipboard with his gloved hand. “I’ll tell ’em. I couldn’t raise them last night. They were too far.”

  “I’d better stand by, sir,” volunteered Dawson, with a queer hint of apology in his voice. “Perhaps—”

  What Dawson was saying trailed off into significant incoherence as Krause went to the T.B.S. Dawson knew something about the ways of communications officers, and about the ways of commanding officers, too; and so did Krause. The Admiralty message was addressed to Comescort, but Dodge and James were likely to have taken it in. And they were likely to have decoded it as well, even though to do so would be a mild infraction of orders. It would be hard for discipline to withstand the assaults of curiosity at this moment and in these circumstances.

  When Krause began speaking to the two ships the replies he received echoed Dawson’s apologetic tone comically, despite the way that the T.B.S. took most of the expression out of the voices.

  “Yes, sir,” said Dicky; and after a moment’s hesitation, “We took that signal in too.”

  “I guessed so,” said Krause. “You have the challenge and reply?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Did you unscramble those numerals?”

  “It wasn’t a numeral, sir,” answered Dicky. “It was ‘point T.’ We made that bit out to be, ‘Anticipate point of contact point T.’”

  “We’re nearly up to point T now,” said Krause.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Help, then, was very close at hand. And he had not appealed for it.

  “And we got another bit, sir,” said Harry. “‘Report position if north of fifty-seven.’”

  They were well to the south of fifty-seven degrees north latitude.

  “Thank you,” said Krause. He would not take official notice of the venial sin. And in any case, if he had been killed in the night action they would have had to have decoded that message. They could not be sure. That started another train of thought. It was hard to keep everything in mind, even the unpleasant thing he was thinking about.

  “Did you know,” he asked, “that Viktor was lost last night?”

  “No!” said a shocked voice over the T.B.S.

  “Yes,” said Krause. “She was hit just at dusk and went down at midnight.”

  “Anyone saved, sir?” asked the T.B.S., subdued.

  “Everyone, I think, except those killed in the explosion.”

  “Is old Tubby all right, sir?”

  “The British liaison officer?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I think so.”

  “I’m glad, sir,” said one voice, and the other said, “It would take more than that to drown old Tubby.”

  Krause had imagined the owner of that lackadaisical voice to be tall and lean; appar
ently he was nothing of the sort.

  “Well, you fellows,” said Krause; the tired mind had to pick its words carefully again, for a formal moment was approaching and he was dealing with Allies. “It won’t be long now.”

  “No, sir.”

  “I won’t be in command much longer.” He had to say that steadily and with every appearance of indifference. The T.B.S. waited in sympathetic silence, and he went on, “I have to thank you both for everything you’ve done.”

  “Thank you, sir,” said one voice.

  “Yes,” said the other, “it’s us that have to thank you, sir.”

  “You’re very welcome,” said Krause, banally and idiotically. “But that’s all I have to say. Except good-by for now.”

  “Good-by, sir. Good-by.”

  He came away from the T.B.S. feeling sad.

  “Now about you, sir,” said Cole. “When did you eat last?”

  Krause was taken completely by surprise by the question. At some time or other he had eaten cold cuts and salad, but to pinpoint the time in his memory was absolutely beyond him. Watch had succeeded watch with, in retrospect, a rapidity that left him bewildered.

  “I had some coffee,” he said, lamely.

  “Nothing else since I ordered dinner for you, sir?”

  “No,” said Krause. And he had no intention whatever of allowing his private life to be supervised by his executive officer, even though that officer was his lifetime friend. “I’m not hungry.”

  “Fourteen hours since you ate last, sir,” said Cole.

  “What I want to do,” said Krause, asserting his independence, “is to get down to the head. I don’t want to eat.”

  He formed an irritating mental picture of himself as a fretful child and Charlie Cole as an imperturbable nurse. He had used a child’s excuse.

  “That’s fine, sir. I’ll get breakfast laid on for you while you’re gone. I suppose there’s no chance of your taking a rest until that plane shows up, sir?”

  “Of course not,” said Krause.