The Good Shepherd (17 page)

“Can’t say that I do,” said Krause.

“Look-out, there! “ hailed Sand. “D’you smell any oil?”

“Not now, sir. Thought I smelt some a while back.”

“You see, sir?” said Sand.

They looked out at the dark water below, hardly visible from the heaving bridge. It was quite impossible to tell in the darkness if there were oil on the surface.

“I wouldn’t say there was,” said Krause.

The pleasure it would give him to be sure that there was oil made him particularly sceptical, although--Krause not being given to self-analysis--he was unaware of it and made no allowance for that particular reaction. But the very high standards of proof demanded by the Admiralty undoubtedly influenced him.

“I don’t think I can smell it now, sir,” said Sand. “But we’ve come a long way since I thought I smelt it first.”

“No,” said Krause. His tone was quite expressionless because he was set on keeping all emotion out of the argument. “I don’t think there was anything worth mentioning.”

“Very well, sir,” said Sand.

Literally (in Krause’s opinion) it was not worth mentioning; it would find no place in his report when it came to be written. He was not of the type to try and claim credit for himself on insufficient evidence. Prove all things, hold fast that which is good. Yet the possibility was a deciding factor.

“Let’s go,” said Krause.

Balancing one chance against another it seemed likely that there was no more profit to be gained in staying astern of the convoy. The sub
might
be sunk; certainly she was below the surface and likely to stay there for some time, and probably was sufficiently far astern to be out of harm’s way for a much longer time. This was certainly the moment to return to the head of the convoy and take part in the struggle the other three ships were waging. Krause’s “Let’s go” was not a suggestion put forward for comment; it was the announcement of a decision, as his officers knew without a moment’s thought.

“Take the conn, Mr Carling,” said Krause. “I want to head round the left flank of the convoy at our best practicable speed.”

“Aye aye, sir,” said Carling, and, after a moment’s thought, “Zigzagging, sir?”

“No,” said Krause.

He had wanted to blaze out at Carling. It was nonsense to talk about zigzagging when
Keeling
would be going twenty knots or more in the darkness, but the very fact that Carling should ask the nonsensical question was a proof that he was not fully master of himself. A sharp reprimand now would very likely unnerve him completely. On the other hand, to put him in charge of a quite simple manoeuvre which he could carry out with complete success might re-establish his self-command and help to make him a good officer in time. A destroyer captain’s duty was to build as well as to destroy.

But although it was necessary to leave Carling in complete control this was not the time to quit the bridge. He had to appear to be taking no notice while remaining instantly available to deal with any emergency. He went over to the T.B.S. and listened on the hand-set with one ear, his back to Carling, and the other ear cocked listening to what Carling was doing. Carling acted quite normally, called down to the chartroom to give him a course for the proposed movement, gave the necessary helm order, and called for twenty knots.

“George to Harry. George to Dicky. George to Eagle,” said Krause on the T.B.S. He waited for the replies. “I’m coming up round the left flank. Look out for me, Harry.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

“I don’t think I got the sub I chased through the convoy,” he went on. “Maybe I gave him a fright, though.”

The British officer who had lectured on anti-submarine warfare at Casco Bay had been fond of quoting an army story of the previous war, in which two infantry privates put their clothes through a newly-invented machine for delousing them.

“Why,” said one, bitterly, after inspecting results. “They’re all alive still.”

“Yes,” said the other. “But I expect they’ve had the hell of a fright.”

Usually--too often--an encounter between a U-boat and a destroyer ended merely in the U-boat having had more or less of a fright and receiving no hurt. To cleanse the sea of the U-boat vermin called for killing; no amount of narrow escapes would deter the U-boat captains with their fanatical
esprit de corps
--and with the iron hand of Doenitz to force them into action.

“It’s us that’s having frights up here, sir,” squawked the T.B.S.

Was there reproach in that remark? Krause felt a pang as he heard it. No one was more sharply aware than himself that the destroyer captains under his command had fought through two and a half years of war and had probably resented bitterly the accident that had put them, two-and-a-half stripers, under the command of a three-stripe American who had never fired a shot even though he was nearly twenty years older. The convoy had had to sail; the Allies had had to scrape together an escort for it; and he had happened to be the ranking officer. Luckily they could not be aware of the other circumstances which rankled as badly in Krause’s heart, that he had been marked with the words--utterly damning although innocent enough in appearance--”fitted and retained,” and that he had been twice passed over for promotion and had only made commander with the expansion of the navy in 1941.

What they
were
aware of was that twice today at wild moments their commanding officer had vanished into the rear of the convoy. The fact that he had engaged in desperate action each time, that
Keeling
had been doing work that had to be done and for doing which she was best situated at the moment, would not be so apparent to them. There might be heads wagging about the inexperience-- or even worse--of their commanding officer. It was painful, horribly painful, to think about that; it was infuriating as well. Krause could have burst into a roaring rage, but it was very much his duty not to do so. He that is slow to anger is better than the mighty, and he that ruleth his spirit than he that taketh a city. It was his duty to stay unangered, to speak in a flat tone, with every word distinct, and with no trace of emotion.

“I am six miles behind you,” he said. “I’ll be up to you in half an hour. Coming up on the left flank. Over.”

He turned away from the T.B.S. with a horrid mixture of emotions. That remark may have been merely a light-hearted one, but it rankled.

“I think, Mr Carling,” he said; it was for another reason now that he had to appear unconcerned and unexcited, “she’ll take another couple of knots at least. Better try her.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

He was hungry and thirsty, and this would be an ideal moment in which to eat and drink; he had no idea what had happened to the last pot of coffee for which he had sent the messenger--all he knew was that he had not tasted it; the last coffee he had drunk had been the icy-cold contents of the pot before that one. But now he was hungry and thirsty and yet had no appetite; with the strain he was undergoing and had undergone the thought of food was actually distasteful to him. Yet it was essential that he should eat and drink if he were to remain equal to the demands upon him.

“Messenger!”

“Yes, sir.”

“Go down to the wardroom. I want a pot of coffee and a sandwich. But no onion. Remember to tell the mess-boy that or he’ll put some in for sure. Wait for it and bring it up yourself.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

No onion; if ever there was another chance of smelling oil he wanted to be sure of whether he smelt it or not. This might even be a good moment to get down to the head, although it was by no means necessary yet. No; as it was not necessary it would be better not to leave Carling in sole charge. The quartermaster, crouching over the table with the red flashlight, was endeavouring to write up the deck log. It would be a poor job he would make of it, with
Keeling’s
recent evolutions, and in the absence of the hourly readings from the engine-room, but he was scribbling away industriously and fast. Now there was bustle through the ship, voices, clatter on the ladders, and Krause realized that the quartermaster was working in that fashion in anticipation of being relieved at the change of watch. Shadowy figures were crowding up into the pilot-house. Another watch was over. The convoy was another thirty miles or more nearer safety.

Thursday. Middle Watch
--
2400-0400

“You did a good job, McAlister,” said Krause as the helm was relieved. “Well done.” “Thank you, sir.”

With McAlister at the wheel
Keeling
had pointed herself straight up the U-boat’s wake, straight for the U-boat itself.

Carling saluted in the darkness and reported his relief. He went through the ceremonial sentences--ceremonial and yet every word important--with an apparent calm.

“Mr Nystrom has the deck, sir,” concluded Carling.

“Thank you, Mr Carling. Very well.”

The flat tone; essential that there should be no suggestion of anything unusual.

“Cap’n, please, sir, I got your coffee.”

It was rather a plaintive voice. The messenger had carried that tray up four ladders, with
Keeling
leaping on the waves and the ladders crowded with the changing watch, and now there was a crowded pilot-house and as always only the jealously-guarded chart-table on which to put the tray.

“On the table,” said Krause. “Quartermaster, make room for it. Thank you, messenger.”

Because he had chosen that particular moment to send for coffee the messenger had lost ten full minutes of his watch below. The fortune of war for the messenger, but Krause would have waited until the watch was changed if he had noticed the time. Krause pulled off his right-hand fur glove and wedged it in his left armpit; his hand was cold but he still had full use of it. He poured himself a cup of coffee, fumbling in the darkness, and sipped at it. Scalding hot, too hot to drink despite its long journey up from the wardroom. But the taste and the smell of it were sufficient to start his digestive processes working again. He longed for that coffee; he was accustomed to drinking eight big cups every day of his life and had always guiltily put aside the self-accusation that he was a coffee-hound dependent on a drug.

While the coffee cooled he bit into the sandwich. No onion, just bread and cold corned beef and mayonnaise, but he found himself in the darkness snapping at it like a wolf, biting and chewing frantically. During the last sixteen hours or so of ceaseless activity he had eaten half a sandwich. The present one vanished in a few bites, and Krause lingeringly licked the traces of mayonnaise from his fingers before addressing himself to the coffee. It was now exactly cool enough--just hotter than most people would care to drink it--and he emptied the cup without taking it from his lips and poured himself another in passionate anticipation. He sipped at it;
Keeling
was pitching very considerably and heeling a good deal, but he held the cup level in the darkness even when an unexpected lurch caused him to shift his footing. A towering pitch on
Keeling’s
part sent the coffee, when next he sipped, surging up his upper lip as far as his nose, and it ran down to drip from his chin, but he drank all the rest and felt in the darkness for the pot hoping there would be a third cupful in it. Of course there was not--there never was; only, as far as he could guess, a thimbleful at the bottom of the pot which he tossed off.

It crossed his mind that he could send for another pot, but he virtuously put the temptation aside. He would not be led astray into self-indulgence; he could be firm in the matter of coffee when he had had nearly enough. He had cast the napkin aside from the tray in his initial eagerness, and now it was hopeless to try to find it in the darkness; his handkerchief was out of reach in his bundled clothes, but he wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, secure in the knowledge no one could see him, and then pulled on his glove again. He had eaten and drunk without a moment’s interruption, and the food and drink brightened his outlook; his momentary depression had vanished. Yet as he moved away from the table he was very conscious of fatigue in his legs--the first time he had noticed it. He determined at that same moment not to notice it; he had often enough before stood balancing on a heaving deck for sixteen hours at a stretch. There was duty still to be done, and endless vistas of days and nights of duty.

“What do you have on the screen?” he asked down the voice-pipe.

Someone down there gave him distances and bearings; the convoy half a mile abaft his starboard beam although out of sight. A pip three miles ahead.

“That’s the British corvette, sir.”

“Very well.”

“Screen’s very fuzzy, sir. And it’s jumping, too.”

“Very well.”

Over the T.B.S.

“George to Harry. Do you hear me?”

“Harry to George. I hear you. Strength three.”

“You bear from me zero-eight-zero. Do you have me on your screen?”

“Yes, we have you, bearing two-six-two, distance three and a half miles.”

“Very well. I’ll cross astern of you. I’ll reduce speed and start sonar search now.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

He put down the hand-set.

“Mr Nystrom, we’ll come down to standard speed. Start sonar search.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

“Set a course to pass astern of
James
and
Viktor.
Keep well clear of the convoy.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

Krause’s leg weariness asserted itself again, to his considerable annoyance. He had no business to feel tired yet. And he was gloomily conscious that despite his recent meal depression was only just over the horizon of his mind. He knew it because suddenly, agonizingly, the thought of Evelyn came up into his mind. Evelyn and her handsome black-haired young San Diego lawyer. That was a dreadful thought here in this dark Atlantic night, heaving over a black invisible ocean. Evelyn was quite justified in growing tired of him, he supposed. He was dull. And he had quarrelled with her--he should not have done so, but it was hard to avoid it when she resented the amount of time he spent in his ship; she could not understand--that was his fault for not being able to explain. A cleverer man would have made his feelings, his compulsions, clear to her. Three years ago now, and the memories as bitter as ever.