The Good Shepherd (21 page)

“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 further 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 pilot-house 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 evasive 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
in to 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 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 pilot-house. 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 Noursel”

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 look-outs 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 light-hearted 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.”

He had reversed the circle, turning anti-clockwise now after several clockwise circles. But perhaps the U-boat captain was paralleling his thoughts.

He went out on to 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 more 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 centre 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 analyse 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 sea bed.

“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 centre of that circle.

“Left standard rudder. Quatermaster, 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 as
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 course 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 just 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. Light-heartedly he had made her 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.