The Good Shepherd (22 page)

“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.”

“Good morning, Captain,” said Krause. Formality always boded ill.

“As soon as we are in visual touch I shall make a report to you, sir. I am taking this opportunity of calling your particular attention to it.”

“You can’t tell me now?” asked Krause.

“No, sir. Jerry’s been in on this circuit more than once during the night. He has an English-speaking rating who chips in with rude remarks, and I wouldn’t like him to hear this.”

“Very well, Captain. I shall await your report.”

It could only be bad news, of course. Fuel problems almost for certain; depth-charge shortages very likely. But at this moment he had his own personal problem, the extreme necessity of getting down to the head. That was something that, having been postponed for hours, could not be postponed one minute more after thinking about it. Charlie Cole was entering the pilot-house.

“Wait for me a minute, Charlie,” said Krause. “Take the conn, Mr. Carling.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

As he lowered himself heavily down the ladders there was some comfort in the thought that Cole was on the bridge, even though the conn was officially handed over to Carling. He climbed heavily back again. This ship of his, with which he was so utterly familiar, seemed foreign to him in his present condition. The sights and sounds and smells which he knew so well seemed to threaten him, like jagged reefs surrounding a ship creeping into narrow, uncharted waters. He had been so long on the bridge, and in a state of such intense concentration, that the real world seemed unreal; furthermore, he had to keep that real world out of his mind, so as not to break the chain of his thinking.

It was a major physical effort to climb the last ladder to the bridge where Cole was awaiting him, and when he had achieved it he sank unashamedly on the stool.

“I’ve ordered something for you to eat, sir,” said Cole. “I suppose there’s no chance of your taking it in the wardroom.”

“No,” said Krause.

His mind was still at work assembling the details of keeping his command as efficient as possible. He fixed his eyes on Cole; the tanned, fleshy face was somewhat drawn with fatigue. Over the cheeks sprouted a thick growth of beard, something most unusual, for Lieutenant-Commander Cole was careful about his appearance.

“You spent the night in the plot,” said Krause, accusingly.

“Most of it, sir.”

“Have you eaten anything yourself?”

“Not much, sir. I’m just going to.”

“You’d better. I want you to have a good breakfast, Charlie.”

“Aye aye, sir. I’ll just go aft first and see - -“

“No. I don’t want you to, Commander. A good breakfast, and then I want you to turn in for at least two hours. That’s an order, Commander.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

“At least two hours. Very well, Charlie.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

There was no more than half a second’s hesitation about Charlie Cole’s salute. He did not want to leave his captain there on the bridge, with his white face and his hollow cheeks and his staring eyes. But there was no chance of argument when an order had been given. That was naval discipline, which had them all in a rigid grip, which the exigencies of war did no more than tighten slightly.
Keeling
was in the presence of the enemy and Krause on the bridge was at his post of duty and it was inconceivable that he should leave it. Navy Regs and the Articles for the Government of the Navy were quite definite about that. Consideration of any other course led into flights of fancy wilder than the thoughts of a lunatic. Krause could have summoned the medical officer to the bridge, he could have had himself certified as unfit for duty, and then he could have left his post and taken a rest. Only a lunatic could think of an officer going voluntarily through such a humiliation, and it would be beyond any lunatic’s imagination to conceive of a man with Krause’s rigid pride and overwhelming sense of duty submitting to it. Certainly the possibility never developed even in embryo in Krause’s thoughts. It was as far from his mind as a dereliction from duty would be, which meant that it never came into existence at all.

Here was a messenger with a tray.

“Exec, told me to bring this first without waiting for the rest, sir,” he said.

It was coffee; the inevitable set-up with the cream and sugar that he never used, but he viewed it as Galahad would have viewed the Holy Grail. Krause tugged off his gloves and snatched at it. His hands were numb and trembled a little as he poured. He swigged off the cup and refilled and drank again. The warmth as the coffee went down called his attention to the fact that he was cold; not acutely, perishingly cold but chilled through and through as if nothing would ever quite warm him again.

“Get me another pot,” he said, replacing the cup on the tray.

“Aye aye, sir.”

But as the messenger turned away the Filipino mess-boy took his place, also with a tray in his hands; a white cloth covered it, and the humps and valleys of the cloth hinted at much beneath. When he lifted the cloth he saw marvels. Bacon and eggs--no, ham and eggs with hashed brown potatoes! Toast, jelly, and more coffee! Charlie Cole was a wonderful man. Yet it was a proof of the weariness of Krause’s legs that he sat on the stool contemplating these wonders for a short space wondering what to do next. The stool was just too high for him to hold the tray on his knees; the alternative was to put the tray on the chart-table and eat standing up, and Krause experienced a brief hesitation before he decided upon it.

“On the table,” he said, and hobbled after the mess-boy.

And when he addressed himself to the tray then he experienced another momentary hesitation. It was almost as if he were not hungry; he might almost have told the boy to take the tray away again. But with the first mouth-full that feeling disappeared. He ate rapidly, with the cold wind from the broken windows of the pilot-house blowing round him. Fried eggs may not have been the most convenient things to eat while standing up on a heaving deck, but he did not care, not even when yellow drips fell on his sheepskin coat. He shovelled the potatoes into his mouth with the spoon. He spread jelly on the toast with an egg-smeared knife. He wiped his plate with the last fragment of toast and ate that too. Then a third cup of coffee, not swigged down madly like the first two, but drunk more at leisure, savouring it like a true coffee-hound, with the added pleasure of knowing that there was a fourth cup yet to be drunk. The pleasure was not even spoiled when a sudden recollection came to him of a duty yet unfulfilled. He bowed his head for a moment.

“I thank Thee Oh Lord for all Thy mercies - - “

There had once been a kind and understanding father. Krause was fortunate in that memory; that father had been able to smile at the excusable naughtiness of a little boy even though he led the life of a saint himself. Krause was not harassed by the thought of sin at having forgotten to say his thanks until his meal was nearly completed. That would be understood and forgiven him. The letter killeth but the spirit giveth life. Krause’s severest and most unrelenting judge, of whom he went in fear, was Krause himself, but that judge had luckily never taken ritual sin under his jurisdiction.

He finished the third cup and poured the fourth, and turned to find the messenger beside him with yet another pot on a tray. He had given the order before he knew about the breakfast tray, and now he contemplated the results a little aback.

“Can’t drink that now,” he said, and looked round for help. “Mr Carling, would you have a cup of coffee?”

“I could use it, sir.”

Carling had been on the chilly bridge for two whole hours. He poured himself a cup and added cream and sugar to reveal himself as the sort of man he was.

“Thank you, sir,” said Carling, sipping.

In his present state of wellbeing Krause could exchange a grin with him. Wink-wink-wink; out of the tail of his eye he could see a signal flashing far down on the northern horizon. That would be
James
sending the message about whose coming he had been warned, yet he could finish his fourth cup without any diminution of pleasure. He pulled on his gloves again over his chilly hands, told the mess-boy to remove the tray, and limped back to the stool again. The meal had eased some of his weariness; he was deliberately seating himself so as not to incur more fatigue than necessary. A whole day of battle had made a veteran of him. The message reached him from the signal-bridge as soon as he sat down.

“JAMES” TO COMESCORT. OWING TO PROLONGED ACTION DURING NIGHT . . .

It was exactly what he had expected.
James
was down to the danger point as regards oil fuel. She had no more than nine depth-charges left. One day’s hard steaming or half an hour’s action with the enemy would equally leave her helpless. The message only contained these bare facts; it made no submissions, and the only excuse it made was in its opening words. If he were to detach
James
now she would at economical speed fetch Londonderry safely. If he retained her it could be highly questionable. He could imagine that tiny little ship lying helpless off the northern coast of Ireland, a prey to any enemy--and there might be many--in the air or below the surface or even on it. Yet she still had value as part of the escort. With her guns she could out-fight--only just--a submarine on the surface. Her nine remaining depth-charges, dropped singly but at the right moments, might keep a submarine away from the convoy for a vital few hours. Her sonar might guide
Keeling
or
Viktor
in to a decisive attack; even its steady pinging, heard by a listening submarine, might have a deterrent effect.

If they lived through to-day and to-night he might expect some air cover to-morrow, and then it would not be wildly difficult to take her in tow--one of the merchant vessels could do it. He balanced possible loss against possible gain. The captain of the
James
had been perfectly correct in calling his commanding officer’s attention to the condition of his ship; it would have been negligence on his part not to do so. Now the responsibility was Krause’s. He took the pad and pencil and began to print out the reply. Despite the hot coffee he had drunk he was only just warm enough to control the pencil sufficiently to be legible.

COMESCORT TO “JAMES.” CARRY ON USING UTMOST ECONOMY IN FUEL AND AMMUNITION.

That much was easy, once the decision had been reached. But it might be well to add a heartening word, and it was strange how his mind, still capable of grasping and analysing facts, balked like a stubborn mule at the demand for something further. He wrote “WE CANNOT SPARE YOU” and then, with the utmost deliberation, crossed those words out with three thick lines to make sure they would not be transmitted. They were perfectly true, but a sensitive or touchy recipient might read them as an answer to an unexpressed appeal to be released from escort duty, and there was no such unexpressed appeal in the message he had received. Krause would not willingly hurt any man’s feelings except for the good of the cause in which he was fighting, and it would emphatically not be for the good of the cause to hurt the feelings of the captain of the
James.
He sat with pencil poised trying to think of the right thing to say. No inspiration came to him. There was only the hackneyed expression which he must use since his mind refused to think of anything better.

GOOD LUCK.

He was in the act of handing the pad back to the messenger when the next idea came.

WE ALL NEED IT.

That would soften the cold official wording. Krause knew academically that a human touch was desirable in these relationships even though he himself had never felt the need of it. He would be perfectly content to do and die in reply to a badly worded order from a superior and would feel no resentment at the absence of a polite phrase. What he did feel was a dull envy of the captain of the
James
who had no more to do now than to obey orders and no more responsibility than to execute them to the best of his professional ability. He gave the pad to the messenger. Be thou faithful unto death--he nearly said those words aloud, and the messenger, on the point of saluting, seeing him open his mouth and shut it again, waited to hear what he had to say.

“Signal-bridge,” said Krause harshly.

“Aye aye, sir.”

With the departure of the messenger Krause was aware of a new and strange sensation. For the moment he was not being compelled to do something. It was the first time in more than twenty-four hours that instant and important decisions were not being forced on him. There were a hundred minor tasks he could profitably undertake, but he could actually choose between them at leisure. In his fatigued state of mind he contemplated this strange fact as someone in a dream--not in a nightmare--contemplates a new and odd development in what he is dreaming. Even when Carling came and saluted, this new condition was not disturbed.

“Next change of course due in ten minutes, sir,” said Carling.

“Very well.”

It was a routine change of course on the part of the whole convoy, and Carling’s warning was merely in accordance with Krause’s standing orders. The convoy could wheel without Krause’s intervention being called for. And yet--perhaps he should intervene. The convoy was in disorder, and the wheel would accentuate that and prolong it. It might be better if the wheel did not take place. Krause mentally drafted the order he would flash to Comconvoy. “Negative change of course, maintain present course.” No. Better to let matters continue. The convoy would be expecting the change of course, and might be confused if it did not materialize. And when the next routine change of course became due there would be certain confusion as to which change was expected of them this time. “Order, counter order, disorder”; at more than one lecture at Annapolis he had heard that quotation, and during twenty years of service he had seen its truth demonstrated scores of times. He would let the routine continue.