The Good Shepherd (24 page)

“Twelve minutes, sir.”

That was Charlie Cole’s voice again. Had two hours elapsed since he had given Cole that order to take two hours’ rest? Perhaps it would be as well not to inquire. If Cole were dead asleep in the deepest bowels of the ship he would hear about the sighting of a periscope, and it would take a great deal to keep him out of the chartroom then.

Thursday. Afternoon Watch
--
1200-1600

Yet it was likely to be two hours; here was the watch changing. Carling saluting and going through the ritual of reporting being relieved. One thing must be promptly done.

“You have the conn, Mr Nystrom.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

His weary legs carried him to the loudspeaker.

“This is the captain. You men just coming on watch had better know that we sighted a periscope ten minutes ago. We’re after him now. Keep on your toes.”

He was glad he had secured from battle stations yesterday. Otherwise the ship might have been at general quarters ever since yesterday morning; every member of the ship’s company might be as tired as he was, and that would not be so good. Krause knew that there were men who did not go on even trying to produce their best when they were tired.

On the wing of the bridge he took stock of the situation.
Dodge
over there would not be very far ahead of the leading ship of the right-hand column of the convoy when the chase came. Nor would
Keeling
be too far for that matter. It was the same speeding up of time. Leisure at first, and then events moving more and more rapidly, space contracting and time hurrying.

“Sonar reports distant contact bearing one-six-zero, sir,” said the talker suddenly.

Already? The sub had not followed, submerged, the best course she could have chosen, then.

“Contact ten degrees on my port bow,” said Krause into the T.B.S.

“Aye aye, sir.”

“I’ll take the conn, Mr Nystrom.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

He was practically on a collision course with the sub, it seemed. It was the first meeting of the blades in a bout with a new opponent. In the old days with his opponent’s foil button in front of the wire of his mask, and the feeling of the first contact running quivering up his wrist and arm, it had been necessary to size up an opponent as rapidly as possible, to gauge the strength of the other man’s wrist, the rapidity of his movements and reactions. Krause was doing the same now, remembering that over-long exposure of the periscope and taking into account this not very suitable underwater course of the sub The captain of this new sub was not like the man who had shaken off
Keeling
’s pursuit, and
Viktor’s,
earlier in the day. He had less finesse and less caution. He might be inexperienced, he might be over-bold, he might even be fatigued.

“Sonar reports distant contact bearing one-six-one,” said the talker.

No need for a helm order as yet, with the bearing so little altered. Better to wait. Nourse was at his side.

“I’d better fire single charges, sir?” said Nourse.

It was a statement with a question mark at the end. Nourse could give his opinion but the responsibility was Krause’s. The handicapped duck hunter had a choice; one shot with a shot-gun or six with a rifle. Krause thought of all the patterns
Keeling
had fired without result. The objective was to keep the U-boat down, slow, blind, and comparatively harmless until the convoy had passed on. But one well-placed pattern might destroy her, and this seemed as good an opportunity as ever might present itself. The temptation was enormous. And then Krause thought of what his situation would be like if he fired all his depth-charges now and missed. He would be practically helpless, useless. The objective had not changed.

“Yes. Single charges,” said Krause.

He had forgotten the weariness of his legs and his aching feet; tension had not mounted as rapidly this time but he was tense again, with the need for rapidity of decision.

“Sonar reports - - “

“Periscope!“ said the other talker breaking in; in the pilot-house they heard the yell from forward at the same moment. “Forward look-out reports periscope dead ahead.”

Krause put his glasses to his eyes; the port side 40 mm, just forward of the bridge, suddenly began to fire tonk-tonk-tonk. Then nothing for a moment. Krause had just seen the splashes thrown up by the 40 mm. shells. Then the two talkers both began to speak at once.

“Sonar first,” said Krause.

“Sonar reports contact bearing one-six-four, range two thousand yards.”

“Forward look-out reports periscope disappeared.”

“Gun forty-two opened fire at periscope dead ahead. No hits.”

This U-boat captain certainly had a different technique. He had not trusted his listening instruments. He had not been able to resist taking a peep through his periscope. What would be his reaction at the sight of
Keeling’s
bows pointing right at him? Helm over, most probably. But which way? On across
Keeling’s
bows or an instinctive flinching away? The next report might show. And dive deep or stay at periscope depth? Dive deep, most likely.

“Deep setting, Mr Nourse.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

“Sonar reports contact dead ahead, range fifteen hundred yards.”

She was crossing
Keeling’s
bows, then. She had probably used left rudder.

“Right smartly to course one-eight-zero.”

“Right smartly to course one-eight-zero. Steady on course one-eight-zero.”

“Sonar reports contact dead ahead, range thirteen hundred yards.”

He had anticipated the U-boat’s movement, then. She had come sharply round. Better lead her another ten degrees more.

“Right smartly to course one-nine-zero.” Then into the T.B.S. “Contact crossing my bows, range thirteen hundred yards. I am turning to starboard.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

“Steady on course one-nine-zero.”

“Very well.”

“Sonar reports contact bearing one-eight-zero, range eleven hundred yards.”

Ten degrees to port? Suspicious. If sonar had reported a Doppler effect at the same time it would be more suspicious, though. Wait. Wait.

“Sonar reports contact bearing one-seven-five, range twelve hundred yards.”

That was it. The sub was circling right away.
Keeling’s
last turn had been worse than unnecessary; it had increased distance and wasted time. Krause felt a momentary annoyance with himself. But how far round would the sub turn? Lead her or follow her?

“Left standard rudder. Steer course one-seven-five.” Into the T.B.S. “Contact’s circling. I am turning back to port.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

Dodge
was drawing up to her station on the edge of the ring, ready to enter into the combat. The convoy was closing on them steadily. There were many factors to be borne in mind at the same time.

“Contact bearing one-seven-two, range twelve hundred yards.”

Wait for it. Wait. Wait.

“Contact bearing one-six-six, range steady at twelve hundred yards.”

She was coming right round, then, and at a very slow speed.

“Left full rudder. Steer course one-five-five.” Into the T.B.S. “I am still turning to port.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

“Sonar reports contact dead ahead, range one thousand.”

This time he had scored a point. He had closed on his victim by two hundred yards and still had her dead ahead. He must rub the advantage in and anticipate again.

“Left full rudder. Steer course one-four-zero.”

Round they went in the circle, closing in to the point of equilibrium.

“Dicky to George! Dicky to George! Contact, sir. Bearing oh-six-four, range one thousand.”

“Come in, then.”

The rat had doubled away from one terrier to head for the jaws of the other. A pity that both terriers were so nearly toothless. Krause watched
Dodge
steady herself on her new course; saw her swing a trifle and then a trifle more as the desperate U-boat came out of her circle. Quick thinking was necessary. In one hundred and eighty seconds the two ships would be meeting--long seconds when chasing a sub; horribly short when closing on another ship at right angles. He must give way and give way so as to be in the most suitable station for taking up the chase if
Dodge’s
attack failed.

“Right full rudder. Steer course zero-eight-five. Come on in, Dicky. I am turning to starboard.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

Long seconds again now, watching whether the rat would run into the other terrier’s jaws or would just evade them, listening to the sonar bearings, deciding on whether the present course was the most suitable.
Dodge
was still turning to starboard. Time to turn to port again yet?

“Steady on course zero-eight-five.”

“Torpedoes fired!” said the talker.

One second for thought. The U-boat’s stern was pointing straight at
Keeling’s
port beam; the U-boat’s bows were pointing, as far as he could tell, somewhat away from
Dodge’s
bows.
Dodge
was distant,
Keeling
was near. The U-boat must be aware of
Keeling’s
proximity; it was probable she did not know of
Dodge’s
approach. Foil-blade pressed against foil-blade; one second--one-tenth of a second--for thought.
Keeling
must be the target.

“Right full rudder. Steer course one-seven-zero.”

Not quite a right angle turn. The torpedoes would be aimed to cross nearly ahead of
Keeling’s
present position; allow for the advance and
Keeling
would be as nearly parallel to the tracks as he could judge.

“All engines ahead flank speed!”

“Torpedoes approaching!” said the talker.

“Make your report the way you’ve been taught,” snapped Krause at the talker. “Repeat.”

“Sonar reports torpedoes approaching,” stammered the talker.

It was absolutely essential for the talkers to report in due form. Otherwise confusion was certain.

“Steady on course one-seven-zero,” said the helmsman.

“Very well.”

“Engine-room answers ‘All engines ahead flank speed,’ sir.”

“Very well.”

Time to spare for the T.B.S. now, which was demanding his attention.

“Torpedoes fired at you, sir!“ said the Canadian voice, urgent, distressed. “I see you’ve turned.”

“Yes.”

“Good luck, sir.”

Good luck to the man who might be dead in ten seconds’ time. Good luck to the ship which might be a sinking wreck or a pillar of fire. He had taken the best action, laying his ship parallel to the torpedo tracks. With the call for flank speed the churning of
Keeling’s
propellers, working furiously against the inertia of the ship, might perhaps have some effect on deflecting a torpedo coming right at them, especially as it would be set for a shallow run against a destroyer. In any case the propeller’s quickening beat would kick
Keeling
a few yards farther away from the firing-point than she would otherwise have been, and every yard, every foot, counted. Inches might make the difference between life and death; not that life or death mattered, but success or failure did.

“Sonar reports echoes confused, sir,” said the talker.

“Very well.”

“Torpedo to starboard!”

“After look-out reports - - “

“Torpedo to port! “

Look-outs were shouting and talkers talking. One leap to the starboard wing of the bridge. There was the indescribably menacing track along
Keeling’s
side, not ten yards away, straight along it. Luckily it was a torpedo of the old-fashioned type with none of the rumoured homing devices that the Germans were supposed to be putting into production.

“T’other one went over there, sir,” said the port-side look-out, pointing vaguely.

“How far?”

“Good two hundred feet, sir.”

“Very well.”

Back to the pilot-house.

“All engines ahead standard speed. Left full rudder. Steer course zero-eight-five.”

It was forty seconds since the alarm was given. Forty of those long seconds, and during this time he had been neglectful. He had not watched
Dodge
to see the effect of her run-in. She had come farther round still. Her turning circle was remarkably small. She was handier than
Viktor,
and considerably handier than
Keeling.
Those tiny ships, fantastically uncomfortable to live in, were good antisubmarine craft all the same, even though a single torpedo would blow them to pieces. She was coming round again-- it must be remarkably pleasant to handle a ship that could turn inside a U-boat’s turning circle.

It was time to head round towards the most likely point of interception.

“Left standard rudder. Steer course zero-two-zero.”

His turn away and even his momentary increase in speed had considerably enlarged his distance.

“Dicky to George. We’ve got him right ahead of us. We’ll be firing any minute now.”

“Very well.”

“Glad he missed you, sir. Very glad.”

“Thank you.”

“We’re turning to starboard again.”

“Very well.”

Krause turned to the helmsman.

“Left standard rudder. Steer course three-three-zero.”

The convoy was unpleasantly near. It would not be long before sonar would start complaining about interference. This new enemy was a dangerous man, free with his torpedoes. He would have to be watched very closely indeed if he were like that, giving him as little opportunity as possible for a beam shot, and that meant considerable precaution in manoeuvring round him. At the same time he now had two torpedoes the fewer--he was ten per cent less deadly to the convoy than he had been. Doenitz might take him to task--if he lived to return to Lorient--for those two wasted fish. He might ask why he had not fired a full spread; he might ask why he had fired at all at a shallow-draft fighting vessel with full power of manoeuvre and on the alert. The question as to whether or not it was profitable to use torpedoes against escort craft was a difficult one for the Germans to answer. It was foolish, a foolish waste of time, and yet attractive, to think of luring the U-boat into wasting all its torpedoes in that fashion. The sub would not fire eighteen more torpedoes and miss every time. He must be delirious to give it a thought. Overtired, perhaps.