The Good Shepherd

by C. S. Forester

  “Do you hear me, George?” bleated the T.B.S.

  Krause’s brief numbness vanished at the sound, and he was the trained fighting man again, with rapid decisions to make and an enormous responsibility on his shoulders, a man with a duty to do.

  “I hear you, Eagle,” he said. His dead, flat tone disguised the last traces of the emotional disturbance that had shaken him. He was quite normal by the time he had uttered the words. He was searching in his mind for the most appropriate thing to say to the representative of an allied power.

  “That’s fine,” he said, and as that did not seem adequate he added, “Magnificent.”

  That was an outlandish word. He tried again, a little desperately; the careful wording of some of the British messages he had received welled up in his memory and came to his rescue.

  “My heartiest congratulations to your captain,” he said. “And please give him my best thanks for his wonderful co-operation.”

  “Aye aye, sir.” A pause. “Any orders, sir?”

  Orders. Decisions. There were no seconds to waste even in the moment of victory, not with the convoy inadequately screened and a wolf-pack prowling about it.

  “Yes,” he said. “Resume your position in the screen as quickly as possible.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  Krause “was about to leave the T.B.S. when it demanded his attention again.

  “Eagle to George,” it said. “Eagle to George. Submit I search for proof of sinking.”

  That must be the Polish captain’s reaction when the British liaison officer had reported Krause’s orders to him. Proof was of some importance. Certainty of the U-boat’s destruction would be of help to the staffs in Washington and London writing their appreciations of the situation. And the Admiralty at least, if not the Navy Department, were very insistent upon positive proof before giving credit for a victory; there were jokes that nothing less than the U-boat captain’s pants would satisfy them. His own professional standing, his naval career, depended to some extent on his claim to a success being allowed. But the convoy was almost unguarded.

  “No,” he said heavily. “Resume your place in the screen. Over.”

  The last word was the decisive one. He could turn away from the T.B.S.

  “Mr Watson, take station in the screen, three miles ahead of the leading ship of the second column from the right.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  There was a faintly-puzzled note in Watson’s voice; everyone in the pilot-house was looking at Krause. They had heard something of what he had said on the T.B.S., and this new order seemed to confirm their suspicions-- their hopes--but they could not be sure. Krause’s tone had not been enthusiastic.

  “Sonar reports no contact, sir,” said the talker, and Krause realized he had heard that same report several times lately without attending to it.

  “Very well,” he said to the talker and then faced the crowd on the bridge. “We got him. We got him. The Pole heard him crunch after that last pattern.”

  The faces in the shadow of the helmets broke into smiles. Nourse uttered a half-suppressed cheer. Delight was so obvious and spontaneous that even Krause relaxed into a grin. He felt the marked contrast between this and a stilted international relationship.

  “That’s only number one,” he said. “We want lots more.”

  “Sonar reports no contact, sir,” said the talker. “Very well.”

  The whole ship must be told of the victory, and there must be a special word for Ellis. He went to the loudspeaker and waited while the bosun’s mate called the attention of the ship’s company.

  “This is the captain. We got him. Viktor heard him crunch. He’s had it. This was an all-hands job. Well done to you all. Now we’re heading back into screening position. There’s still a long way to go.”

  He came back from the loudspeaker.

  “Sonar reports no contact, sir,” said the talker.

  Ellis was still doing his duty.

  “Captain to sonar. ‘Discontinue negative reports unless fresh contact is made.’ Wait. I’ll speak to him myself.” He spoke on the circuit to the sonar. “Ellis? This is the captain.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You heard we got him?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You’ve been a big help. I’m glad I can depend on you.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “You can discontinue negative reports now.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  The light-hearted atmosphere was still apparent on the bridge. But now all the look-outs were reporting at once. Krause hurried on to the starboard wing of the bridge.

  “Oil, sir! Oil!” said the look-out, stabbing overside with a mittened hand. Krause looked over; dead fish, white bellies showing, and, as well, a long streak of oil; but not very much. The dirty slick patch was not fifty yards across if three times that amount long. He walked through the pilot-house and out on to the port wing. No oil at all was showing there. Back on the starboard wing they were already leaving the patch behind. As it lifted on a roller it barely extended from crest to trough. Krause tried to visualize a wrecked U-boat sinking down into the fathomless depths, gliding down as it were on a long slope, very likely. Her fuel tanks being kept full might take a long time to rupture; then there would be a considerable interval before the escaping oil came welling up to the surface. Krause knew from reports he had read that it might be as much as an hour all told. This little patch would be what was present in a nearly-empty tank at the moment of disaster. And badly battered U-boats often left a slick of oil behind even though they were still capable of manoeuvre. Naval Intelligence suggested that they sometimes purposely let oil escape to disarm pursuit. But his first decision still appeared the correct one to him; it was not worthwhile to leave a valuable destroyer circling the spot, maybe for an hour, to make sure of the evidence. He could forget the presence of this oil for now. No. He could make some use of it in a minute or two, when he had more time. First he must put an end to the drain on his battle reserve.

  “You sure got that sub., sir,” said the starboard-side look-out.

  “Oh, yes, sure,” said Krause. The man was not being impertinent. In this moment of victory Krause could let pass the lapse from strict etiquette, especially with so much more on his mind; but he had to think of the safety of the ship. “Keep your mind on your duty there.”

  He returned to the pilot-house and spoke into the voice-tube to the executive officer.

  “Secure from general quarters, Charlie,” he said. “Set Condition Two, and see if you can manage for some hot chow for the men off watch.”

  “Aye aye, sir,” said Charlie.

  The loudspeaker blared the order through the ship. Now half the men would be able to eat, to rest, to warm up. Krause looked at the clock; circumstances were different from his preceding glances when he was counting minutes. Now he was perceptibly shocked to note the passage of time. It was past thirteen hundred; over four hours since he had been called from his cabin, and nearly three of general quarters. He should not have brought the men to battle stations at all. He was not much better than Carling. But that was water over the dam; no time for regrets at present.

  “Get me a signal-pad and pencil,” he said to the messenger beside him; the crowd in the pilot-house was changing with the setting of the watch.

  He tried to write, and the pencil fell from his hand as he applied it to the paper. His fingers were stiff with cold, numb and completely without sensation. Although he had put on his sheepskin coat he still had not put on the sweater and scarf and gloves he should have worn. His hands were freezing, and all the rest of him was bitterly cold.

  “Write it for me,” he snapped at the messenger, irritated with himself. “ ‘Keeling to Viktor.’ No.”--he was watching over the messenger’s shoulder--”Spell that with a ‘K’. No, not ‘CK.’ Just V-I-K. ‘Have sighted oil patch confirming destruction of U-boat. Stop. Many thanks for your brilliant’--two ‘L’s’ in ‘brilliant,’ damn it--
’co-operation’ C-O-O-P. That’s right. Take that to the signal bridge.”

  When the messenger came back he would send him for his gloves and scarf. Meanwhile he must have another look round at the situation. He went out on to the bridge again. There were fresh look-outs at their posts; relieved men were still leaving the gun positions and making their way along the deck, ducking the fountains of spray and timing their dashes from point to point as the ship rolled. Keeling was approaching the front of the convoy; the British corvette on the left flank was rolling hideously in the heavy sea. The leading line of the convoy was fairly straight; as far as he could see the rest of the convoy was fairly well closed up. Out on the right was the Canadian corvette; it was nearly time to give the order for normal screening stations. Above him came the sharp rattle of the shutters of the lamp as his message was transmitted to Viktor.

  He looked aft and saw her ploughing along half a mile astern, rolling deeply in the trough, her odd foremast leaning far over towards the sea, first on one side and then on the other. She was nearly up to station, and he must give that order. He might just as well not have come out here into the cold, for all the good he had done, but it was a commanding officer’s duty to keep an eye on his command--and he would not have known any peace of mind until he had done so, duty or not duty. He was just able to relax his hands sufficiently to let the glasses fall from them on to his chest, and he went stiffly back into the pilot-house, to the T.B.S.

  “George to escort. Do you hear me?”

  He waited for the acknowledgments, Eagle to George, and Harry to George, and Dicky to George. Those code names were an excellent choice. Four distinct vowel sounds, impossible to confuse even with serious distortion. He gave the order in his flat voice.

  “Take up normal daylight screening stations.”

  The acknowledgments came in one by one, and he replaced the hand set.

  “Signal bridge reports your signal acknowledged by Viktor, sir,” said the messenger.

  “Very well.”

  He was about to send for his extra clothing, but Nystrom, the new officer of the deck who had just taken over, demanded his attention.

  “Permission to secure boilers two and four, sir?” said Nystrom.

  “Damn it, man, you know the routine to be followed when securing from general quarters. That’s for the officer of the deck to decide without troubling me.”

  “Sorry, sir. But seeing you were here, sir - -“

  Nystrom’s blue pop-eyes registered his distress. He was a young man frightened of responsibility, sensitive to reproach, and slow of thought. The Annapolis standards were not what they were, decided Krause, the graduate of twenty years’ service.

  “Carry on with your duty, Mr Nystrom.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  Dodge was turning away, a mile ahead of Keeling, to take up her station on the right flank. It was almost time for Keeling to turn ahead of the second column from the right. He looked aft; Viktor was already on station, with James moving out to the left flank. He decided to watch Nystrom take the ship into station.

  “Leading ship of the second column bears two-five-five, sir,” reported Silvestrini from the pelorus.

  “Very well,” said Nystrom.

  Ensign Silvestrini was a pert, little fellow newly graduated from officers’ school. Previously he had been majoring in modern languages at an Eastern university.

  “Left standard rudder. Steer course zero-nine-two,” said Nystrom, and the helmsman repeated the order.

  Keeling came steadily round to take up her station. Everything was well and in order. Krause decided not to send for his clothes. He wanted to get down to the head in any case, and at the same time the thought of a cup of coffee came up into his mind. Instantly he was yearning for it, hot, stimulating, comforting. One cup? Two cups. He was moderately hungry too; the thought of a sandwich along with the cups of coffee made a sudden appeal to him too. And a few minutes’ warmth, and the leisure to dress himself properly. It all seemed like an astonishingly good idea to him. Here was Watson with the noon position, unreported until now with the ship at battle stations. Krause acknowledged the report; the noon position was no news to him, closely coinciding as it did with the Admiralty’s predicted position for the assembling of a wolf-pack. But by the time he had glanced at it Ipsen the Chief Engineer was waiting with the fuel report for noon. That called for closer attention, and a word or two with Ipsen about the fuel situation, and even those few words were a trifle distracted, for Krause, while he talked, was aware out of the tail of his eye that Dodge was blinking a message to the ship. The message was at his elbow as he returned Ipsen’s salute. It was Dodge’s noon fuel report. That had to be studied to, with some care; Dodge was fortunate in having a considerable reserve in hand. There were two more messages waiting for him by the time he had completed his study of it. Here was Viktor’s fuel report, and then James’s. Krause pulled a long face as he studied the James report. A minimum of fast steaming for James in future. He dictated a carefully worded reply.

  “Comescort to James. ‘Use utmost efforts to conserve fuel.’ “

  Now it was Charlie Cole, up from the chartroom, with a smile on his face and words of congratulation about the sinking of the U-boat. It was pleasant to exchange those few sentences with Charlie. But then Charlie came a little closer, and dropped his voice to a confidential tone, so as not to be heard by the others on the bridge.

  “There’s Flusser to be dealt with, sir,” said Charlie.

  “Hell,” said Krause. His use of that word was proof of his irritation at the delay.

  Yesterday, Flusser had punched a petty officer on the nose and was under arrest for this gravest of crimes. In a ship of war with general quarters being repeatedly sounded the presence of a criminal in a cell is a continual nuisance. And Navy Regs, demanded that his case be considered as promptly as possible.

  “It’s more than twenty-four hours, sir,” prompted Charlie.

  “Hell,” said Krause again. “Oh, all right. I’ve got to get down to the head. I’ve got to have a sandwich. Then - - “

  That was the moment when a talker suddenly made his announcement.

  “After look-out reports two white rockets from the convoy, sir.”

  It was a surprise, worse than that time when the French fencer’s riposte had gone clear past Krause’s foil during the Olympic Games at Antwerp and he had felt the touch of the button on his breast just when he himself had been about to make the decisive lunge. It was two full seconds before Krause reacted, even though his brain had been instantly aware that two white rockets meant a torpedoing. For those two seconds he stared at the talker, but then he ran out on to the wing of the bridge, glasses to his eyes. It was hard to see anything; Keeling was three miles ahead of the leading ships and five miles ahead of the rearmost. He hailed the after look-out.

  “What do you see?”

  “Two white rockets, sir.”

  “Where?”

  “Back there, sir. ‘Bout the last ship in our line.”

  “Signal from the Commodore, sir.” This came from the signal bridge. “General alarm.”

  “Very well.”

  Keeling rose high on a wave; now he could see that the third ship in the second column was out of position; the ship following her was swerving to avoid her. If he sent back the Canadian corvette she would be left behind, and with her small excess of speed it would be long before she rejoined the convoy. A destroyer was needed; there was only the choice between Keeling and Viktor, and Keeling was the nearer. He went back into the pilot-house.

  “I’ll take the conn, Mr Nystrom.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  “Right full rudder. Steer course one-eight-zero.” The helmsman repeated the order as Krause went to the T.B.S.

  “George to Eagle. George to Dicky. I am going to the rear of the convoy. Close up to protect the van.” “Ave aye, sir.” “Wilco.”

  Keeling had turned as he spoke. She was on a collision course n
ow towards Dodge.

  “Right standard rudder. Steer course two-seven-five.”

  “Right standard rudder. Course two-seven-five, sir.”

  Round she came again, turning on her heel into the gap between Dodge and the convoy.

  “All engines ahead full speed.”

  Keeling leaped forward as the man at the annunciator reported.

  “Engine-room answers all engines ahead full, sir.”

  “Steady on course two-seven-five, sir.”

  A glance was enough to make sure that they would just shave the starboard line of ships. On opposite courses they passed the leading ship at a hundred yards' distance. She was wallowing ponderously along, meeting the seas on her bow more submissively than a ship of war. She was battered and dingy, with rust showing along her sides. There were one or two heads in sight as they went by, and somebody waved an arm. They seemed to pass her in a flash. Another ship succeeded her, and another after that, each one plodding steadily forward; they were leaving behind them a sister, hard hit, probably mortally wounded, but all they could do was to hold their course fatalistically. Through the gap between third and fourth Krause caught sight of the upper works of a ship already far astern of the convoy. The glimpse of the smoke-stack and foremast that he caught of her told him that she was Cadena, the designated rescue ship of the convoy; the fourth ship passed on and he could see again. Nothing beside Cadena, some three miles on the starboard bow. No; there were two boats visible as they rose on the crest. And what was that, heaving up on the crest? A long dark straight line, like a log floating on a river, bigger than any log ever seen by man. It rose again in a wide smother of spray; a ship nearly bottom up; that long, dark line was the turn of her bilge. She was three-quarters over and nine-tenths submerged, still floating.