The Good Shepherd

by C. S. Forester

  “Pips astern of us!“ said the voice-tube. “Bearing zero-zero-five, range two thousand.”

  “Left full rudder. Steer course zero-zero-five,” said Krause, the rim of the sandwich still in his left hand.

  That must be the sub they had put down earlier. A desperately persistent fellow. He had been under gunfire; he had been depth-charged, but now he had surfaced and presumably was speeding to overtake the convoy again.

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

  “Target’s heading east,” said the voice-tube. “Course zero-eight-five as near as I can make it as yet. Bearing zero-zero-six. Zero-zero-seven.”

  “Right smartly to course zero-one-zero,” said Krause.

  A tactical problem almost identical with what had gone before. To head off the U-boat. To open fire or not? Better to reserve his fire until he was as near as he could be. His first salvo would be the signal for the U-boat to submerge. In this pitch-black night there was more than a chance that he might creep up on him without being seen.

  “Captain to gunnery control. ‘Do not open fire.’ “

  He went out on to the wing of the bridge. In the silence and the windy darkness it was strange to shout at the top of his voice, ridiculous though it was to be afraid that the U-boat a mile away would hear him.

  “There’s a sub on the surface ahead. Keep your eyes skinned.”

  An incautious step nearly lost him his footing again on the ice-glazed deck, and after he had grabbed at the rail he realized that he had crushed the remnants of his half eaten sandwich into the furry palm of his glove. That must be a horrible mess; he almost blessed the darkness for concealing it from him. He tried to wipe it on the rail.

  “Target bearing zero-zero-eight. Range one-eight-double oh.”

  They were closing in on the U-boat.

  “T.B.S., sir,” said Wallace.

  Dicky and Harry and Eagle were all talking. They had contacts in plenty, fighting a pitched battle ahead of the convoy, while here he was astern again. Yet while he had this contact he could not go to their aid. Would they think the less of him? He did not mind on his own account, but he was fearful for the well-being of the entity that was the escort.

  “Screen’s pretty fuzzy, sir,” said Charlie Cole’s voice up the tube--Charlie had found his way back to the chart-house at a crucial moment as usual. “But the bearing’s pretty nearly constant, I think. Zero-zero-eight--zero-zero-seven. Range one-six-double oh. One-five-double oh.”

  It would be Keeling’s bow wave that would be first detected by the U-boat’s look-outs. They would see it faint white in the darkness; they would look again. Krause drove his imagination to work on the picture of what they would do next. They would see the bow wave before they would see the ship. They would be able to make a rough guess at her course before they could make out her upper works. That would tell them very nearly all they needed to know; a straggler from the convoy would be holding a course nearly east and not nearly north. And the speed-- the twelve knots he was making--would tell them the rest. Keeling would be identified as an enemy, the Klaxon horns would sound, and the U-boat would submerge before even Keeling’s upper works had been seen or the U-boat’s listening devices had identified the distinctive beat of her propellers. If he altered course farther to the eastward and reduced speed to eight knots? That might well deceive the enemy while the converging courses brought them closer together. It was with a shock that he pulled himself up at that point. That would also invite a torpedo; in the eagerness of the hunt he was actually forgetting that his quarry carried deadly weapons. He rubbed his nose reflectively and remembered too late about the crushed sandwich. He could feel cold mayonnaise on his nose.

  “Sonar reports contact, sir. Zero-zero-five. Range indefinite.”

  “Very well.”

  That was an enormous, an immense, gain. “D’you get that difference in bearing, Charlie?” “Yes, sir,” said Charlie.

  There was a chance of lining-up the radar with the more accurate sonar.

  “Range one-three-double oh. Bearing zero-zero-seven approximately.”

  The fact that the U-boat had permitted an approach as close as this was an indication that her detection devices were not as acute as Keeling’s. Or that her crew was not as alert. Or that her captain was bold. Something more for Naval Intelligence to work out when his report came in.

  “Pip gone, sir!“ said Charlie. “Yes. Pip disappeared.”

  The U-boat had at last taken the alarm, then.

  “Sonar reports contact bearing zero-zero-five. Range twelve hundred yards.”

  They still held the sub in the sonar beam, then. Krause took the telephone and spoke on the battle circuit.

  “Captain speaking. Who’s on the sonar?”

  “Bushnell, sir. And Mannon.”

  Radio men second class, trained by Ellis.

  “Ellis off watch?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Very well.”

  It was a temptation to call for Ellis and put him to work at the sonar. But better not. A long battle still lay ahead, and Ellis’s fitness was part of that battle reserve which he must not draw upon yet.

  “Sonar reports strong contact. Bearing zero-zero-zero. Range one thousand.”

  The old game of hide and seek again, of catch round the table. To lay Keeling on a course that would intercept the U-boat.

  “Come left smartly to course zero-zero-zero,” ordered Krause.

  He could only keep his bows directly on the contact until further reports gave him an indication of the U-boat’s course.

  “Steady on course zero-zero-zero.”

  “Very well.”

  “Sonar reports contact dead ahead. Range eight hundred yards.”

  Keeling was right on the sub’s tail, then. The sub must turn soon; no guessing whether it would be to port or to starboard as yet.

  “Sonar reports contact dead ahead. Range seven hundred yards. Six hundred yards.”

  “He’s stationary, sir,” said an unexpected voice in the background. That must be Pond.

  “Thank you. I was thinking so myself.”

  “Sonar reports contact dead ahead. Range five hundred yards.”

  Was the sub contriving to hang motionless on a cold stratum of water? That was possible. But it was more likely that - -

  “Sonar reports no contact, sir.”

  His growing suspicions hardened into certainty. It was a pillenwerfer they had been pursuing. They had been chasing bubbles while the U-boat was escaping. It could not be a question of being too close to the target for the sonar to record; the last report had placed them well outside that limit.

  “Sonar reports no contact, sir.”

  Failure. He had been completely fooled. No, not quite completely, thanks to fortuitous circumstances. If the pillenwerfer had lasted a little longer, continuing to emit its bubbles for another five minutes, he might well have gone on and depth-charged it, and circled back to depth-charge it again, wasting ammunition and time on a phantom. His suspicions until the contact disappeared had not been strong enough to save him from doing that.

  “Right standard rudder. Steer course zero-eight-zero,” he snapped, and then, down the voice-tube. “Where’s the convoy?”

  “Nearest ship bearing zero-eight-nine, distance four miles.”

  “Very well.”

  “Steady on course zero-eight-zero.”

  “Very well.”

  He must close up on the left column of the convoy and sweep once more close across its rear. “Report when we’re one mile distant.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  There was movement all about the ship now, shadowy figures entered the pilot-house. The watch was changing, twenty hundred. The hours fled by when filled with action and concentrated thought. A thousand years in Thy sight are but as yesterday when it is past, and as a watch in the night. A figure beside him speaking with Harbutt’s voice and giving an almost invisible salute.

  Wednesda
y. First Watch--2000-2400

  “Report having been relieved, sir. Course zero-eight-zero. Standard speed, twelve knots. Ship in Condition Two. No unexecuted orders.”

  “Who has the deck?”

  “Carling, sir.”

  “Very well. Get some sleep while you can, Mr Harbutt.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  “Mr Carling!”

  “Sir!”

  It was necessary to inform Carling of the tactical situation in case he had not been able to form a clear mental picture from the information he would be given in the chartroom on his way to the bridge; it was necessary to inform him of the presumed position and course of the U-boat, and of the plan to intercept her again. He might have to hand over the conn to Carling at any moment if other matters were to demand too much of his attention. He might fall down in a fit, or further stray bullets might this time find a human target, leaving Carling in control temporarily.

  “Do you understand?” asked Krause; he had made his sentences as short and as clear as he could.

  “Yes, sir.”

  There was nothing positive in Carling’s tone, all the same. Nor was there any bloodthirsty eagerness. It was possible that Carling was at this moment regretting his choice of a profession. Well, there were good officers and bad. It was a relief to find Charlie Cole reporting to him next.

  “Sections Three and Four have the watch, sir. They’ve all been fed, and Sections One and Two are getting their chow now.”

  “Thank you, Commander. And will you see that they get some rest after that?”

  “Aye aye, sir. And what about yourself, sir?”

  “I’m not tired yet. Can’t leave the bridge at present. But I want those men fresh for the twelve to four.”

  And Sections One and Two would have their next period off watch after this one curtailed by general quarters before dawn; they must get all the sleep possible now.

  “I’ll see about it, sir. But a lot of them won’t settle down unless I make ‘em.”

  “You’ll make ‘em, Charlie.”

  “I’ll try, sir.”

  “And get a nap yourself.”

  “I’ll try, sir.”

  “Very well, thank you, Commander.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Krause peered at the clock. More than fifteen minutes since they had turned away from the pillenwerfer; that spot was now more than three miles behind them, but they would not have closed the convoy by more than a mile as yet. There was time, and urgent need, to get down to the head again. Now that the idea had occurred to him he could not wait a moment.

  “Mr Carling, take the conn.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  He put on the red spectacles and hurried down the ladder, and brushed through the spun-glass curtain. With his eyes fully accustomed to the darkness he did not have to wait a long time to recover his vision when he returned. He groped his way in. He was no sooner there than he heard the bell, and the voice-tube. “Captain, sir! Radar pip, sir! “

  Carling’s voice came through the tube urgent and loud enough for him to hear it where he was. Delay was unavoidable; it must have been a full minute before he was back in the pilot-house again. His first action was to call down to the chartroom.

  “Captain here.”

  “Pip bearing two-one-nine. Range eight thousand.”

  “Very well. Mr Carling, I’ll take the conn. What’s the course?”

  “Zero-eight-zero, sir.”

  “Right full rudder. Steer course one-seven-zero. Turn towards the target another time, Mr Carling.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  Carling had wasted all that time keeping Keeling on a course almost certainly divergent from the sub’s. He should never have gone below leaving Carling with the conn.

  “Steady on course one-seven-zero.” “Very well.”

  “Pip bearing two-one-eight--two-one-seven. Range seven-eight-double oh.”

  Closing fast, but the bearing changing. The U-boat was crossing Keeling’s bows heading once more to overtake the convoy, as he had expected. She must have altered course about twelve points to starboard after dropping the pillenwerfer and have surfaced again when she thought all was clear. She was four miles away. At their last meeting he had been on the sub’s starboard bow. A slight alteration of course and he could intercept her again in the same fashion on her port bow. But she had sighted him in time to submerge in safety. It might be better to sneak up from behind her. She might not maintain as efficient a look-out aft as ahead. Dangerous to allow her to get between him and the convoy, but it might bring results. She was four miles away at present.

  “Pip bearing two-one-six. Range seven-five-double oh.”

  Krause shut his eyes to consider a problem of trigonometry. Even in the dark that was a help to concentration. He listened to the next bearing and range being called. Down below they would work out the problem for him, but only if he could explain exactly what was in his mind. That would take time, and he still might be misunderstood. With the next bearing and range his mind was made up. He was allowing her to get just a little too far ahead of the safety area. He opened his eyes and gave the order.

  “Left smartly to course one-six-five.”

  That was McAlister at the wheel--his trick had come round again. It was satisfactory that he had a reliable helmsman even if he had an O.O.D. who was doubtful.

  “I’m going to try to sneak up behind her, Mr Carling,” he said.

  “Y-yes, sir.”

  It was a fact, strange but true, that Carling was not quite clear about the tactical situation, although there was nothing complex about it; it should be perfectly clear to anyone who had been on the bridge for the last half-hour. It could not be the complexity; Krause began to realize that Carling’s vagueness was the result of nerves. He was too excited, or too agitated, or--possibly--too frightened to think clearly. Men of that sort existed, Krause knew. He remembered his own buck-fever of the morning. His own hand had trembled with excitement, and more than once he had been guilty of sins of omission.

  Carling might grow hardened; but that desire to sound general quarters this morning--perhaps that might have been evidence of anxiety on Carling’s part to rid himself of the responsibility of being officer of the deck. But there was no more time to waste on Carling. Luckily his mind had been recording the reported range and bearings as they came in.

  “Target’s course and speed?” he asked down the voice-tube.

  “Course zero-eight-five, speed eleven knots. That’s only approximate, sir.”

  Approximate or not, it agreed with his own estimate.

  “Where do I cross her wake on this course?”

  “A mile astern of her. More. Less than two miles, sir.”

  “Very well.”

  That was what he was aiming at. The range was steadily closing although the bearing was not constant. Now, once more, gun or depth-charge? Gun flashes were blinding. Should he stake his vision at the crucial moment against the chances of a hit? At close range? But with a high sea running and with the range changing as rapidly as he could manage it? He decided against the gun.

  “Torpedo officer on duty.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Young Sand, J. G. He was having woman trouble at home, but he was a steady enough officer to all appearances.

  “Stand by to fire a close pattern. We’ll be going at high speed over the target, so make it real close. And a shallow setting.”

  “Close pattern. Shallow setting. Aye aye, sir.” In giving that last order he was taking a further chance. It did not take a sub long to go deep, and a sub surprised on the surface would almost certainly go deep as East as she could be driven down. He was counting on her not having time to dive far. With a deep setting the charges would explode harmlessly far below her, if his plan was successful. He wanted them to burst close alongside her.

  He spoke into the telephone.

  “Engineer officer on duty.”

  It was Ipsen who answered. So he w
as not resting.

  “Captain. Stand by to give us twenty-four knots as soon as you get the signal, Chief.”

  “Twenty-four knots. Aye aye, sir. Sea’s running pretty high, sir.”

  “Yes. It’ll only be for two or three minutes. Just time to work her up, and then we’ll come down to standard again.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  Now for the look-outs. He turned to the talker.

  “Captain to look-outs. ‘I hope to sight a sub on the surface nearly dead ahead soon after our next turn. Keep on your toes.’ “

  The talker repeated the message with Krause listening.

  “Look-outs answer ‘aye aye, sir.’ “

  “Sonar on stand-by.”

  There was always a chance that the U-boat might pick up Keeling’s sonar impulses. For the next minute or two Keeling would be unguarded; that was a risk to be taken, but it would not be for long. Soon the increased speed would both protect her and render the sonar ineffective. The silence that fell as soon as the pinging stopped was uncanny.

  “Target bearing zero-eight-seven. Range two-four-double oh.”

  “Left full rudder. Steer course zero-eight-five.”

  That would allow for the advance during the turn. “Target bearing zero-eight-five. Range two-five-double oh.”

  Dead ahead.

  “All engines ahead flank speed. Make turns for twenty-four knots.”

  “All engines ahead flank speed. Engine-room answers twenty-four knots, sir.”

  “Very well.”

  This was the moment. A vast increase in vibration as Keeling began to pick up speed. He went out on to the starboard wing of the bridge into the howling darkness. He was overtaking the sub at thirteen knots. Four or five minutes before he would sight her. Then it would be say two and a half minutes before he was on top of her. Ample time for a sub in diving trim to submerge. But he hoped it would be less than that as he might not be detected immediately, overtaking from right aft. There would not be much time for the sub to go deep or far.