The Good Shepherd

by C. S. Forester

  “Target bearing zero-eight-five. Range two-three-double oh. Two-two-double oh.”

  Keeling was picking up speed. He heard the crash, and felt the shudder, as she hit a sea with her port bow. Spray flew at him viciously. She leaped frantically. If the props came out of water he might strip a turbine.

  “Range two thousand. One-nine-double oh.”

  He could not judge of the visibility; it was only a guess that it was half a mile.

  “One-eight-double oh. One-seven-double oh.”

  He gulped. No; it was only a wave top, not the thing he was looking for. With his feet slipping on the treacherous deck, and the grip of his gloved hands insecure on the icy rail, he made himself lean forward with his arms over the pelorus, locking it in his armpits, even though he wanted instinctively to stand upright as if to extend his limited horizon.

  “One-one-double oh. One thousand.”

  Keeling lurched wildly; he could hear the sea boiling over the main deck below.

  “Sub ahead! Zero-zero-five! Zero-zero-five!”

  He saw it on a wave-top, something solid in the inky night.

  “Right rudder! Meet her!” He saw it again.

  “Left rudder! Meet her! Steady as you go! “

  The bow was pointing right at it as Keeling hurtled down a wave-face and it rose on another ahead. He saw it again. Four hundred yards at four hundred yards a minute. Gone? He could not be sure at first. Sand was beside him; twice Sand slipped on the heaving deck but he was holding on with his arm locked round a stanchion.

  “Fire one! Fire two! ‘K’ guns, fire!”

  “All engines ahead standard speed. Right standard rudder.”

  Astern the depth-charges were exploding in the tossing black sea like lightning in a thunder cloud.

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

  “Very well. Quartermaster, call out your heading.”

  “Passing one-one-zero. Passing one-two-zero. Passing one-three-zero.”

  Keeling, leaning over to the helm, was rolling confusedly with the changing course and the dwindling speed.

  “Passing one-six-zero. Passing one-seven-zero.”

  “Deep setting, Mr Sand. Wide pattern.”

  “Deep setting, wide pattern. Aye aye, sir.”

  “Standby.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  “Passing two-one-zero. Passing two-two-zero.”

  Keeling was turning to complete the circle, to depth-charge the strip next to the one she had already attacked.

  “Resume sonar search.”

  “Passing one-four-zero. Passing one-five-zero.”

  “Sonar reports indications confused, sir.”

  “Very well.”

  The speed was probably still too high in any case, and there was Keeling’s eddying wake to be considered, and the circling whirlpools of the depth-charges.

  “Passing one-eight-zero. Passing one-nine-zero.”

  She had the sea on her quarter now, and heaved up her stern with a sickly motion, corkscrewing over a sea.

  “Passing two-zero-zero. Passing two-one-zero.”

  Was anything happening out there in the black night? A shattered U-boat breaking surface? Or “crunching” far below it? Despairing survivors struggling in the water? All perfectly possible but not likely.

  “Passing two-two-zero.”

  “Sonar reports indications still confused, sir.”

  “Very well.”

  “Passing two-three-zero.”

  Krause was carrying in his mind the diagram of Keeling’s turning circle; he planned to parallel his former course and bomb the strip next to it; there was no knowing, and almost no guessing, what the U-boat’s reaction had been after she had dived and had been depth-charged; she could have turned in any direction and she could have gone to any depth within her limit--but the chances were she had dived as deep as she would dare.

  “Standing by for deep pattern, sir.”

  “Very well. Steady upon course two-six-seven.”

  “Course two-six-seven, sir.”

  “Very well.”

  There was nothing whatever to be seen round about.

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

  “Very well.”

  Wait for it. They that wait upon the Lord shall renew their strength.

  “Sonar reports indications confused.”

  “Very well.”

  Hopeless perhaps to expect water and sonar to get back to normal as quickly as Keeling could complete the circle. Now must be the time.

  “Now, Mr Sand.”

  “Fire one!“ said Sand. “Fire two!“

  Thunder and lightning again under water astern. White pillars of water just visible rising in their wake. Wait one minute after the last explosion.

  “Left standard rudder. Steer course zero-eight-seven.”

  Back again for another parallel sweep. “Deep pattern again, Mr Sand.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  “Sonar reports indications confused.”

  “Very well.”

  “Steady on course eight-seven, sir.”

  “Very well. Mr Sand, let ‘em have it.”

  Another ellipse of explosions, beside the previous ones. Krause had gone through the course at the anti-submarine school at Casco Bay; he had read, with painful concentration, innumerable classified pamphlets digesting all the British experience acquired in two and a half years of war against submarines. Mathematicians had devoted their talents and their ingenuity to working out the odds for and against scoring a hit on a submerged U-boat. The most sensitive instruments had been devised, and the most powerful weapons developed. But no one had thought of a way yet to reach a U-boat captain’s mind, of making a certainty out of the simple guess as to whether he would turn to starboard or port, go deep or stay shallow. And there was no machinery to supply a destroyer captain with patience and pertinacity and judgment.

  “Right standard rudder. Steer course two-six-seven. One more deep pattern, Mr Sand.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

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

  “Very well, Mr Sand!“

  “Fire one,” said Sand.

  With the firing of this pattern it remained to conduct a final sweep. Helm orders to carry Keeling back diagonally over the bombed area, out to the northward, back to the eastward, round again to the south-westward, with the sonar’s impulses seeking out through the depths in an effort to make contact again. And nothing to report-- negative, negative, the ship wheeling hither and thither in the darkness, apparently aimlessly now in comparison with her previous orderly runs.

  “Sir! “ Sand was on the wing of the bridge with him, looking out into the darkness, with the wind blowing lustily about them, piercing cold. “Sir--do you smell anything?”

  “Smell?” said Krause.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Krause sniffed reflectively, sniffed again, pulling cold air into his nose from the hurtling wind. Not easy in those conditions to be sure of smelling anything, especially as, now that he was being really searching about it, he could not help being conscious of the raw onion he had eaten last watch. But it could not be that that Sand was referring to.

  “It’s gone now, sir,” said Sand. “No. There it is again. May I ask Mr Carling, sir?”

  “If you like.”

  “Mr Carling, can you smell anything?” Carling came out and sniffed beside them.

  “Oil?” he said, tentatively.

  “That’s what I thought,” said Sand. “Don’t you smell it, sir?”

  Oil! That would be an indication that the sub had at least been hard hit. And if there were much of it, a great lake of oil welling up from below and spreading over a mile of sea, it would be practically proof of destruction. Krause sniffed again. He could not be sure--or more definitely he was nearly sure he could smell nothing.

  “Can’t say that I do,” said Krause.

  “Look-out, there! “ hailed Sand. “
D’you smell any oil?”

  “Not now, sir. Thought I smelt some a while back.”

  “You see, sir?” said Sand.

  They looked out at the dark water below, hardly visible from the heaving bridge. It was quite impossible to tell in the darkness if there were oil on the surface.

  “I wouldn’t say there was,” said Krause.

  The pleasure it would give him to be sure that there was oil made him particularly sceptical, although--Krause not being given to self-analysis--he was unaware of it and made no allowance for that particular reaction. But the very high standards of proof demanded by the Admiralty undoubtedly influenced him.

  “I don’t think I can smell it now, sir,” said Sand. “But we’ve come a long way since I thought I smelt it first.”

  “No,” said Krause. His tone was quite expressionless because he was set on keeping all emotion out of the argument. “I don’t think there was anything worth mentioning.”

  “Very well, sir,” said Sand.

  Literally (in Krause’s opinion) it was not worth mentioning; it would find no place in his report when it came to be written. He was not of the type to try and claim credit for himself on insufficient evidence. Prove all things, hold fast that which is good. Yet the possibility was a deciding factor.

  “Let’s go,” said Krause.

  Balancing one chance against another it seemed likely that there was no more profit to be gained in staying astern of the convoy. The sub might be sunk; certainly she was below the surface and likely to stay there for some time, and probably was sufficiently far astern to be out of harm’s way for a much longer time. This was certainly the moment to return to the head of the convoy and take part in the struggle the other three ships were waging. Krause’s “Let’s go” was not a suggestion put forward for comment; it was the announcement of a decision, as his officers knew without a moment’s thought.

  “Take the conn, Mr Carling,” said Krause. “I want to head round the left flank of the convoy at our best practicable speed.”

  “Aye aye, sir,” said Carling, and, after a moment’s thought, “Zigzagging, sir?”

  “No,” said Krause.

  He had wanted to blaze out at Carling. It was nonsense to talk about zigzagging when Keeling would be going twenty knots or more in the darkness, but the very fact that Carling should ask the nonsensical question was a proof that he was not fully master of himself. A sharp reprimand now would very likely unnerve him completely. On the other hand, to put him in charge of a quite simple manoeuvre which he could carry out with complete success might re-establish his self-command and help to make him a good officer in time. A destroyer captain’s duty was to build as well as to destroy.

  But although it was necessary to leave Carling in complete control this was not the time to quit the bridge. He had to appear to be taking no notice while remaining instantly available to deal with any emergency. He went over to the T.B.S. and listened on the hand-set with one ear, his back to Carling, and the other ear cocked listening to what Carling was doing. Carling acted quite normally, called down to the chartroom to give him a course for the proposed movement, gave the necessary helm order, and called for twenty knots.

  “George to Harry. George to Dicky. George to Eagle,” said Krause on the T.B.S. He waited for the replies. “I’m coming up round the left flank. Look out for me, Harry.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  “I don’t think I got the sub I chased through the convoy,” he went on. “Maybe I gave him a fright, though.”

  The British officer who had lectured on anti-submarine warfare at Casco Bay had been fond of quoting an army story of the previous war, in which two infantry privates put their clothes through a newly-invented machine for delousing them.

  “Why,” said one, bitterly, after inspecting results. “They’re all alive still.”

  “Yes,” said the other. “But I expect they’ve had the hell of a fright.”

  Usually--too often--an encounter between a U-boat and a destroyer ended merely in the U-boat having had more or less of a fright and receiving no hurt. To cleanse the sea of the U-boat vermin called for killing; no amount of narrow escapes would deter the U-boat captains with their fanatical esprit de corps--and with the iron hand of Doenitz to force them into action.

  “It’s us that’s having frights up here, sir,” squawked the T.B.S.

  Was there reproach in that remark? Krause felt a pang as he heard it. No one was more sharply aware than himself that the destroyer captains under his command had fought through two and a half years of war and had probably resented bitterly the accident that had put them, two-and-a-half stripers, under the command of a three-stripe American who had never fired a shot even though he was nearly twenty years older. The convoy had had to sail; the Allies had had to scrape together an escort for it; and he had happened to be the ranking officer. Luckily they could not be aware of the other circumstances which rankled as badly in Krause’s heart, that he had been marked with the words--utterly damning although innocent enough in appearance--”fitted and retained,” and that he had been twice passed over for promotion and had only made commander with the expansion of the navy in 1941.

  What they were aware of was that twice today at wild moments their commanding officer had vanished into the rear of the convoy. The fact that he had engaged in desperate action each time, that Keeling had been doing work that had to be done and for doing which she was best situated at the moment, would not be so apparent to them. There might be heads wagging about the inexperience-- or even worse--of their commanding officer. It was painful, horribly painful, to think about that; it was infuriating as well. Krause could have burst into a roaring rage, but it was very much his duty not to do so. He that is slow to anger is better than the mighty, and he that ruleth his spirit than he that taketh a city. It was his duty to stay unangered, to speak in a flat tone, with every word distinct, and with no trace of emotion.

  “I am six miles behind you,” he said. “I’ll be up to you in half an hour. Coming up on the left flank. Over.”

  He turned away from the T.B.S. with a horrid mixture of emotions. That remark may have been merely a light-hearted one, but it rankled.

  “I think, Mr Carling,” he said; it was for another reason now that he had to appear unconcerned and unexcited, “she’ll take another couple of knots at least. Better try her.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  He was hungry and thirsty, and this would be an ideal moment in which to eat and drink; he had no idea what had happened to the last pot of coffee for which he had sent the messenger--all he knew was that he had not tasted it; the last coffee he had drunk had been the icy-cold contents of the pot before that one. But now he was hungry and thirsty and yet had no appetite; with the strain he was undergoing and had undergone the thought of food was actually distasteful to him. Yet it was essential that he should eat and drink if he were to remain equal to the demands upon him.

  “Messenger!”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Go down to the wardroom. I want a pot of coffee and a sandwich. But no onion. Remember to tell the mess-boy that or he’ll put some in for sure. Wait for it and bring it up yourself.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  No onion; if ever there was another chance of smelling oil he wanted to be sure of whether he smelt it or not. This might even be a good moment to get down to the head, although it was by no means necessary yet. No; as it was not necessary it would be better not to leave Carling in sole charge. The quartermaster, crouching over the table with the red flashlight, was endeavouring to write up the deck log. It would be a poor job he would make of it, with Keeling’s recent evolutions, and in the absence of the hourly readings from the engine-room, but he was scribbling away industriously and fast. Now there was bustle through the ship, voices, clatter on the ladders, and Krause realized that the quartermaster was working in that fashion in anticipation of being relieved at the change of watch. Shadowy figures were crowding up into the pilo
t-house. Another watch was over. The convoy was another thirty miles or more nearer safety.

  Thursday. Middle Watch--2400-0400

  “You did a good job, McAlister,” said Krause as the helm was relieved. “Well done.” “Thank you, sir.”

  With McAlister at the wheel Keeling had pointed herself straight up the U-boat’s wake, straight for the U-boat itself.

  Carling saluted in the darkness and reported his relief. He went through the ceremonial sentences--ceremonial and yet every word important--with an apparent calm.

  “Mr Nystrom has the deck, sir,” concluded Carling.

  “Thank you, Mr Carling. Very well.”

  The flat tone; essential that there should be no suggestion of anything unusual.

  “Cap’n, please, sir, I got your coffee.”

  It was rather a plaintive voice. The messenger had carried that tray up four ladders, with Keeling leaping on the waves and the ladders crowded with the changing watch, and now there was a crowded pilot-house and as always only the jealously-guarded chart-table on which to put the tray.

  “On the table,” said Krause. “Quartermaster, make room for it. Thank you, messenger.”

  Because he had chosen that particular moment to send for coffee the messenger had lost ten full minutes of his watch below. The fortune of war for the messenger, but Krause would have waited until the watch was changed if he had noticed the time. Krause pulled off his right-hand fur glove and wedged it in his left armpit; his hand was cold but he still had full use of it. He poured himself a cup of coffee, fumbling in the darkness, and sipped at it. Scalding hot, too hot to drink despite its long journey up from the wardroom. But the taste and the smell of it were sufficient to start his digestive processes working again. He longed for that coffee; he was accustomed to drinking eight big cups every day of his life and had always guiltily put aside the self-accusation that he was a coffee-hound dependent on a drug.