“Yes, sir.”
“Very well, Mr Petty.”
Fippler made his gunnery report on the battle circuit. He had counted seven distinct hits in the fifty-odd rounds fired.
“I should have thought it was more,” said Krause. “It may have been, sir. May have been plenty we didn’t see.”
“But it was good shooting, Mr Fippler. Well done.”
“Thank you, sir. And number four gun still has a round in the breech. Request permission to unload through the muzzle.”
That was one way of asking permission to fire the gun off. A round left in the heated gun was too dangerous to unload in the ordinary way, and as a result of the chemical changes caused by the heat it would be unreliable in action. Krause looked round him. A sudden unexpected gun going off might puzzle the convoy but could hardly alarm them further than they had been alarmed already.
“Permission granted, Mr Fippler.” Think of everything; keep the mind concentrated so as to miss no detail. “Send someone first to warn the ship over the loudspeaker about what you’re going to do.”
“Aye aye, sir. Thank you, sir.”
It might alarm the convoy, but the sudden unexpected crash of a gun might well disturb the ship; false alarms were to be avoided if possible for fear of blunting the edge of the men’s attention.
Now he could get down to the head. He did not know how many hours it was since he had thought he should do that as a precautionary measure; now it was something of the most urgent and pressing importance. He heard Fippler’s warning being given over the loudspeaker as he went down the ladder, but it did not register because he was now having to grapple with the problem of whether or not to break radio silence and inform London of the growing helplessness of his command. That was a problem calling for so much thought that he had no attention to spare for anything else, with the result that he forgot all about his recent conversation with Fippler and while still in the head he was taken completely by surprise by the crash of number four gun going off. The sudden galvanization into tension, the reaction from it when he remembered the actual state of affairs, and his annoyance with himself--his shock that he could have forgotten so quickly --left him shaken again. But he deliberately took two more minutes away from the bridge, and washed his face and hands, soaping and rubbing vigorously. That made him feel considerably better. He actually remembered to pick up his hood and gloves before setting himself to make the weary climb back up the ladders to the bridge.
Thursday. Dog Watches--1600-2000
The watch was changing as he began the ascent with painful feet and aching legs; the ladders were crowded with men climbing up and men coming down. They were chattering and talking animatedly to each other, like schoolboys between classes; perhaps the recent exciting events had keyed them up, but they showed no sign of weariness.
“Did you hear the Kraut?” asked one young seaman loudly. “He said
Someone else caught sight of Krause on the ladder and nudged the speaker into silence as they made way for their captain.
“Thank you,” said Krause, pushing past them.
He had been nearly sure before this that on the lower deck he was known as the Kraut. Now he knew. It was inevitable that he should have that nickname. It was only among the officers that he was known by his Annapolis nickname as Squarehead Krause.
In the pilot-house two men turned to salute him; Charlie Cole of course and Temme the doctor.
“You got him all right, sir,” said Cole.
“Yes, we did, didn’t we?” said Krause.
“Reporting casualties, sir,” said Temme, and then, glancing down at the scrap of paper he held. “Three killed. Gunner’s Mate Third Class Pisani, Seaman Second Class Marx, Mess Attendant Second Class White. All of them badly mutilated. Two wounded. Seaman Second Class Bonnor, Storekeeper Third Class Meyer. Both of them hospital cases. Meyer has it badly in both thighs.”
“Very well, Doctor.” Krause turned to receive Nystrom’s salute and statement that Harbutt now had the deck. “Very well, Mr Nystrom.”
“I’ve prescribed something for you, Cap’n,” said Cole, “in consultation with Doc.”
Krause looked at him a little stupidly.
“Something on a tray, sir,” said Cole.
“Thank you,” said Krause in all gratitude, the thought of coffee rising in his mind like sunrise. But Cole obviously had more to say and the doctor was obviously waiting to support him in what he had to say.
“About the funerals, sir,” said Cole.
Certainly the thought of burying the dead had not crossed Krause’s mind.
“Doc. here thinks - - “ said Cole, with a gesture he brought Temme into the conversation.
“The sooner they’re buried the better, sir,” said Temme. “I’ve no room for corpses down below. I’ve four other bed cases, you know7, sir, the survivors from the burning ship.”
“We may be in action again any time, sir,” said Cole.
Both statements were perfectly true. A destroyer, as full of men as an egg is of meat, had no space to spare for mutilated bodies. Temme had to consider the likely possibility of having dozens more casualties on his hands.
“Commander tells me it may be three days or more before we reach port, sir,” said Temme.
“Quite right,” said Krause.
“On the table, there, messenger,” said Cole.
The “something on a tray” that they had prescribed had arrived. The three of them moved over to the table. A quick gesture by Cole sent the quartermaster and the messenger away out of earshot. Krause lifted the napkin; there was a full meal there. Besides the pot of coffee was a plate of cold cuts painstakingly arranged, bread already buttered, potato salad, a dish of ice-cream. Krause looked at it all not entirely comprehendingly--at everything except the coffee.
“Please, sir,” said Cole, “eat it while you’ve time. Please, sir.”
Krause poured himself coffee and drank, and then mechanically picked up the knife and fork and began to eat.
“May I arrange about the burials, sir?” asked Cole.
The burials. Krause had heard about the deaths of Pisani and Marx and White without emotion, too involved at that time with other problems and too encompassed by distractions for those deaths to affect him. Now he found himself eating with this discussion going on. Pisani had been young and dark and handsome and vital; he remembered him perfectly well. But the convoy had to go through.
“We’ve nearly two hours more of daylight, sir,” said Cole. “And I can get it all set in ten minutes while you’re eating your dinner. We might not have another chance.”
Krause rolled an eye on him while chewing a mouthful of cold meat. Before he became captain of his own ship, while still head of a department, he had done his share of prodding or luring a dilatory captain into giving necessary orders. That was what was happening to him at this moment. The discovery, in his present condition, affected him more than the thought of the dead men. It stiffened him.
“I shall have to take the service,” he said, coldly.
“Yes, of course, sir,” agreed Cole.
It would never do for the captain to be lounging on his stool in the pilot-house while someone else buried the ship’s dead. The profoundest respect must be paid to the poor relics of the men who had given their lives for their country.
“Very well, then, Commander.” said Krause. Those were official words, and with them he took a fresh grip on the reins which Cole may have thought were lying loosely in his hands. “You may give the necessary orders. Thank you, Doctor.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
Knife and fork in hand he could not return the salutes; he gave a sideways nod of his head. The food was very important to him at this moment. He was desperately hungry. He finished the cold meat, the bread, the salad, and he had begun on the ice-cream as Cole’s voice made itself heard over the loudspeaker, announcing that the dead would be committed to the deep from the main-deck aft, detailing who should be present fr
om each man’s division, and adding a few really well-chosen words about the rest of the ship’s company marking the solemnity of the occasion by remaining at their posts of duty. Krause thought about another pot of coffee. The men were dead; the first men who had died under his command. In war men died and ships sank.
Actually Krause was both too weary and too harassed with other problems to feel any emotion about men meeting the fate that he was ready to meet himself. But in a moment of horrible clarity he thought of himself as cold and indifferent, and there was a lightning stab of pain when he thought of how his coldness and indifference must have hurt warm-hearted Evelyn.
“All set, sir,” said Cole, saluting.
“Thank you, Charlie. Stay here while I’m down on the main-deck.”
Down the ladders again, forcing himself to forget Evelyn, forcing himself to forget how his feet hurt him, forcing his mind to abandon for the moment the problem of breaking radio silence and to apply itself to arranging the necessary sentences in his mind. The three stretchers at the ship’s side; the flags over them; and, with the waning day, a thin gleam of pale sunshine breaking through from the western horizon. The sonar pinging on monotonously as he spoke. The realization that Cole had done an excellent job of organization as the men bent to lift the inboard ends of the stretchers and as the beat of the propellers ceased for a few seconds when the stretchers were tilted and the bundled-up shapes slid out from under the flags--Cole must have been watching from the bridge to give the signal at the right time. The wind blowing through his cropped hair as he stood bare-headed and three men stepped forward with rifles at Silvestrini’s command to fire three small volleys over the boundless sea. Then back again, up the heart-breaking ladders with feet that had to feel for the rungs, dragging himself up to the pilot-house.
“Thank you, Charlie. Well done.”
Lifting his binoculars immediately to his eyes to look round him and take note of the condition of his command. What he had been doing was undoubtedly in the line of duty, but he felt uneasily that he might have been better employed although he could not say how. He swept the horizon aft of the ship with his glasses; visibility was improving steadily. The convoy appeared to him in fair order, although the commodore had the eternal signal flying “Make less smoke.” Dodge and James were up to station, leading on either flank. Somewhere astern of the convoy, Viktor; with the convoy interposed he could not be sure he saw her, but he fancied he could at times see that odd foremast against the pale sunset. The weather forecasts had been really accurate; here was the wind down to force three, south-westerly. That would be of considerable importance with regard to the corvettes’ urgent need of fuel. Tomorrow with luck he could expect air cover, and with the ceiling as high as this the cover would be really effective. He hoped London would appreciate his need.
Night was taking much longer to fall than it had done yesterday, thanks to the thinness of the cloud cover, and daylight would come appreciably earlier to-morrow morning, he hoped. At even thou shalt say Would God it were morning. Those two faint lights against the western sky were not stars. They were . . .
“Rockets in the convoy!” shouted the after look-out. “Two white rockets right astern!“
Krause stiffened out of the easy mood into which he was nearly falling. Rockets meant trouble; two white rockets meant a torpedoing, unless it was a false alarm, set off by some panicky captain. There was a long moment during which Krause hoped it was a false alarm. Viktor was somewhere close to where the trouble was. He had to decide whether he should turn about and go to her help; there was no question of sending either corvette with their limited fuel supply.
“Commodore signals general alarm, sir,” said the signal-bridge down to him.
“Very well.”
There were powerful arguments against turning back. Night would be falling before he reached there. He would be astern of the convoy again, with all the prolonged delay before he could rejoin it, especially if the convoy were to get into serious disorder. Whatever mischief a U-boat might do had by now been already done; he could not remedy that. Nor could he hope to avenge it with his small remainder of depth-charges. He might pick up survivors --but Cadena and Viktor were on the spot and he would not be there for half an hour. But what would the men on board the convoy think of him if they saw him placidly steaming along ahead of them while their comrades died astern? He went to the T.B.S. Dodge and James answered promptly enough; they were aware of trouble in the convoy and asked for orders; he could only tell them to stay on station. But he could not raise Viktor on the circuit at all. He said, “George to Eagle. George to Eagle. Do you hear me?” and received no reply. Viktor was ten miles away--possibly more by now--and it was quite possible that she could not hear. It was faintly possible that her hands were so full she had no time to reply, but it was hardly likely. Krause stood holding the hand-set, yearning inexpressibly to hear one single word even from that nonchalant English voice. The Commodore was blinking away, his light directed straight at Keeling; it must be a message for him. And it must be urgent, for it was almost too dark for Morse messages to be safe. The Commodore was taking a chance transmitting in these conditions, and the Commodore was not the sort of man to take chances.
Someone came dashing down from the signal-bridge with the pad.
COMCONVOY TO COMESCORT. “CADENA” REPORTS “VIKTOR” HIT.
“Very well.”
No more indecision.
“I’ll take the conn, Mr Harbutt.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
“What’s your heading?”
“Zero-nine-three, sir.”
“Right full rudder. Steer course two-seven-three. Mr Harbutt, the Commodore tells me Viktor has been hit; she’s somewhere astern of the convoy. I’m going back to her.”
“Steady on course two-seven-three, sir.”
“Very well. All engines ahead flank speed.”
“All engines ahead flank speed. Engine-room answers ‘All engines ahead flank speed,’ sir.” “Very well.”
Just time to get to the T.B.S. and tell Dodge and James what he was doing.
“You’ll have to cover the front as well as the flanks,” he added. “Go easy with the fuel.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
Convoy and Keeling were rushing at each other. There was still light enough in the western sky to silhouette the ships against it, but aft the sky was already dark and it was quite possible they would not see Keeling approaching. And they were in disorder. Ships were out of station; there were no safe lanes through the convoy. And the ships would be moving unpredictably, avoiding danger or trying to regain station. But he must go on. Viktor was hit. He felt overwhelming sorrow at the thought, even while he stood, poised and ready and keyed up. The sorrow would only endure for a few seconds before it was thrust aside by the urgencies of the moment. Napoleon long ago in the heat of battle had heard of the death of a favourite soldier and had said, “Why have I not time to weep for him?” Krause had fifteen seconds in which to feel sorrow. Then . . .
“Right rudder. Meet her. Left rudder. Meet her.” Keeling was plunging for the gap beside the Commodore. She had to snake past her. The gap was widening. “Right full rudder!”
The ship behind was sheering across. A rapid calculation of the distance of the dark shape beyond. Keeling leaned over as she turned.
“Meet her! Steady as you go! Left rudder, handsomely. Meet her. Left rudder. Meet her.”
Keeling sped across the bows of one ship and across the stern of another, and then down alongside a dark shape. They were through.
“All engines ahead standard speed.”
“All engines ahead standard speed. Engine-room answers ‘All engines ahead standard speed,’ sir.”
“Very well.”
Minutes were precious, but he must have Keeling going-slow enough now for the sonar to be effective.
“Resume sonar search.”
“Object on the starboard bow! Close!“
Object? Periscop
e? Krause sprang out with his glasses to his eyes. There was still the faintest twilight. The object was a fragment of a ship’s lifeboat, just three or four feet of the shattered bows, almost awash. A man was lying there, face upturned, arms outspread, but alive; Krause could see him trying to lift his head to see what was approaching. Next second Keeling’s bow wave struck it, washing high over the face. Krause saw it again as it passed down the side of the ship. Waves washed over it again. That dim shape out there must be Cadena. Forget that just visible face with the waves flowing over it.
“Eagle on the T.B.S., sir,” said Harbutt.
Eagle? Viktor on T.B.S.? A thrill of hope; Krause picked up the hand-set.
“George to Eagle. Go ahead.”
“We’ve got it in the engine-room, sir,” said the lackadaisical English voice. “Cadena’s standing by. She’s taking us in tow.”
“I have Cadena in sight,” said Krause.
“Well, we’re just beside her, sir. Engine-room’s flooded and all power lost. We’ve just rigged this jury battery circuit for the radio-telephone.”
“One moment. Mr Harbutt! That’s Cadena there taking Viktor in tow. Circle them at half a mile.”
“Aye aye, sir,”
Back to the T.B.S.
“I am patrolling round you at half a mile.”
“Thank you, sir. We’re doing our best to save her.”
“I am sure you are.”
“The bulkheads are standing up to it pretty well, sir, and we’re shoring them up. Trouble is there are plenty of leaks in the other compartments too. We’re dealing with them as well.”
“Yes.”
“Cadena’s got our surplus men. We’ve put a hundred ratings on board her. We lost thirty in the engine-room.”
“Yes.”
“We’ve a five degree list to starboard and we’re down by the stern, sir, but we’ll tow all right.”
“Yes. Is Cadena passing that tow line satisfactorily?”
“Yes, sir. Another fifteen minutes, I should say, and we’ll be under way.”
“Good.”
“We can use the hand steering, sir, and we’ll be under control to a certain extent.”
The Good Shepherd Page 21
