The Good Shepherd

by C. S. Forester

  The bell rang at the voice-tube, and Krause forgot feet and legs and the problem of breaking radio silence as he sprang to answer it.

  “Captain.”

  “Cap’n, sir, there are pips ahead of us.”

  “Pips?”

  “Pips or a pip, sir. This screen’s getting fuzzier all the time. And the range unit’s acting up.” “But what is it you see?”

  “Just something, sir. Thought it was two pips, but now I’m not sure. But it’s right ahead of us, bearing around zero-eight-four--zero-eight-eight sometimes.”

  “It’s not the convoy?”

  “No, sir. That’s out of range. This pip’s about at the limit.”

  “Very well.”

  Not so well, of course. A pip. Something on the surface right ahead. A U-boat, going full out to overtake the convoy? Very possibly. A straggler from the convoy? Likely enough. It was something that must be dealt with. “I’ll take the conn, Mr Nystrom.”

  “Aye aye, sir. Cadena s making all of twelve knots, sir.”

  “Thank you. Right standard rudder. Steer course two-four-zero.”

  “Right standard rudder. Steer course two-four-zero, sir,” said the helmsman in the quiet of the pilot-house. A pause while Keeling turned; long enough for Krause to work out on which leg of the zig Cadena would be in three minutes’ time. “Steady on course two-four-zero, sir.”

  “Very well.” He had to go out on the starboard wing of the bridge to see the dark form of Cadena. “Right rudder, handsomely.”

  Cadena’s next zig was due now. As Keeling drew up to her his straining eyes detected her change of silhouette as she put her rudder over. “Meet her. Left rudder. Meet her. Steady as you go.”

  To come alongside a zigzagging ship within hailing distance in the darkness called for the most careful handling. The two ships came closer and closer together. Over there a light flashed momentarily. They were growing nervous, unable to guess what Keeling was trying to do. Someone had switched on a flashlight and pointed it at her.

  “Port look-out reports a light from Cadena, sir,” said a talker.

  “Very well. Right rudder. Meet her.” He reached the bull-horn just as the speaking trumpet voiced an anxious appeal. “Keeling!”

  “Comescort. I’m going on ahead of you. There’s something suspicious several miles ahead bearing about zero eight six true.”

  “What is it?”

  “I don’t know and I’m going to find out Maintain your present base course and keep a good look-out ahead.” A few more seconds for thought. “I’ll warn you if there’s danger. If you see me fire a gun make a radical change of base course, to zero-four-two true.”

  “O.K.”

  “Maintain that course for half an hour and then return to zero eight seven if you’ve heard nothing from me.”

  “O.K.”

  He hoped Cadena had understood, and then he remembered that on board her, probably on her bridge at that moment, were the Polish captain and the British liaison officer. They had heard him and would keep Cadena’s captain in line.

  “Good-bye. Right full rudder. Steer course zero-eight-six. All engines ahead flank speed.”

  Krause’s orders were quietly repeated. Up here in the pilot-house everyone was aware of what was going on. Down below in the engine-room they would be ignorant. They would be conscious of Keeling having circled; they would not be able to guess what new crisis demanded the increase in speed. Their troubles were minor ones. All they had to do was to obey orders. Krause allowed the engine-room staff to disappear from his mind--a passing-twinge of envy was left there like the passing swirl left by a sinking ship. These next few free minutes, while heading towards the unknown danger, he must think once more about breaking radio silence.

  “Permission to change the clocks, sir?” said Nystrom, looming up beside him.

  Change the clocks? Krause held himself back from a stupid repetition of the words. It was something he had forgotten all about, and yet something he should have remembered. They had just passed from one time zone to the next; they were an hour further forward into the day.

  “Mr Watson’s orders?” he asked.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Watson, as navigating officer, had been charged by Krause to alter the ship’s time at the most convenient moment.

  “Permission granted,” said Krause.

  Nystrom could not know that he had broken into an important chain of thought in his captain’s mind. Yet Nystrom’s request had a powerful bearing on the subject of Krause’s thoughts. Now the deadline he had once set himself for appealing for help was long past. He had been a fool not to think of that; even though it was only a nominal change and not an actual change--dawn was no nearer to them in actual minutes than it would have been if the time had not changed--the moral effect was profound. Besides, Krause was now reminded that the night was considerably shorter on an easterly course, heading for the sunrise. In any case, they were heading not only for the sunrise but towards a suspicious object, and at flank speed. He addressed himself to the voice-tube again.

  “What do you make of that pip now?” he asked.

  “It’s still there, sir.”

  “Isit big, or little? Can’t you guess?”

  “I’d say it was big, sir. Perhaps it’s two pips like I said, sir. And I think it’s moving, sir. Keeping on the same course as us.”

  “But we’re overtaking it?”

  “Near as I can tell, yes, sir.”

  He would have to identify the thing before he took any further action; not so easy in the darkness. Ten to one it was only a straggler from the convoy. He tried to raise Dodge and James on the voice circuit, but had to abandon the attempt in exasperated disappointment. They were out of T.B.S. range, unless--unless--that was a horrible thought. He could put it aside in any case. They could not both have been sunk without the look-outs observing some kind of explosion reflected from the high cloud in the darkness of the night.

  “Can you estimate the range of that pip now?” he asked.

  “Well, no, sir. Can’t say that I can.”

  Another voice came up the tube immediately after that unsatisfactory reply. It was Charlie Cole. Krause could not believe he had been asleep; probably he had been prowling round the ship inspecting.

  “The bearing’s constant, sir,” said Cole. “And I’d say there are two pips for certain.”

  “Thank you, Charlie.”

  “And I’d say we’re overtaking them fast.”

  “Very well.”

  Two pips being rapidly overtaken could only mean stragglers. There was no urgent anxiety, then. Krause reached that comforting conclusion and a second afterwards caught himself from swaying forward unconscious. Sleep was waiting like some half-tamed beast of prey ready to spring the moment he relaxed his vigilance. He was nearing the end of his second day without any sleep at all; two days of almost constant tension and strain. Two days spent almost entirely on his feet, too; there was no possible chance of forgetting that. Krause was glad when the bell pinged again.

  “I got it tuned for a second just then, sir. Two pips for certain. And range four miles--that might be pretty accurate. Bearing zero-eight-six.”

  “Very well.”

  Better not to close too fast. Better to have the sonar working. Wait five minutes.

  “All engines ahead standard speed. Resume sonar search.”

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

  The abrupt diminution of vibration, the reduction in the sound of Keeling’s passage through the water, told their own story, as did the resumption in the steady pinging of the sonar.

  “Sonar reports indications confused, sir.”

  That would right itself as soon as Keeling’s speed fell to twelve knots.

  “Forward look-out reports objects dead ahead, sir.”

  “Very well.”

  That would be three miles ahead, if Cole’s estimate of range had been accurate. The look-out was doing his
work well to sight the objects at that distance on a night like this.

  “Captain to forward look-out. ‘Continue to report what you see.’ “

  Friday. Morning Watch--0400-0800

  He himself was standing, staring forward. At present he could see nothing there in the darkness. Nystrom was beside him, also gazing forward, and Krause became aware out of the tail of his eye that another figure was standing beside Nystrom--young Harbutt. The watch was changing.

  “Forward look-out reports objects appear to be two ships, sir.”

  “Very well.”

  “Ships for sure, sir,” said Harbutt.

  Now Krause could see them, something more than solid nuclei in the darkness. They were just ships, stragglers from the convoy. He felt considerable exasperation at having been subjected to his recent tension merely on their account.

  “Forward look-out reports two merchant ships dead ahead, about two miles, close together, sir.”

  “Very well. Captain to forward look-out. ‘We have those ships in sight from the bridge.’ “

  “Reporting having been relieved, sir,” said Nystrom, and went on through the time-honoured formula.

  “Very well, Mr Nystrom.”

  “Sir,” said Harbutt. “Have you any orders about general quarters this morning?”

  Something else he had forgotten all about. In a hour, unless he countermanded his standing orders as he had done yesterday, general quarters would be sounded and the whole ship would be roused. The reasons that motivated his cancellation yesterday still held good. His men were doing four on and four off; they might as well have all the rest they could. He ought to have remembered it.

  “No general quarters this morning unless it’s the real thing,” he said. “Put it on the loudspeaker.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  As they approached the dark ships he heard the announcement made.

  “Now hear this. There’ll be no - - “

  One of Uncle Sam’s ships had acquired the nickname a few years ago of “the beno ship,” because of the numerous announcements over her loudspeaker beginning that way; but those announcements had given warning that there would be no liberty that afternoon, and similar unpleasant news. This was different.

  They were close up to the nearer ship now; he could see her churning wake.

  “Left rudder. Meet her. Steady as you go.”

  Now he could recognize her; a tanker with bridge and engines aft. That was Hendrikson. They were hailing already from her bridge by megaphone. Krause stepped out to the bull-horn; on his way he collided violently with a figure who had suddenly appeared at his elbow.

  “Admiralty message, sir,” said the figure. It was Dawson’s voice.

  “One minute,” said Krause, although the words brought a surge of life and excitement back into his numb body. He bellowed into the bull-horn. “Comescort. What are you doing back here?”

  “Ve touched that bastard over dere,” said a voice in reply. “Buckled our bow plates. Yust saved ourselves. He will hear from my owners.”

  “You don’t seem to be much hurt. What did you do to him?”

  “Hope I did plenty.”

  “Can you maintain course and speed?”

  “Yes.”

  Keeling was fast drawing past Hendrikson; they were almost out of hailing distance.

  “Maintain your course with modified zig. Plan Number Seven. Look out for Cadena coming up astern.”

  “O.K.”

  “Mr Harbutt, take the conn. Hail that fellow over there and find out what his damage is. If he’s all right get him into column astern of the tanker and screen them both.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  “Now, Mr Dawson.”

  Dawson had his clip-board; he had taken the dim red flashlight from the chart-table and shone it on the message. Krause took both clip-board and flashlight from him.

  “Some of it’s badly scrambled, sir,” apologized Dawson. “I’ve done the best I can with it.”

  Some of the words were only jumbles of letters. The others stood out with startling effect as Krause read them in the faint red light.

  REINFORCEMENT DESPATCHED. A muddle of letters. ESCORT GROUP CAPTAIN EARL OF BANFF SNO. More muddles, EXPECT AIRCRAFT OP ORD 378-42 APPENDIX HYPO. More muddles.

  “I’m sure of that, sir,” said Dawson, stabbing a finger at OP ORD. “Here it is.”

  Attached to the clip-board in addition to the message was the reference--HIS CHALLENGE UW YOUR ANSWER BD.

  “Just as well,” said Krause. “Messenger!”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Ask the exec, to come to the bridge.” He had hesitated before speaking. The sentence he had framed in his mind --”My compliments to the executive officer and I would be glad if he were to come to the bridge”--had been ridiculously pompous, an echo of the old battleship days in peacetime, and he had had to reframe it to suit wartime conditions in a destroyer.

  He studied the message again. It was nearly twelve hours old, having taken much longer to come through than the previous Admiralty message, which had been given priority. The channels were congested but the Admiralty must have worked out that this would reach him in time for him to take the necessary action. But it was wonderful news that reinforcements were on their way. SNO meant senior naval officer in accordance with British usage, not one of those odd collections of letters like DSO or MBE which merely meant a decoration. And the SNO was a captain, That meant that he would be superseded in the command. His responsibility for the convoy would be ended. Krause found himself madly regretting that--regret without any alloy of relief. He would have liked to finish the job himself. His woolly fatigue was stirred into a resentment.

  “I didn’t dare guess at those scrambles, sir,” said Dawson. “There were some numerals - - “

  “Very well, Mr Dawson.”

  It was a little odd--strangely British--that the Admiralty should go to the trouble of informing him that Captain Earl, who was going to take over command, came from Banff. Krause thought of the Canadian Rockies and Lake Louise; but there might be a Banff in Britain, the same as there was a Boston and a Newport. But in that case why mention it? It could only be of importance if Earl was a Canadian. The explanation suddenly shot up in Krause’s mind, adding a trifle of amusement to temper his irritation and resentment. This must be one of those English lords--Captain the Earl of Banff. And with the British “aircraft” was the usual and not the unusual way of saying “plane.”

  “Yes, Cap’n?” said Cole, arriving.

  “Read this,” said Krause, handing over clip-board and flashlight.

  Cole bent to read, the flashlight held within two inches of the paper. It was Krause’s bounden duty to inform his second in command of news as important as this.

  “That’s fine, sir,” said Cole. “You’ll be able to take a rest.”

  He could not in the darkness see the expression on Krause’s face, or he might have used other words. “Yes,” said Krause, harshly.

  “Sent at eighteen hundred G.C.T.,” commented Cole. “And it says the relief has already been despatched. Won’t be long before we meet them. They’ll do a high-speed run without zigging. Well, they can’t arrive too early.”

  “No,” said Krause.

  “Do you know this Captain Earl, sir?” asked Cole.

  “That’s not his name,” said Krause, and for the life of him he could not help feeling superior. “He’s a lord. The Earl of Banff.”

  “An earl? But you haven’t ever spoken to him, sir?”

  “No,” said Krause. “Not to remember. I mean I am sure I haven’t.”

  The last sentence was jerked out of him by conscience to make up for the one before it. Krause had met many British naval officers, but he would certainly have remembered meeting the Earl of Banff, and it was dishonest to imply that he was capable of forgetting it.

  “You can’t risk a guess about these cipher groups, Dawson?” asked Cole.

  “No, sir. I was saying so to
the captain. There are numerals in them, which makes it hard.”

  “No doubt about the numerals,” commented Cole. “Time of meeting not stated. Position not stated. But that plane will be here within an hour of sunrise, sir. You can be sure of that.”

  “I think so,” said Krause.

  “I never heard better news in my life, sir,” said Cole. “Thank you for letting me in on it.”

  It was quite obvious that Cole had not the least notion that Krause could feel any bitterness regarding his supersession.

  “Cap’n, sir,” said Harbutt.

  During this last conversation they had been aware of Harbutt carrying on a bellowed conversation through the loud-hailer, giving orders to the wheel, and occasionally swearing to himself.

  “Yes, Mr Harbutt?”

  “The other freighter’s Southland, sir. She’s pretty well caved in on the starboard quarter, they tell me. But most of the damage is above water-line and they can cope with the leaks. Hendrikson’s damage is all above water-line. I’ve got ‘em into column, Southland leading. She says she can make ten and a half knots, and Hendrikson’s good for eleven. And here’s Cadena coming up astern, sir.”

  “How far ahead’s the convoy?”

  “Four miles is what radar guesses, sir. Can’t see ‘em yet.”

  “Very well, Mr Harbutt. Get Cadena into column as well and patrol ahead of them.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  Cole addressed himself to Dawson as Harbutt withdrew.

  “You’re sure of this challenge and reply?” he asked.

  “As sure as I am of anything, sir,” said Dawson.

  It was necessary to size up Dawson’s capabilities and mentality. He had not spoken overboldly or pathetically.

  “Just as well,” said Cole, repeating Krause’s very words. “We might have him here in two hours.”