Greyhound (Movie Tie-In)

by C. S. Forester

  Those figures for latitude and longitude had a suspiciously familiar appearance, and it was the work of only a moment to confirm these suspicions. Within a mile or two either way, that was exactly where Keeling found herself at this moment. They were right in among that U-boat wolf pack. It was an Admiralty message, addressed to him as Comescort, and it was two hours old. That was the speediest transmission that could be expected; the Admiralty staff, with its charts and its plotting board, must have hoped hopelessly for good fortune when it sent out that warning. Miraculously speedy transmission, and the convoy steaming an hour or two late, and there would have been time to wheel the convoy away from the wolf pack. As it was? Quite impossible. The convoy, well closed up by now, he hoped, was lumbering forward with its dead-weight momentum. It would take only a few seconds to transmit orders to the commodore, but it would take minutes to convey those orders to every ship in the convoy, and to make sure they were understood. And the wheel round would lead to a repetition of the previous disorder and straggling—worse, probably, seeing that it was quite unscheduled.

  “Back on reverse course, sir,” reported Watson.

  “Very well. Start pinging.”

  And even if the convoy should execute the wheel round perfectly, it would be of no avail in the midst of a wolf pack which would be fully aware of it. It would only mean delay, not merely unprofitable but dangerous.

  “Sonar reports no contact, sir.”

  “Very well.”

  WEDNESDAY. AFTERNOON WATCH: 1200–1600

  The only thing to do was to fight a way through, to beat off the wolf pack and lumber on ponderously across the Atlantic. He had at least had his warning; but seeing that convoy and escort habitually were as careful as if there were always a wolf pack within touch, the warning was of no particular force. There was no purpose, for that matter, in passing on the warning to his subordinates and to the commodore. It could not affect their actions, and the fewer people who were aware how accurately the Admiralty was able to pinpoint U-boat concentrations the better.

  “Sonar reports no contact, sir.”

  “Very well.”

  The plan then was to fight his way through, to plod doggedly onward, smashing a path through the U-boat cordon for his lumbering convoy. And this message which he still held in his hand? These few words from the outside world which seemed so impossibly far away from his narrow horizon? They must remain unanswered; there must be no violation of radio silence for a mere negative end. He must fight his battle while the staffs in London and Washington, in Bermuda and Reykjavik, remained in ignorance. Every man shall bear his own burden, and this was his—that was a text from Galatians; he could remember learning it, so many years ago—and all he had to do was his duty; no one needed an audience for that. He was alone with his responsibility in this crowded pilothouse, at the head of the crowded convoy. God setteth the solitary in families.

  “Sonar reports no contact, sir, for thirty degrees on both bows.”

  “Very well.”

  He turned from the one problem straight back to the other.

  “Come right handsomely.”

  “Come right handsomely.”

  “Call out your heading, Quartermaster.”

  “Aye aye, sir. Passing one three zero. Passing one four zero. Passing one five zero. Passing one six zero. Passing one seven zero.”

  “Meet her. Steady as you go.”

  “Meet her. Steady as you go. Heading one seven two, sir.”

  Krause handed back the clipboard.

  “Thank you, Mr. Dawson.”

  He returned Dawson’s salute punctiliously, but he did not notice Dawson anymore. He was quite unaware of Dawson’s glance or of the rapid play of expression on Dawson’s young chubby face. Surprise succeeded by admiration, and that by something of pity. Only Dawson besides his captain knew what weighty news there had been in the message he bore.

  Dawson alone could feel admiration for the man who could receive that news with no more than a “Thank you” and go straight on with what he was doing. Krause would not have understood even if he had noticed. There was nothing spectacular to him about a man doing his duty. His eyes were sweeping the horizon before Dawson had turned away.

  Contact was certainly lost, and they had searched for thirty degrees on either side of the course the U-boat had been following at the moment of the last contact. Now he had started on a new sector, to starboard and not to port, with no observational data at all on which to base his choice. But a turn to starboard would be towards the convoy, now just visible in the distance. If the U-boat had gone off to port she was heading away from the convoy’s path to where she would be temporarily harmless. The course he had just ordered would carry Keeling back towards her station in the screen, and it would search out the area in which the U-boat would be most dangerous.

  “Steady on course one seven two, sir,” said Watson.

  “Very well.”

  “Sonar reports no contact, sir.”

  “Very well.”

  They were heading for the center of the convoy now. Viktor was in plain sight on their starboard bow, patrolling ahead of the convoy, but James on the left flank was still invisible. Krause began to consider the matter of securing from general quarters; he must not forget that he was using up the battle reserve of his men’s energy and attention.

  “Sonar reports distant contact, sir!” said the talker, his voice several tones higher with excitement. “Port two zero. Range indefinite.”

  The slackening tension in the pilothouse tightened up again.

  “Right standard rudder to course one nine two.”

  “Right standard rudder to course one nine two.”

  Keeling came round; Krause was looking at Viktor again through his glasses. It was a question whether he should use Viktor to make a thrust or retain her where she was to make a parry.

  “Sonar reports distant contact one nine zero. Range indefinite.”

  Another brief order, another minute turn. There was the temptation to niggle at Ellis with questions and orders, to ask him if he could not do better than that “Range indefinite.” But his knowledge of Ellis had vastly increased during the last few minutes; Krause guessed that he needed no prodding to do his best, and there was the danger that prodding might disturb his vitally important equanimity.

  A wild yell from the lookout forward of the bridge; a piercing yell.

  “Periscope! Periscope! Dead ahead!”

  Krause was on the wing of the bridge in a flash, before the last word was uttered, glasses to his eyes.

  “How far?”

  “Gone now, sir. ’Bout a mile, I guess, sir.”

  “Gone? You sure you saw it?”

  “Positive, sir. Dead ahead, sir.”

  “A periscope or a feather?”

  “Periscope, sir. Certain. Couldn’t mistake it. Six feet of it, sir.”

  “Very well. Thank you. Keep looking.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  It seemed very likely that the lookout had seen what he said he saw. The U-boat would know, after the dropping of the depth charges, that she was a long way from her pursuer. She would be aware of the proximity of the convoy and of the screen, and it would be desperately important for her to get the bearings of her enemies. She would put up her periscope for a sweep round; that was so likely that it could be considered certain. And with this sea running she would show plenty of periscope, too. The six feet the lookout reported was not at all an unlikely figure. That grim object cutting through the tossing water was something a man one year enlisted could be sure about if he caught even a glimpse of it. Even the briefness of the glimpse—just long enough for one complete sweep round—was confirmation. Krause walked back to the radio telephone.

  The excitement in the pilothouse was intense. Even Krause, with his hard lack of sympathy, could feel it beating round
him like waves about the foot of a cliff; he was excited as well, but he was too preoccupied with the need for quick decision to pay attention in any case. He spoke into the T.B.S.

  “George to Eagle. George to Eagle. Do you hear me?”

  “Eagle to George,” bleated the T.B.S. “I hear you. Strength four.”

  “I have a contact dead ahead of me, bearing one nine zero.”

  “Bearing one nine zero, sir.”

  “Range about a mile.”

  “Range about a mile, sir.”

  “I sighted his periscope there a minute ago.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Leave your station and give us a hand.”

  “Come and give a hand. Aye aye, sir.”

  Viktor could cover the five miles between her and the U-boat in fifteen minutes, if she set her mind to it.

  “Sonar reports contact dead ahead, sir. Range indefinite.”

  “Very well.”

  As long as the contact was right ahead he could be sure he was closing up on it as fast as he could. With the glasses to his eyes he swept the horizon again. The convoy seemed to be in fair order from what he could see of it. He went to the T.B.S. again.

  “George to Harry. George to Dicky. Do you hear me?”

  He heard the bleated answers.

  “I am seven miles from the convoy bearing zero eight five from it. I’ve called Eagle to join me in chasing a contact.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You must screen the convoy.”

  “Wilco.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  The talker at Krause’s elbow broke into the conversation.

  “Sonar reports no contact, sir.”

  “Very well.” He spoke those words over his shoulder before continuing his order. “Harry, patrol all the port half, front and flank.”

  “Port half. Aye aye, sir.”

  “Dicky, take the starboard half.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  “Over.”

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

  “Very well.”

  It might be thought there was irony in those two words. Having called Viktor from her screening duties, having stretched the defenses of the convoy to the utmost, he was greeted with the news that contact had been lost. But he could only hold on and hope that it might be recovered. He felt he could at least trust Ellis to go on trying. Viktor was much more plainly in view now, coming up fast and heading to cross Keeling’s course some distance ahead.

  “Captain to sonar. A friendly destroyer will be crossing our bows in approximately seven minutes.”

  The talker was repeating the message as Krause went to the T.B.S. again.

  “George to Eagle. George to Eagle.”

  “Eagle to George. I hear you.”

  “Contact lost at present.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  The talker was speaking now.

  “Sonar answers—” The talker broke off as a new message came in to his earphones. “Faint contact. One nine four.”

  “Very well.” No time to spare to be pleased. “George to Eagle. Contact again five degrees on our starboard bow. I am turning to follow it.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  No doubt the U-boat was fishtailing and changing her depth in the effort to shake off her pursuer. She would not have heard Viktor approaching yet.

  “Eagle to George.”

  “George to Eagle. Go ahead,” said Krause.

  “I am reducing speed to twelve knots.”

  “Twelve knots. Very well.”

  When Viktor had slowed down, her sonar would be able to come into action; and it would make her approach somewhat harder for the U-boat to detect. Viktor had come up as fast as she could. She was an old hand at the antisubmarine game.

  “Sonar reports no contact, sir.”

  “Very well.”

  Viktor was four miles off, Krause estimated, broad on the starboard bow. That peculiar foremast was clear in every detail. The two ships were converging. The bridge was silent, save for the sound of the sea and the monotonous pinging of the sonar.

  “Sonar reports no contact, sir.”

  “Very well.”

  Keeling must have advanced nearly a mile since the last contact. If the U-boat had made a radical change of course at that time the bearing would by now be changing very fast.

  “Two zero five!” exclaimed the talker. Everyone on the bridge tensed again. Krause was about to speak on the T.B.S. when he realized what he had heard. A sour note; he glanced at the talker.

  “That’s not what you were taught,” he snapped. “Mind what you’re saying. Repeat.”

  “Sonar reports contact two zero five, sir,” said the talker, abashed.

  “Very well.”

  There must be no buck fever on the bridge of the Keeling; better to waste a second now than have confusion arising later.

  “Take the conn, Mr. Watson,” said Krause harshly; he had two ships to direct. He himself was calm as he addressed the T.B.S.; it was an advantage to be of an unsympathetic temperament. Then other people’s excitement pushed one into indifference. “George to Eagle. Contact again on my starboard bow. I am turning towards it.”

  “Eagle to George. Aye aye, sir.”

  He fancied he could detect an alteration of course on Viktor’s part, but he could not be certain at that distance and with the relative bearing altering. But there was no need to issue orders to Viktor. That Polish captain knew his job. No need to tell a terrier at a rat-hole what to do.

  “Sonar reports contact bearing two one zero, sir. Range one mile.”

  “Very well.”

  “Steady on new course, sir!” reported Watson at that very moment.

  “Very well. Carry on, Mr. Watson. George to Eagle. Contact is still crossing my bows from port to starboard, distance one mile.”

  “Eagle to George. Aye aye, sir.”

  Krause had spoken with the dead flat intonation he relied upon to be intelligible, with distinct pauses between words. The English officer in Viktor was answering as coldly, as far as Krause could tell from his peculiar accent and the distortion of the radiophone. Now he could see Viktor surging right round, in an eight-point turn or more, so that she was presenting her starboard bow slightly to his gaze. The terrier was running to cut off the rat’s retreat.

  “Sonar reports contact bearing two one zero, sir. Range two thousand yards.”

  “Very well.”

  The old situation was repeating itself, the U-boat circling and Keeling circling after her; but this time there was Viktor to intercept.

  “Eagle to George.” Just as he was about to speak. “Contact, sir. On my starboard bow. Range indefinite.”

  “Very well. On my starboard bow too. Range one mile.”

  The rat was running into the terrier’s jaws. The two ships were approaching fast, and between them was the U-boat.

  “Sonar reports contact dead ahead, sir.”

  “Very well.”

  That made it seem as if the U-boat had begun to swing in the opposite direction, out of the circle. There was no knowing if she was yet aware of Viktor’s presence, but it seemed as if she must be. Viktor was swinging to starboard already. Her sonar must be good.

  “Eagle to George. Eagle to George. Contact close on my port bow. Converging.”

  “George to Eagle. I hear you.”

  Once more that phenomenon of the varying speed of time. With the ships close together seconds were speeding by; even during the brief exchange of messages the situation had tightened considerably.

  “Eagle to George. Submit I attack.”

  “George to Eagle. Carry on. Permission granted.”

  “Sonar reports contact dead ahe
ad, sir,” said the talker. “Range indefinite. Interference from the other ship.”

  “Very well. George to Eagle. Contact dead ahead of me.”

  He must hold this course for a moment or two longer to enable Viktor to get a cross-bearing. Then he must alter course to avoid collision. Which way? Which way would the hunted U-boat turn to avoid Viktor’s attack? Which way should he head to intercept her if she survived it? Viktor was turning to starboard a trifle farther. When Keeling had made her attack the U-boat—as far as he knew—had turned right under her on an opposite course. It was the best thing she could do; it would be her best move again. “Come right fifteen degrees, Mr. Watson.”

  “Aye aye, sir. Right rudder to course—”

  “Eagle to George. Depth charges away.”

  Keeling was turning. Fine on her port bow rose the first column of water; farther and farther round rose the others, in Viktor’s wake. The sound of the explosions was audible and muffled.

  “Sonar reports contact obscured, sir.”

  “Very well. Captain to sonar. Search on the port bow.”

  That tremendous temptation again to call for flank speed, and chance muffling the sonar; the temptation must be put aside. Blessed is the man that endureth temptation; for when he is tried, he shall receive the crown of life. On this course they would pass clear by a wide margin of the area of tortured water which Viktor had depth-charged. Viktor was turning hard to starboard, coming back to the attack.

  “Sonar reports close contact bearing one eight two.”

  “Follow it up, Mr. Watson!” Watson gave the order as Krause spoke into the T.B.S. “George to Eagle. George to Eagle. Keep clear. I am going to attack.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  “I am setting for medium pattern. Set yours for deep.”

  “Deep pattern. Aye aye, sir.”

  “Medium pattern, Mr. Nourse.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  “Sonar reports close contact dead ahead, sir. Strong up Doppler.”

  “Very well. George to Eagle. I think contact is on reciprocal course to mine.”

  “Eagle to George. Reciprocal course. Aye aye, sir.”

  “Sonar reports contact lost, sir.”