Greyhound (Movie Tie-In)

by C. S. Forester

  “Very well. Mr. Nourse!”

  Three hundred yards at a combined speed of say eighteen knots; thirty seconds. Deduct fifteen for an ashcan to sink to medium depth. A ten-second spread before and after.

  “Fire one!” said Nourse.

  Viktor was close, her bows pointed straight at Keeling; she had wheeled right round and was aiming to cross close behind Keeling’s stern. If this were a peacetime maneuver that Polish captain would be bawled out for endangering both ships. The K guns were going off on either side, their coughing explosions coinciding with the loud hollow boom of the first depth charge.

  Wait fifteen more seconds.

  “Come right, Mr. Watson.”

  No delay this time, no wasting of valuable moments idly watching depth charge explosions before beginning to circle back again. Now with Keeling beginning her turn he could step out onto the wing of the bridge. The last upflung column of water was falling back to the foaming sea. Viktor was beginning her run at the edge of the area Keeling had searched with her charges; Krause saw the first of Viktor’s depth charges drop.

  “Meet her, Mr. Watson! Steady as you go!”

  Better not to come too close for a moment, better to hover on the outskirts where Keeling’s sonar would be less seriously deafened, and where he would be free to turn in either direction at the first new contact. The sea exploded again, the huge columns rising towards the gray sky. Krause was watching Viktor closely; with the dropping of her last depth charge she was turning to starboard too. The last charge flung up its column of water. Now was the time to continue the circle.

  “Come right, Mr. Watson!”

  The two destroyers were circling about each other. It was to be hoped that the U-boat was within the area enclosed by the intersection of the two circles. Krause’s eyes were still on Viktor; he was standing at the end of the bridge when the starboard side lookout yelled, not two yards from him.

  “There he is! Sub on the starboard beam!”

  Krause saw it. A thousand yards away the long conical bow of a U-boat was rearing out of the tortured water. It leveled off as a wave burst round it in a smother of spray. It lowered and lengthened. A gun came into sight. A rounded bridge. The sub shook itself as though in torment—as indeed it was. Keeling’s guns went off, like doors being slammed intolerably loudly. Wang-o. Wang-o. Wang-o. The lookout was screaming with excitement. It was hard to focus the glasses on the thing. A wave seemed to run along it, and it was gone.

  Krause sprang back into the pilothouse.

  “Right rudder, Mr. Watson.”

  “Rudder’s hard over, sir,” said Watson. Keeling had been turning at the moment of sighting.

  A talker was trying to make a report. At first he jumbled his words with excitement, but he managed to steady himself.

  “Gunnery control reports sub sighted broad on starboard bow, range one thousand. Fifteen rounds fired. No hits observed.”

  “Very well.”

  Lieutenant Fippler’s first attempt to kill a man had ended in failure.

  “Did you get the bearing, Mr. Watson?”

  “Only approximately, sir. We were turning at the time.”

  Speak every man truth with his neighbor. Far better to be honest than to pretend to knowledge one did not have.

  “We’re coming to course one nine five, sir,” added Watson.

  “Better make it one eight five.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  The U-boat when sighted had been nearly on the same course as Keeling. Even if she had turned instantly on submerging she would need time and distance to effect the turn. Better head to intercept. And would she turn to starboard or port? Hard to guess. Would she go deep or stay close under the surface? That might be easier to guess.

  “Sonar reports contact bearing one eight zero. Range approximately four hundred yards.”

  “Very well. Come left ten degrees, Mr. Watson. Deep setting, Mr. Nourse.”

  The submarine’s instinct after involuntarily surfacing would be to go deep; and the crew would have the controls jammed over hard already to combat the involuntary movement. And in the thirty seconds between submergence and the explosion of the next charge she would have plenty of time to reach extreme depth. He had to watch Viktor; she was still turning, but she would be late this time in crossing Keeling’s wake.

  “Fire one,” said Nourse into his mouthpiece, and Krause checked himself as he was about to move to the T.B.S. No need to tell Viktor he was attacking. That was self-evident.

  “Fire two,” said Nourse. “K guns, fire.”

  It would take longer this time for the depth charges with their deep setting to explode. A longer time for them to sink to the additional depth, and a more irregular spread with their somewhat random downward fall. Streamlined depth charges would be more effective than clumsy cylinders; they were already in production and Krause wished he had them.

  The boom of the exploding charges was distinctly lower in pitch, distinctly more muffled at this greater depth. Krause heard the last one; he could stand still now during this interval. Buck fever was not so evident.

  “Come right, Mr. Watson.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  There had been a momentary temptation to turn to port instead of to starboard, to change the pattern of the maneuver in the hope of surprising the U-boat, but it could not be done this time; too much chance of meeting Viktor bow to bow. He trained his glasses back over the starboard quarter, looking out over the stained and foaming sea. No sign of anything. The T.B.S. calling him.

  “Eagle to George! Eagle to George!”

  The Englishman in Viktor seemed unwontedly excited.

  “George to Eagle. Go ahead.”

  “You’ve got him, sir! Got him!” There was a moment’s pause again; when the Englishman spoke next he was calmer, almost languid, but with a crude hardness about his nonchalance. “You’ve got him, sir. We’ve just heard him crunch.”

  Viktor had heard the crunch; they had heard the breaking-up noises as the U-boat crumpled under the overwhelming pressure like a piece of paper crushed in the hand. Krause stood silent at the T.B.S. He was a hard man, but his silence was partly due to the thought that two minutes ago, far below the Keeling, fifty men had died a horrible death; quick, but horrible. But in most part his silence was due to the unworded realization that this was a peak in his career; he had achieved the thing for which he had been trained as a fighting man for more than twenty years. He had killed his man; he had destroyed an enemy ship. He was like a student momentarily numbed at hearing he has won a prize. Yet the other realization was present equally unworded and even less conscious; fifty dead men graced his triumph. It was a little as though in a fencing match his foil had slipped past the opposing guard and, instead of bending harmlessly against his opponent’s jacket, had proved to be unbuttoned and sharp and had gone through his opponent’s body.

  “Do you hear me, George?” bleated the T.B.S.

  Krause’s brief numbness vanished at the sound, and he was the trained fighting man again, with rapid decisions to make and an enormous responsibility on his shoulders, a man with a duty to do.

  “I hear you, Eagle,” he said. His dead flat tone disguised the last traces of the emotional disturbance that had shaken him. He was quite normal by the time he had uttered the words. He was searching in his mind for the most appropriate thing to say to the representative of an Allied power.

  “That’s fine,” he said; and as that did not seem adequate he added, “Magnificent.”

  That was an outlandish word. He tried again, a little desperately; the careful wording of some of the British messages he had received welled up in his memory and came to his rescue.

  “My heartiest congratulations to your captain,” he said. “And please give him my best thanks for his wonderful cooperation.”

  “Aye aye, sir.” A p
ause. “Any orders, sir?”

  Orders. Decisions. There were no seconds to waste even in the moment of victory, not with the convoy inadequately screened and a wolf pack prowling about it.

  “Yes,” he said. “Resume your position in the screen as quickly as possible.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  Krause was about to leave the T.B.S. when it demanded his attention again.

  “Eagle to George,” it said. “Eagle to George. Submit I search for proof of sinking.”

  That must be the Polish captain’s reaction when the British liaison officer had reported Krause’s orders to him. Proof was of some importance. Certainty of the U-boat’s destruction would be of help to the staffs in Washington and London writing their appreciations of the situation. And the Admiralty at least, if not the Navy Department, was very insistent upon positive proof before giving credit for a victory; there were jokes that nothing less than the U-boat captain’s pants would satisfy them. His own professional standing, his naval career, depended to some extent on his claim to a success being allowed. But the convoy was almost unguarded.

  “No,” he said heavily. “Resume your place in the screen. Over.”

  The last word was the decisive one. He could turn away from the T.B.S.

  “Mr. Watson, take station in the screen, three miles ahead of the leading ship of the second column from the right.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  There was a faintly puzzled note in Watson’s voice; everyone in the pilothouse was looking at Krause. They had heard something of what he had said on the T.B.S., and this new order seemed to confirm their suspicions—their hopes—but they could not be sure. Krause’s tone had not been enthusiastic.

  “Sonar reports no contact, sir,” said the talker, and Krause realized he had heard that same report several times lately without attending to it.

  “Very well,” he said to the talker and then faced the crowd on the bridge. “We got him. We got him. The Pole heard him crunch after that last pattern.”

  The faces in the shadow of the helmets broke into smiles. Nourse uttered a half-suppressed cheer. Delight was so obvious and spontaneous that even Krause relaxed into a grin. He felt the marked contrast between this and a stilted international relationship.

  “That’s only number one,” he said. “We want lots more.”

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

  “Very well.”

  The whole ship must be told of the victory, and there must be a special word for Ellis. He went to the loudspeaker and waited while the bosun’s mate called the attention of the ship’s company.

  “This is the captain. We got him. Viktor heard him crunch. He’s had it. This was an all-hands job. Well done to you all. Now we’re heading back into screening position. There’s still a long way to go.”

  He came back from the loudspeaker.

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

  Ellis was still doing his duty.

  “Captain to sonar. Discontinue negative reports unless fresh contact is made. Wait. I’ll speak to him myself.”

  He spoke on the circuit to the sonar.

  “Ellis? This is the captain.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You heard we got him?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You’ve been a big help. I’m glad I can depend on you.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “You can discontinue negative reports now.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  The lighthearted atmosphere was still apparent on the bridge. But now all the lookouts were reporting at once. Krause hurried onto the starboard wing of the bridge.

  “Oil, sir! Oil!” said the lookout, stabbing overside with a mittened hand. Krause looked over; dead fish, white bellies showing, and, as well, a long streak of oil; but not very much. The dirty slick patch was not fifty yards across if three times that amount long. He walked through the pilothouse and out onto the port wing. No oil at all was showing there. Back on the starboard wing they were already leaving the patch behind. As it lifted on a roller it barely extended from crest to trough. Krause tried to visualize a wrecked U-boat sinking down into fathomless depths, gliding down as it were on a long slope, very likely. Her fuel tanks being kept full might take a long time to rupture; then there would be a considerable interval before the escaping oil came welling up to the surface. Krause knew from reports he had read that it might be as much as an hour all told. This little patch would be what was present in a nearly empty tank at the moment of disaster. And badly battered U-boats often left a slick of oil behind even though they were still capable of maneuver. Naval Intelligence suggested that they sometimes purposely let oil escape to disarm pursuit. But his first decision still appeared the correct one to him; it was not worthwhile to leave a valuable destroyer circling the spot, maybe for an hour, to make sure of the evidence. He could forget the presence of this oil for now. No. He could make some use of it in a minute or two, when he had more time. First he must put an end to the drain on his battle reserve.

  “You sure got that sub, sir,” said the starboard lookout.

  “Oh yes, sure,” said Krause. The man was not being impertinent. In this moment of victory Krause could let pass the lapse from strict etiquette, especially with so much more on his mind; but he had to think of the safety of the ship. “Keep your mind on your duty, there.”

  He returned to the pilothouse and spoke into the voice tube down to the executive officer.

  “Secure from general quarters, Charlie,” he said. “Set Condition Two, and see if you can manage for some hot chow for the men off watch.”

  “Aye aye, sir,” said Charlie.

  The loudspeaker blared the order through the ship. Now half the men would be able to eat, to rest, to warm up. Krause looked at the clock; circumstances were different from his preceding glances when he was counting minutes. Now he was perceptibly shocked to note the passage of time. It was past thirteen hundred; over four hours since he had been called from his cabin, and nearly three of general quarters. He should not have brought the men to battle stations at all. He was not much better than Carling. But that was water over the dam; no time for regrets at present.

  “Get me a signal pad and pencil,” he said to the messenger beside him; the crowd in the pilothouse was changing with the setting of the watch.

  He tried to write, and the pencil fell from his hand as he applied it to the paper. His fingers were stiff with cold, numb and completely without sensation. Although he had put on his sheepskin coat he still had not put on the sweater and scarf and gloves he should have worn. His hands were freezing, and all the rest of him was bitterly cold.

  “Write it for me,” he snapped at the messenger, irritated with himself. “‘Keeling to Viktor.’ No”—he was watching over the messenger’s shoulder—“spell that with a K. No, not C—K. Just V—I—K. ‘Have sighted oil patch confirming destruction of U-boat. Stop. Many thanks for your brilliant’— two L’s in ‘brilliant,’ damn it—‘cooperation’—C—O—O—P. That’s right. Take that to the signal bridge.”

  When the messenger came back he would send him for his gloves and scarf. Meanwhile he must have another look round at the situation. He went out onto the bridge again. There were fresh lookouts at their posts; relieved men were still leaving the gun positions and making their way along the deck, ducking the fountains of spray and timing their dashes from point to point as the ship rolled. Keeling was approaching the front of the convoy; the British corvette on the left flank was rolling hideously in the heavy sea. The leading line of the convoy was fairly straight; as far as he could see the rest of the convoy was fairly well closed up. Out on the right was the Canadian corvette; it was nearly time to give the order for normal screening stations. Above him came the sharp rattle of the shutters of the lamp as his message was transmitte
d to Viktor. He looked aft and saw her plowing along half a mile astern, rolling deeply in the trough, her odd foremast leaning far over towards the sea, first on one side and then on the other. She was nearly up to station, and he must give that order. He might just as well not have come out here into the cold for all the good he had done, but it was a commanding officer’s duty to keep an eye on his command—and he would not have known any peace of mind until he had done so, duty or not duty. He was just able to relax his hands sufficiently to let the glasses fall from them onto his chest, and he went stiffly back into the pilothouse, to the T.B.S.

  “George to escort. Do you hear me?”

  He waited for the acknowledgments, Eagle to George, and Harry to George, and Dicky to George. Those code names were an excellent choice. Four distinct vowel sounds, impossible to confuse even with serious distortion. He gave the order in his flat voice.

  “Take up normal daylight screening stations.”

  The acknowledgments came in one by one, and he replaced the handset.

  “Signal bridge reports your signal acknowledged by Viktor, sir,” said the messenger.

  “Very well.”

  He was about to send for his extra clothing, but Nystrom, the new officer of the deck who had just taken over, demanded his attention.

  “Permission to secure Boilers Two and Four, sir?” said Nystrom.

  “Damn it, man, you know the routine to be followed when securing from General Quarters. That’s for the officer of the deck to decide without troubling me.”

  “Sorry, sir. But seeing you were here, sir—”

  Nystrom’s blue popeyes registered his distress. He was a young man frightened of responsibility, sensitive to reproach, and slow of thought. The Annapolis standards were not what they used to be, decided Krause, the graduate of twenty years’ service.

  “Carry on with your duty, Mr. Nystrom.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  Dodge was turning away, a mile ahead of Keeling, to take up her station on the right flank. It was almost time for Keeling to turn ahead of the second column from the right. He looked aft; Viktor was already on station, with James moving out to the left flank. He decided to watch Nystrom take the ship into station.