Greyhound (Movie Tie-In)

by C. S. Forester

  “Right full rudder,” he said, and then down the voice tube, “Give me a course to bring me back here.”

  The order had come quickly; as the fencer’s quivering foil circles to meet the disengage and the lunge. And a hundred peacetime “man overboard” exercises had at least imbued his mind with the difficulties of the undertaking and the necessarily instant action that must be taken.

  “All engines ahead one third speed. Make turns for six knots.”

  “Who’s the junior O.D.?”

  “I am, sir,” said a voice out of the darkness. “Wallace, sir.”

  “Get down to the port side quick. Get the lines ready. Put a couple of volunteers into bowlines ready to lower them overside.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  “Hail me the minute you’ve got ’em out.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  Seamanship now; with the rudder hard over, Keeling’s speed was lessening fast. Charlie Cole’s voice up the tube coached him into position; but with the dark object spotted again, he had to swing farther still to bring it on his port side to give it a lee; he had to time his next order exactly as the wind against Keeling’s broadside started moving her down, and the wind acting against her loft forecastle would swing her; he had to allow for that, too. In a “man overboard” exercise they would have a searchlight running, boats ready to lower, a life buoy flare to indicate the spot.

  “All engines back two thirds.”

  “All engines back two thirds. Engine room answers all engines back two thirds, sir.”

  “All engines stop.”

  “All engines stop. Engine room answers all engines stopped, sir.”

  Several difficult seconds now, with Keeling rolling dead in the water, her sonar still pinging, the sound of the sea on her starboard side, the sound of the wind about them almost drowning the small noises that reached them from the port side. Silence in the pilothouse. Then Wallace’s voice from below:

  “All aboard, sir! We got ’em!”

  “All clear overside?”

  “All clear, sir. Ready to go ahead.”

  “All engines ahead standard speed.”

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

  “Left rudder. Meet her.”

  That was a necessary order to carry the stern of the ship clear from the abandoned life raft as they left it behind.

  Keeling came to life again; the unnatural windy stillness was over. Down the voice tube.

  “Where’s Cadena?”

  “Bearing one eight seven, distance two thousand.”

  “Right standard rudder. Steer course one nine zero.”

  Cadena must still be searching for survivors; with that distance and bearing she could not have been heading after the convoy while Keeling made her circle.

  “Objects on the port bow!”

  “Object on the starboard bow!”

  Wreckage, bits of planking, gratings, hatch covers blown from the exploding wreck. No voices. Wallace looming up in the darkness beside him.

  “We got four men, sir. Sent ’em in to the doctor. Two of ’em were burned, but I don’t know how bad. Couldn’t see ’em, sir.”

  “Very well.”

  Perhaps it was very well that young Wallace had not seen the burned men. Krause had seen one or two in his life and never wanted to see another. He must remember that Wallace had done a clean quick job.

  There was the loom of Cadena on the port bow, half a mile away; careful observation necessary to determine which way she was heading; careful helm orders to come alongside within voice range. Krause went to the loud-hailer.

  “Cadena!”

  A faint reply, just audible; the quality indicated a speaking trumpet.

  “Comescort. Keeling. We got four survivors.”

  “We didn’t get any,” said the speaking trumpet.

  “Head after the convoy now. Course eight seven. Look out for stragglers ahead.”

  “O.K.”

  “Left standard rudder. Steer course zero zero zero,” said Krause to the helmsman.

  Due north was a course as good as any. Somewhere in that direction might be the sub he had pursued and depth-charged, more likely there than anywhere else, which did not mean very much. He could sweep in that direction as he headed for the flank of the convoy; he had that much time in which to make up his mind whether to continue to patrol astern of the convoy or go on round ahead of it again.

  “Gunnery control reporting, sir,” said a talker in the darkness, and then into his mouthpiece, “Repeat, please.”

  A few seconds’ delay before the talker spoke again.

  “Gunnery control reports that they believe they made one or two hits firing on the sub the second time, sir.”

  One or two hits; they had not prevented the sub from dashing into the convoy, from firing at least one torpedo, and from submerging when he was about to attack her again. Unless she had sunk when he thought her submerging? No; that would be too good to be true. A five-inch shell could go clean through the fragile superstructure of a sub before exploding, and without impairing her diving qualities in the least.

  “Who is that reporting?”

  “Mr. Kahn, sir.”

  “Very well. Acknowledge the message.”

  Kahn might be right. He might be honestly mistaken. He might be a pushful optimist. It was to his credit that he had waited for a quiet moment before making a report of little present importance. Krause regretfully decided that he did not know enough about young Kahn to be able to form an opinion of his judgment and reliability.

  “How does the convoy bear?” he asked the chartroom.

  “Last ship of the left column on our starboard beam bearing zero eight five, distance three miles, sir. Five five double oh.”

  “Very well.”

  He would sweep back once more across the rear of the convoy.

  “Right standard rudder. Steer course one seven zero.”

  That dark figure newly arrived on the bridge and watching the repeater must be Watson. Now he was stooping over the chart table. Now he kicked something which returned a metallic jangling. Of course—that was the tray with his sandwich and coffee, lying forgotten on the deck! Krause knew instant, raging hunger and thirst again, hunger and then thirst, but the thirst was more acute even if he was only conscious of it secondarily.

  “That’s my tray,” said Krause. “Let’s have it.”

  Watson picked it up and put it on the sacred table.

  “I bet it’s cold, sir,” said Watson. “Let me send for some more.”

  “Messenger. Bring me another pot of coffee. Bring it yourself, not the mess boy.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  But he could not wait for that, not now that he had been reminded of his hunger and thirst. His hands found the coffeepot, still half full. He had not the least idea where the cup had gone, but that did not matter. He put the pot to his lips, stone cold, and drank and drank. He felt coffee grounds in his mouth and swallowed them too. He was wildly hungry; his gauntleted hands felt something that must be the sandwich. He raised it with both hands and bit ravenously. It was as cold as if it had come out of a refrigerator; it was both stale and soggy, but he bit off a huge mouthful and chewed with gusto. Between the slices of bread lay a thick slab of corned beef liberally daubed with mayonnaise, and on the beef lay thick rings of raw onion. Only the onion had any life in it at all now; the mayonnaise had soaked into the inner surfaces of the bread, and his second bite told him that the under slice was wet with slopped cream, and his third bite told him that the upper slice had a wet patch most likely caused by a drop or two of spray coming in through the broken windows. But none of that mattered. The onion rings crunched between his teeth even though the doughy bread adhered in a sticky mass against his palate. He bit and ch
ewed and swallowed in the darkness. At the fourth bite his lips came in contact—with a peculiarly unpleasant sensation—with the fur glove in which he held the sandwich, and the fifth bite recorded the additional flavor of the glove.

  “Pip astern of us!” said the voice tube. “Bearing zero zero five. Range two thousand.”

  “Left full rudder. Steer course zero zero five,” said Krause, the rim of the sandwich still in his left hand.

  That must be the sub they had put down earlier. A desperately persistent fellow. He had been under gunfire; he had been depth-charged, but now he had surfaced and presumably was speeding to overtake the convoy again.

  “Steady on course zero zero five,” said the helmsman.

  “Target’s heading east,” said the voice tube.“Course zero eight five as near as I can make it as yet. Bearing zero zero six. Zero zero seven.”

  “Right smartly to course zero one zero,” said Krause.

  A tactical problem almost identical with what had gone before. To head off the U-boat. To open fire or not? Better to reserve his fire until he was as near as he could be. His first salvo would be the signal for the U-boat to submerge. In this pitch-black night there was more than a chance that he might creep up on him without being seen.

  “Captain to gunnery control. Do not open fire.”

  He went out onto the wing of the bridge. In the silence and the windy darkness it was strange to shout at the top of his voice, ridiculous though it was to be afraid that the U-boat a mile away would hear him.

  “There’s a sub on the surface ahead. Keep your eyes skinned.”

  An incautious step nearly lost him his footing again on the ice-glazed deck, and after he had grabbed at the rail he realized that he had crushed the remnants of his half-eaten sandwich into the furry palm of his glove. That must be a horrible mess; he almost blessed the darkness for concealing it from him. He tried to wipe it on the rail.

  “Target bearing zero zero eight. Range one eight double oh.”

  They were closing in on the U-boat.

  “T.B.S., sir,” said Wallace.

  Dicky and Harry and Eagle were all talking. They had contacts in plenty, fighting a pitched battle ahead of the convoy, while here he was astern again. Yet while he had this contact he could not go to their aid. Would they think the less of him? He did not mind on his own account, but he was fearful of the well-being of the entity that was the escort.

  “Screen’s pretty fuzzy, sir,” said Charlie Cole’s voice up the tube—Charlie had found his way back to the chartroom at a crucial moment as usual. “But the bearing’s pretty nearly constant, I think. Zero zero eight—zero zero seven. Range one six double oh. One five double oh.”

  It would be Keeling’s bow wave that would be first detected by the U-boat’s lookouts. They would see it faint white in the darkness; they would look again. Krause drove his imagination to work on the picture of what they would do next. They would see the bow wave before they would see the ship. They would be able to make a rough guess at her course before they could make out her upper works. That would tell them very nearly all they needed to know; a straggler from the convoy would be holding a course nearly east and not nearly north. And the speed—the twelve knots he was making—would tell them the rest. Keeling would be identified as an enemy, the klaxon horns would sound, and the U-boat would submerge before even Keeling’s upper works had been seen or the U-boat’s listening devices had identified the distinctive beat of her propellers. If he altered course farther to the eastward and reduced speed to eight knots? That might well deceive the enemy while the converging courses brought them closer together. It was with a shock that he pulled himself up at that point. That would also invite a torpedo; in the eagerness of the hunt he was actually forgetting that his quarry carried deadly weapons. He rubbed his nose reflectively and remembered too late about the crushed sandwich. He could feel cold mayonnaise on his nose.

  “Sonar reports contact, sir. Zero zero five. Range indefinite.”

  “Very well.”

  That was an enormous, an immense gain.

  “D’you get the difference in bearing, Charlie?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Charlie.

  There was a chance of lining up the radar with the more accurate sonar.

  “Range one three double oh. Bearing zero zero seven approximately.”

  The fact that the U-boat had permitted an approach as close as this was an indication that her detection devices were not as acute as Keeling’s. Or that her crew was not as alert. Or that her captain was bold. Something more for Naval Intelligence to work out when his report came in.

  “Pip gone, sir!” said Charlie. “Yes. Pip disappeared.”

  The U-boat had at last taken the alarm, then.

  “Sonar reports contact bearing zero zero five. Range twelve hundred yards.”

  They still held the sub in the sonar beam, then. Krause took the telephone and spoke on the battle circuit.

  “Captain speaking. Who’s on the sonar?”

  “Bushnell, sir. And Mannon.”

  Radiomen second class, trained by Ellis.

  “Ellis off watch?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Very well.”

  It was a temptation to call for Ellis and put him to work at the sonar. But better not. A long battle still lay ahead, and Ellis’s fitness was part of that battle reserve which he must not draw upon yet.

  “Sonar reports strong contact. Bearing zero zero zero. Range one thousand.”

  The old game of hide-and-seek again, of catch round the table. To lay Keeling on a course that would intercept the U-boat.

  “Come left smartly to course zero zero zero,” ordered Krause.

  He could only keep his bows directly on the contact until further reports gave him an indication of the U-boat’s course.

  “Steady on course zero zero zero.”

  “Very well.”

  “Sonar reports contact dead ahead. Range eight hundred yards.”

  Keeling was right on the sub’s tail, then. The sub must turn soon; no guessing whether it would be to port or to starboard as yet.

  “Sonar reports contact dead ahead. Range seven hundred yards. Six hundred yards.”

  “He’s stationary, sir,” said an unexpected voice in the background. That must be Pond.

  “Thank you. I was thinking so myself.”

  “Sonar reports contact dead ahead. Range five hundred yards.”

  Was the sub contriving to hang motionless on a cold stratum of water? That was possible. But it was more likely that—

  “Sonar reports no contact, sir.”

  His growing suspicions hardened into certainty. It was a pillenwerfer they had been pursuing. They had been chasing bubbles while the U-boat was escaping. It could not be a question of being too close to the target for the sonar to record; the last report had placed them well outside that limit.

  “Sonar reports no contact, sir.”

  Failure. He had been completely fooled. No, not quite completely, thanks to fortuitous circumstances. If the pillenwerfer had lasted a little longer, continuing to emit its bubbles for another five minutes, he might well have gone on and depth-charged it, and circled back to depth-charge it again, wasting ammunition and time on a phantom. His suspicions until the contact disappeared had not been strong enough to save him from doing that.

  “Right standard rudder. Steer course zero eight zero,” he snapped, and then, down the voice tube, “Where’s the convoy?”

  “Nearest ship bearing zero eight nine, distance four miles.”

  “Very well.”

  “Steady on course zero eight zero.”

  “Very well.”

  He must close up on the left column of the convoy and sweep once more close across its rear.

  “Report when we’re one mile distant.”
r />   “Aye aye, sir.”

  There was movement all about the ship now, shadowy figures entering the pilothouse. The watch was changing, twenty hundred. The hours fled by when filled with action and concentrated thought. A thousand years in Thy sight are but as yesterday when it is past, and as a watch in the night. A figure beside him speaking with Harbutt’s voice and giving an almost invisible salute.

  WEDNESDAY. FIRST WATCH: 2000–2400

  “Report having been relieved, sir. Course zero eight zero. Standard speed, twelve knots. Ship in Condition Two. No unexecuted orders.”

  “Who has the deck?”

  “Carling, sir.”

  “Very well. Get some sleep while you can, Mr. Harbutt.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  “Mr. Carling!”

  “Sir!”

  It was necessary to inform Carling of the tactical situation in case he had not been able to form a clear mental picture from the information he would be given in the chartroom on his way to the bridge; it was necessary to inform him of the presumed position and course of the U-boat, and of the plan to intercept her again. He might have to hand over the conn to Carling at any moment if other matters were to demand too much of his attention. He might fall down in a fit, or further stray bullets might this time find a human target, leaving Carling in control temporarily.

  * * *

  • • •

  “Do you understand?” asked Krause; he had made his sentences as short and as clear as he could.

  “Yes, sir.”

  There was nothing positive in Carling’s tone, all the same. Nor was there any bloodthirsty eagerness. It was possible that Carling was at this moment regretting his choice of a profession. Well, there were good officers and bad. It was a relief to find Charlie Cole reporting to him next.

  “Sections Three and Four have the watch, sir. They’ve all been fed, and Sections One and Two are getting their chow now.”