Greyhound (Movie Tie-In)

by C. S. Forester

  “Thank you, Charlie. And will you see that they get some rest after that?”

  “Aye aye, sir. And what about yourself, sir?”

  “I’m not tired yet. Can’t leave the bridge at present. But I want those men fresh for the twelve to four.”

  And Sections One and Two would have their next period off watch after this one curtailed by general quarters before dawn; they must get all the sleep possible now.

  “I’ll see about it, sir. But a lot of them won’t settle down unless I make ’em.”

  “You’ll make ’em, Charlie.”

  “I’ll try, sir.”

  “And get a nap yourself.”

  “I’ll try, sir.”

  “Very well, thank you, Charlie.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Krause peered at the clock. More than fifteen minutes since they had turned away from the pillenwerfer; that spot was now more than three miles behind them, but they would not have closed the convoy by more than a mile as yet. There was time, and urgent need, to get down to the head again. Now that the idea had occurred to him he could not wait a moment.

  “Mr. Carling, take the conn.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  He put on the red spectacles and hurried down the ladder, and brushed through the spun-glass curtain. With his eyes fully accustomed to the darkness he did not want to have to wait a long time to recover his vision when he returned. He groped his way in. He was no sooner there than he heard the bell, and the voice tube.

  “Captain, sir! Radar pip, sir!”

  Carling’s voice came through the tube urgent and loud enough for him to hear it where he was. Delay was unavoidable; it must have been a full minute before he was back in the pilothouse again. His first action was to call down to the chartroom.

  “Captain here.”

  “Pip bearing two one nine. Range eight thousand.”

  “Very well. Mr. Carling, I’ll take the conn. What’s the course?”

  “Zero eight zero, sir.”

  “Right full rudder. Steer course one seven zero. Turn towards the target another time, Mr. Carling.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  Carling had wasted all that time keeping Keeling on a course almost certainly divergent from the sub’s. He should never have gone below, leaving Carling with the conn.

  “Steady on course one seven zero.”

  “Very well.”

  “Pip bearing two one eight—two one seven. Range seven eight double oh.”

  Closing fast, but the bearing changing. The U-boat was crossing Keeling’s bows, heading once more to overtake the convoy, as he had expected. She must have altered course about twelve points to starboard after dropping the pillenwerfer and have surfaced again when she thought all was clear. She was four miles away. At their last meeting he had been on the sub’s starboard bow. A slight alteration of course and he could intercept her again in the same fashion on her port bow. But she had sighted him in time to submerge in safety. It might be better to sneak up from behind her. She might not maintain as efficient a lookout aft as ahead. Dangerous to allow her to get between him and the convoy, but it might bring results. She was four miles away at present.

  “Pip bearing two one six. Range seven five double oh.”

  Krause shut his eyes to consider a problem in trigonometry. Even in the dark that was a help to concentration. He listened to the next bearing and range being called. Down below they would work out the problem for him, but only if he could explain exactly what was on his mind. That would take time, and he still might be misunderstood. With the next bearing and range his mind was made up. He was allowing her to get just a little too far ahead of the safety area. He opened his eyes and gave the order.

  “Left smartly to course one six five.”

  That was McAlister at the wheel—his trick had come round again. It was satisfactory that he had a reliable helmsman even if he had an O.D. who was doubtful.

  “I’m going to try to sneak up behind her, Mr. Carling,” he said.

  “Y-Yes, sir.”

  It was a fact, strange but true, that Carling was not quite clear about the tactical situation, although there was nothing complex about it; it should be perfectly clear to anyone who had been on the bridge for the last half hour. It could not be the complexity; Krause began to realize that Carling’s vagueness was the result of nerves. He was too excited, or too agitated, or—possibly—too frightened to think clearly. Men of that sort existed, Krause knew. He remembered his own buck fever of the morning. His own hand had trembled with excitement, and more than once he had been guilty of sins of omission. Carling might grow hardened; but that desire to sound general quarters this morning—perhaps that might have been evidence of anxiety on Carling’s part to rid himself of the responsibility of being officer of the deck. But there was no more time to waste on Carling. Luckily his mind had been recording the reported ranges and bearings as they came in.

  “Target’s course and speed?” he asked down the voice tube.

  “Course zero eight five, speed eleven knots. That’s only approximate, sir.”

  Approximate or not, it agreed with his own estimate.

  “Where do I cross her wake on this course?”

  “A mile astern of her. More. Less than two miles, sir.”

  “Very well.”

  That was what he was aiming at. The range was steadily closing although the bearing was not constant. Now, once more, gun or depth charge? Gun flashes were blinding. Should he stake his vision at the crucial moment against the chances of a hit? At close range? But with a high sea running and with the range changing as rapidly as he could manage it? He decided against the gun.

  “Torpedo officer on duty.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Young Sand, j.g. He was having woman trouble at home, but he was a steady enough officer to all appearances.

  “Stand by to fire at close pattern. We’ll be going at high speed over the target, so make it real close. And a shallow setting.”

  “Close pattern. Shallow setting. Aye aye, sir.”

  In giving that last order he was taking a further chance. It did not take a sub long to go deep, and a sub surprised on the surface would almost certainly go deep as fast as she could be driven down. He was counting on her not having time to dive far. With a deep setting the charges would explode harmlessly far below her, if his planning was accurate. He wanted them to burst close alongside her.

  He spoke into the telephone.

  “Engineer officer on duty.”

  It was Ipsen who answered. So he was not resting.

  “Captain. Stand by to give us twenty-four knots as soon as you get the signal, Chief.”

  “Twenty-four knots. Aye aye, sir. Sea’s running pretty high, sir.”

  “Yes. It’ll only be for two or three minutes. Just time to work her up, and then we’ll come down to standard again.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  Now for the lookouts. He turned to the talker.

  “Captain to lookouts. I hope to sight a sub on the surface nearly dead ahead soon after our next turn. Keep on your toes.”

  The talker repeated the message with Krause listening.

  “Lookouts answer aye aye, sir.”

  “Sonar on standby.”

  There was always a chance that the U-boat might pick up Keeling’s sonar impulses. For the next minute or two Keeling would be unguarded; that was a risk to be taken, but it would not be for long. Soon the increased speed would both protect her and render the sonar ineffective. The silence that fell as soon as the pinging stopped was uncanny.

  “Target bearing zero eight seven. Range two four double oh.”

  “Left full rudder. Steer course zero eight five.”

  That would allow for the advance during the turn.

  “Target bear
ing zero eight five. Range two five double oh.”

  Dead ahead.

  “All engines ahead flank speed. Make turns for twenty-four knots.”

  “All engines ahead flank speed. Engine room answers twenty-four knots, sir.”

  “Very well.”

  This was the moment. A vast increase in vibration as Keeling began to pick up speed. He went out onto the starboard wing of the bridge into the howling darkness. He was overtaking the sub at thirteen knots. Four or five minutes before he would sight her. Then it would be, say, two and a half minutes before he was on top of her. Ample time for a sub in diving trim to submerge. But he hoped it would be less than that, as he might not be detected immediately, overtaking from right aft. There would not be much time for the sub to go deep or far.

  “Target bearing zero eight five. Range two three double oh. Two two double oh.”

  Keeling was picking up speed. He heard the crash, and felt the shudder as she hit a sea with her port bow. Spray flew at him viciously. She leaped frantically. If the props came out of water he might strip a turbine.

  “Range two thousand. One nine double oh.”

  He could not judge of the visibility; it was only a guess that it was half a mile.

  “One eight double oh. One seven double oh.”

  He gulped. No; it was only a wave top, not the thing he was looking for. With his feet slipping on the treacherous deck, and the grip of his gloved hands insecure on the icy rail, he made himself lean forward with his arms over the pelorus, locking it in his armpits, even though he wanted instinctively to stand upright as if to extend his limited horizon.

  “One one double oh. One thousand.”

  Keeling lurched wildly; he could hear the sea boiling over the main deck below.

  “Sub ahead! Zero zero five! Zero zero five!”

  He saw it on a wave top, something solid in the inky night.

  “Right rudder! Meet her!”

  He saw it again.

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

  The bow was pointing right at it as Keeling hurtled down a wave face and it rose on another ahead. He saw it again. Four hundred yards at four hundred yards a minute. Gone? He could not be sure at first. Sand was beside him; twice Sand slipped on the heaving deck but he was holding on with his arm locked round a stanchion.

  “Fire one! Fire two! K guns, fire!”

  “All engines ahead standard speed. Right standard rudder.”

  Astern the depth charges were exploding in the tossing black sea like lightning in a thunder cloud.

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

  “Very well. Quartermaster, call out your heading.”

  “Passing one one zero. Passing one two zero. Passing one three zero.”

  Keeling, leaning over to the helm, was rolling confusedly with the changing course and the dwindling speed.

  “Passing one one six zero. Passing one seven zero.”

  “Deep setting, Mr. Sand. Wide pattern.”

  “Deep setting, wide pattern. Aye aye, sir.”

  “Stand by.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  “Passing two one zero. Passing two two zero.”

  Keeling was turning to complete the circle, to depth-charge the strip next to the one she had already attacked.

  “Resume sonar search.”

  “Passing one four zero. Passing one five zero.”

  “Sonar reports indications confused, sir.”

  “Very well.”

  The speed was probably still too high in any case, and there was Keeling’s eddying wake to be considered, and the circling whirlpools of the depth charges.

  “Passing one eight zero. Passing one nine zero.”

  She had the sea on her quarter now, and heaved up her stern with a sickly motion, corkscrewing over a sea.

  “Passing two zero zero. Passing two one zero.”

  Was anything happening out there in the black night? A shattered U-boat breaking surface? Or “crunching” far below it? Despairing survivors struggling in the water? All perfectly possible but not likely.

  “Passing two two zero.”

  “Sonar reports indications still confused, sir.”

  “Very well.”

  “Two three zero.”

  Krause was carrying in his mind the diagram of Keeling’s turning circle; he planned to parallel his former course and bomb the strip next to it; there was no knowing, and almost no guessing, what the U-boat’s reaction had been after she had dived and had been depth-charged; she could have turned in any direction and she could have gone to any depth within her limit—but the chances were she had dived as deep as she would dare.

  “Standing by for deep pattern, sir.”

  “Very well. Steady upon course two six seven.”

  “Course two six seven, sir.”

  “Very well.”

  There was nothing whatever to be seen round about.

  “Steady on course two six seven, sir.”

  “Very well.”

  Wait for it. They that wait upon the Lord shall renew their strength.

  “Sonar reports indications confused.”

  “Very well.”

  Hopeless perhaps to expect water and sonar to get back to normal as quickly as Keeling could complete the circle. Now must be the time.

  “Now, Mr. Sand.”

  “Fire one!” said Sand. “Fire two!”

  Thunder and lightning again under water astern. White pillars of water just visible rising in their wake. Wait one minute after the last explosion.

  “Left standard rudder. Steer course zero eight seven.”

  Back again for another parallel sweep.

  “Deep pattern again, Mr. Sand.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  “Sonar reports indications confused.”

  “Very well.”

  “Steady on course zero eight seven, sir.”

  “Very well. Mr. Sand, let ’em have it.”

  Another ellipse of explosions, beside the previous ones. Krause had gone through the course at the antisubmarine school at Casco Bay; he had read, with painful concentration, innumerable classified pamphlets digesting all the British experience acquired in two and a half years of war against submarines. Mathematicians had devoted their talents and their ingenuity to working out the odds for and against scoring a hit on a submerged U-boat. The most sensitive instruments had been devised, and the most powerful weapons developed. But no one had thought of a way yet to reach a U-boat captain’s mind, of making a certainty out of the simple guess as to whether he would turn to starboard or port, go deep or stay shallow. And there was no machinery to supply a destroyer captain with patience and pertinacity and judgment.

  “Right standard rudder. Steer course two six seven. One more deep pattern, Mr. Sand.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  “Steady on course two six seven, sir.”

  “Very well. Mr. Sand!”

  “Fire one,” said Sand.

  With the firing of this pattern it remained to conduct a final sweep. Helm orders to carry Keeling back diagonally over the bombed area, out to the northward, back to the eastward, round again to the south-westward, with the sonar’s impulses seeking out through the depths in an effort to make contact again. And nothing to report—negative, negative, the ship wheeling hither and thither in the darkness, apparently aimlessly now in comparison with her previous orderly runs.

  “Sir!” Sand was on the wing of the bridge with him, looking out into the darkness, with the wind blowing lustily about them, piercing cold. “Sir—do you smell anything?”

  “Smell?” said Krause.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Krause sniffed reflectively, sniffed again, pulling cold air into his nose from t
he hurtling wind. Not easy in those conditions to be sure of smelling anything, especially as, now that he was being really searching about it, he could not help being conscious of the raw onion he had eaten last watch. But it could not be that which Sand was referring to.

  “It’s gone now, sir,” said Sand. “No. There it is again. May I ask Mr. Carling, sir?”

  “If you like.”

  “Mr. Carling, can you smell anything?”

  Carling came out and sniffed beside them.

  “Oil?” he said, tentatively.

  “That’s what I thought,” said Sand. “Don’t you smell it, sir?”

  Oil! That would be an indication that the sub had at least been hard hit. And if there were much of it, a great lake of oil welling up from below and spreading over a mile of sea, it would be practically proof of destruction. Krause sniffed again. He could not be sure—or more definitely, he was nearly sure he could smell nothing.

  “Can’t say that I do,” said Krause.

  “Lookout, there!” hailed Sand. “D’you smell any oil?”

  “Not now, sir. Thought I smelt some a while back.”

  “You see, sir?” said Sand.

  They looked out at the dark water below, hardly visible from the heaving bridge. It was quite impossible to tell in the darkness if there was oil on the surface.

  “I wouldn’t say there was,” said Krause.

  The pleasure it would give him to be sure that there was oil made him particularly skeptical, although—Krause not being given to self-analysis—he was unaware of it and made no allowance for that particular reaction. But the very high standards of proof demanded by the Admiralty undoubtedly influenced him.

  “I don’t think I can smell it now, sir,” said Sand. “But we’ve come a long way since I thought I smelt it first.”

  “No,” said Krause. His tone was quite expressionless because he was set on keeping all emotion out of the argument. “I don’t think there was anything worth mentioning.”

  “Very well, sir,” said Sand.

  Literally (in Krause’s opinion) it was not worth mentioning; it would find no place in his report when that came to be written. He was not of the type to try and claim credit for himself on insufficient evidence. Prove all things; hold fast to that which is good. Yet the possibility was a deciding factor.