Greyhound (Movie Tie-In)

by C. S. Forester

  “Sonar reports contact bearing zero seven seven,” said the talker.

  He and Viktor were in touch with one U-boat; at any minute a false move by her captain might mean her destruction. Behind him men were dying in the night, the victims of cold-blooded sharpshooting. He had to choose; it was the most painful moment he had ever known, more painful than when he had heard about Evelyn. He had to leave those men to die.

  “Depth charges away,” said the T.B.S.

  If he abandoned the present hunt he could not be sure of making contact with the other U-boat; in fact it was most doubtful that he would. And she had done her damage for the present.

  “Sonar reports contact confused,” said the talker—that was Viktor’s depth charges exploding.

  He might save some lives; he might. But in the darkness and confusion of the disordered convoy even that was unlikely, and he would be seriously endangering his ship.

  “I am turning away to port,” said Viktor.

  “Very well.”

  The U-boat which had done the damage would now be harmless for a short space at least while reloading her tubes. It was humiliating, it was infuriating that he should find comfort even for one moment in such a thought. Fighting anger and baffled rage surged up inside him, a yearning to run amok, to hit out wildly. He could feel the tension rising within him. He could lose all patience and see red, but twenty-four years of discipline saved him. He imposed self-control upon himself; Annapolis might have taught him that, or perhaps his much-loved father in his boyhood. He forced himself to think as coldly and as scientifically as ever.

  “Sonar reports contact bearing zero six eight.”

  “Left smartly to course zero six four. George to Eagle. I am turning to port to intercept.”

  Men were dying behind him, men he was supposed to protect. What he had to do was to solve little trigonometrical problems in his head quickly and accurately, and give his orders calmly, and issue his information intelligibly, and anticipate the submerged U-boat’s movements as freshly and as rapidly as he had done ever since yesterday. He had to be a machine that did not know emotion; he had to be a machine that did not know fatigue. He had to be a machine uninfluenced by the possibilty that Washington and London might think him a failure.

  “Sonar reports contact bearing zero six six, range one thousand,” said the talker. “But it sounds like a pill, sir.”

  If it were a pill which way was the U-boat turning? What depth would she take up? He applied himself to those problems while the men in the convoy died. He gave his two hundredth successive helm order.

  * * *

  • • •

  The darkness was not as impenetrable now. The white wave tops could be seen overside, and even as far ahead as the bow from the wing of the bridge. Day was creeping towards them from the east, an unutterably slow transition from black to gray; gray sky and gray horizon and a slate-gray heaving sea. Weeping may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning. It was not true. The heavens declare the glory of God. These heavens? As Krause noted the coming of the light the well-remembered verses came up into his mind—they had come up in his mind in the old days of Pacific and Caribbean sunrises. Now he thought of them with a bitter, sardonic revulsion of mind. The shattered convoy on the flank; the frozen corpses on the life rafts; the pitiless gray sky; the certainty that this agony was going to endure until he could bear it no longer—it was more than he could bear already. He wanted to throw in his hand, to cast aside all thought of his duty, his duty to God. Then he drew himself back from the temptation.

  “George to Eagle. I am holding my course. Keep clear.” His voice was as flat and as precise as ever.

  The fool hath said in his heart, There is no God. He had nearly said that too, while he could still square his shoulders and while his aching legs could still carry him to the T.B.S.

  “Contact bearing zero six seven, range eleven hundred yards.”

  “Very well.”

  One more attempt to destroy the hidden enemy. And not one more only; dozens, hundreds if necessary. While Keeling moved in to the attack, while the talker repeated the ranges, there was time to bow his head. Cleanse Thou me from secret faults.

  “Stand by for deep pattern, Mr. Pond.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  Balked by the U-boat’s turn; helm orders to get into position again; orders to Viktor to head her off. Let us not be weary in well doing.

  The wind was still blowing, the sea was still rough, Keeling was still corkscrewing and rolling and pitching. It was as if he had been in that gale and balancing upon that heaving deck for a hundred years. His darkness-accustomed eyes were gradually aware of the interior of the pilothouse—for hours he had seen nothing of it except for one or two glimmering dials and the quartermaster’s red flashlight. Now he could see it; the shattered windows—one pane with a clean bullet hole but the rest in splinters; fragments of glass over the deck; and his discarded trays—a cup here, a napkin, trampled and dirty, there.

  “Get this mess cleaned up, Mr. Harbutt.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  And there was something strange about Keeling’s appearance in the growing light. Her upper works were coated with ice, frosted white. Stanchions and stays, torpedoes and lifelines, ice was over them all. The commission pennant at the masthead instead of streaming in the wind was frozen in an untidy loop against the halyard. He could see Viktor now, after this long night of talking with her over the T.B.S. I have heard of Thee by the hearing of the ear, but now mine eye seeth Thee. She stood out white against the gray with the ice upon her also. Now he could actually see her making the turn she had just announced to him over the T.B.S. He had to make the corresponding move; now he could judge it by eye in confirmation of his mental trigonometry.

  “Left standard rudder. Steer course zero six zero.”

  It might certainly be called daylight now. At this time yesterday he had secured from general quarters. Today he had saved his men that fatigue. Was that only yesterday? Was it only last evening that those bullets had ripped through the pilothouse? It might well have been last year. And at this time yesterday he had been able to get below; he had eaten bacon and eggs and filled himself with coffee. He had said his prayers and he had had a shower. Unbelievable happiness. It reminded him that during the twenty-four hours since that time he had taken nothing except a sandwich and a half and a few cups of coffee. And he had been on his feet nearly all that time too; he was on them at this moment. He shuffled—he could not walk—to the stool and sat down again, the muscles of his legs throbbing painfully as they relaxed. Palate and throat were dry; he felt nauseated and hungry at the same time. He watched Viktor moving in; he listened to the reports from the talker.

  “Permission to light the smoking lamp, sir?” asked Harbutt.

  Krause’s mind struggled out of his concentration like a man with his feet embedded in a bog.

  “Permission granted. Meet her, Quartermaster! Steady as you go.”

  “Now hear this, hear this,” began the loudspeaker, broadcasting the permission he had just granted. Harbutt had a cigarette in his mouth and was filling his lungs with smoke, breathing deeply as if he were inhaling the air of Paradise. And all over the ship, Krause knew, the men whose duty kept them on deck were happily lighting cigarettes and breathing them in; through the night no one had been able to smoke whose post of duty was such that match or glowing cigarette could be seen by an enemy. Whiffs of cigarette smoke drifted past his nostrils, wafting with them a momentary memory again of Evelyn. She had smoked—she had been a little puzzled, almost amused, by the fact that her husband did not do so. Coming back from duty to the little house at Coronado he had always been conscious, on first entering the door, of the faint aroma of cigarette smoke combined with the tiniest hint of the perfume Evelyn used.

  “Sonar reports contact bearing zero six four, range eleven hundred yar
ds.”

  The U-boat captain had outwitted him again, turning to starboard when he planned to head him off on a turn to port. It would call for a long circle to get at him again. He gave a careful order to the quartermaster and conveyed the information to Viktor.

  “Messenger! Ask the signal bridge if they have Comconvoy in sight yet.”

  Innumerable things to do even while he was wheeling about trying to kill a U-boat which would kill him at the first opportunity. Another turn; Viktor had been unable to come round sharply enough to depth-charge the U-boat; it might be possible for Keeling unless the U-boat captain did the right thing at the right time—as he had done repeatedly before.

  “You timing that, Mr. Pond?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Contact bearing zero five four, range eight hundred yards.”

  Missed again; the U-boat’s smaller turning circle had saved her. Ten degrees on Keeling’s bow meant the U-boat was magically safe from her with both vessels turning as hard as they could.

  “Eagle! This is George. Ten degrees on my port bow, range eight hundred yards, turning fast.”

  “Our asdic’s got her on an indefinite range. We’ll come in on her, sir.”

  “Very well. I’ll come round to starboard. Over. Quartermaster! Right standard rudder. Steer course zero nine five.”

  “Right standard rudder. Steer course zero nine five, sir.”

  The messenger was hovering beside him.

  “Signal bridge reports Comconvoy in sight, sir. Message just coming in. Long message, sir.”

  “Very well.”

  And here was pink-faced Dawson, the communications officer, freshly shaved and spruce, with his clipboard of messages.

  “Anything important, Mr. Dawson?”

  “Nothing special, sir.” Thank God for that. “Except the two weather forecasts, sir.”

  More freezing weather? Snowstorms? Gales?

  “What do they say?”

  “It’s going to moderate, sir. By twenty hundred wind south to southwest force three.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Dawson.”

  As Krause turned to the T.B.S. the fleeting thought passed through his mind that Dawson now would be going down to the wardroom and would have breakfast. Ham and eggs, probably, and buckwheat cakes, a stack swimming in syrup. . . . And coffee, gallons of coffee.

  “She’s doubled round the other way, sir,” said the T.B.S. “We’re turning to port, course oh six oh, sir.”

  “Very well. Keep after her. I’ll come round onto your starboard quarter. Over. Right standard rudder. Steer course one two five.”

  “Right standard rudder. Steer course one two five, sir. Steady on course one two five.”

  “Very well.”

  The ranges and bearings reported by the talker were being noted by his mind as they came in. For the moment Keeling was not the active pursuer; Viktor had taken over that role and he was jockeying Keeling into position to charge in again if Viktor were balked. In this comparatively passive role—although they were likely to exchange at any moment—he had more leisure than when hot on the U-boat’s heels. More leisure, even though that was not a great deal, but time at least to take the signal pad from the waiting messenger from the signal bridge. Even time to feel, before his eyes focused on it, a feeling of sick apprehension in his stomach while he prepared to read.

  COMCONVOY TO COMESCORT. KNOWN LOSSES DURING NIGHT—

  Four names staring at him in the signalman’s ill-formed print; he went on to read that the convoy was straggling badly and that the list might not be complete. Cadena had saved some lives. Comconvoy went on to submit that it was necessary to cover the rear of the convoy in consequence of straggling.

  CHANCE OF PICKING UP SURVIVORS.

  “Eagle to George! Eagle to George! She’s still going on round. You’ll be crossing her bows, sir.”

  “Very well. I’ll attack.”

  Krause waited for a range and bearing. He did trigonometry in his head and thought about the U-boat skipper.

  “I’ll come in on course one two zero. Over. Left smartly to course one two zero.”

  But the next bearing told him that the submarine was turning back in the opposite direction.

  “Right rudder—handsomely.”

  He had been going to give a course when inspiration came to him, and then inspiration was confirmed by the next bearing that came in.

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

  “Sonar reports contact dead ahead, close range.”

  Inspiration and prompt action had brought its reward; he had this elusive fellow right under his bows. It had been not a feint but a double feint and he was lunging past the disengaged foil.

  “Mr. Pond!”

  “Standing by, sir.”

  “Sonar reports no contact, sir.”

  “Fire one!” said Pond. “Fire two!”

  Down went the depth charges, and the first deep rumble and lofty pillar of water marked the descent of the first. Sonar, accurate and sensitive though it was, had many serious defects. It could make not even a rough estimate of the depth of the pursued submarine, it gave no results at a closer range than three hundred yards, it could only be used at speeds of twelve knots or less, and it was deafened for several minutes by depth charge explosions. A destroyer captain was under the same handicap that a duck hunter with a beautiful hard-hitting gun would be with weights on his wrists to slow down his swing, with no power of estimating the height of the flying duck, and having to shut his eyes two seconds before he pulled the trigger and keep them shut for half a minute afterwards.

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

  The deficiencies of sonar should be made good one way or another; improvements in design might make it more robust; it should not be difficult to devise a gun or a sling that would throw a depth charge a quarter of a mile ahead—but then the depth charge would go off just as the destroyer was over it and it would blow the bottom out of her.

  “Steady on course two one zero.”

  “Very well.”

  These thunderous explosions, those volcanoes of water had brought no results. Not one of the four depth charges in that pattern had burst within the necessary twenty yards of the hidden target. Viktor was coming round to take up the attack, and the messenger from the signal bridge was still at his elbow. Krause had a brief interval available in which to divert his weary mind from the problem of fighting an individual U-boat to a consideration of the welfare of the convoy as a whole; he could reread that horrible message. A chance of picking up survivors; a chance—the torpedoings had been some hours ago and they would be many miles behind. If they were on life rafts they would be dead now in this tossing icy sea. If they were in boats—no, it would take even a destroyer all day to go back, search for them, and rejoin the convoy.

  “Eagle to George. We’ve got her ten degrees on our starboard bow, sir.”

  “Very well. Come on round after her.”

  Cover the rear of the convoy? He wished he had a ship to spare to do that. Four names on that list of the lost; that made six ships out of the convoy which had been sunk during this twenty-four-hour battle. Dead men by the hundred. And of the enemy one probable sinking and one faintly possible. Would Washington think that was a profitable exchange in this bloody game of beggar-your-neighbor? Would London? Would Doenitz, in his casemated advance headquarters at L’Orient? No matter what anyone thought, was it basically profitable? And no matter even then; he had his duty to do, whether it was a losing phase of the war or a winning one. He could only go on, fight on to the end of his strength.

  “Eagle to George. Attacking now.”

  Range and bearing from the talker, noted automatically by the weary mind. Lieutenant Fippler, the gunnery officer, awaiting his attention—what could he want? Viktor’s first depth charge wa
s exploding.

  “Come right handsomely. Meet her! Steady!”

  Keeling’s bows were pointed at the fringe of the area of tortured water, to lose no time in making the next attack if one was possible. And still he held the message pad in his hand, and still the wind blew—no sign of moderating as yet—and still Keeling rose and plunged and corkscrewed over the heaving sea. He handed back the message pad.

  “Very well,” he said. There was nothing else to say in that respect. He was doing all he could. This is the day which the Lord hath made.

  “Stand by, Mr. Pond!”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  The next bearing showed that the U-boat had turned aside, as was to be expected.

  “Right standard rudder. Steer course—three two zero.”

  Krause was just conscious of that hesitation in his order, and was indignant with himself as far as there was time to be. He had had to glance at the repeater before giving that course; with these distractions he had not been able to carry the tactical situation in his head.

  “Sonar reports no contact, sir.”

  “Very well.”

  “Fire one!” said Pond.

  Krause turned to Fippler now. Those seconds while the pattern was being fired, while the depth charges tumbled down through the dark water, were for Krause moments of freedom when he could turn his mind to other matters. He need not grow expectant or hopeful about the result of the attack until the depth charges had had time to burst and the sub had had time to give evidence of damage—if she was damaged.

  “Well, Mr. Fippler?”

  He raised his hand in reply to Fippler’s salute. Fippler was being very formal; not a good sign.

  “If you please, Cap’n, I have to report about the consumption of depth charges.”

  Depth charges were exploding behind them at this moment.

  “Well?”

  “Thirty-four expended, sir. This pattern makes thirty-eight.”

  In the last twenty-four hours Keeling had flung more than seven tons of high explosive over the side.