“How would that pip bear from Dodge?” he asked down the tube. He could have arrived at a fair approximation mentally, and would have trusted it in the heat of action, but now there was time to spare, for a wonder.
“Zero seven zero, range thirteen and a half miles, sir,” replied the plot.
The little ship’s radar antenna was not as lofty as Keeling’s; she could offer no confirmation, then, and certainly there was no chance at present of getting a cross-bearing.
“Very well,” he said.
“If this is a pip, sir,” said the tube, “the range and bearing’s staying constant. It may be the screen.”
“Very well.”
It might be a defect of the radar; on the other hand—he went out onto the starboard wing of the bridge and looked over the quarter. There was a disgraceful amount of smoke rising from the convoy. Captains were calling for an extra knot or two to jockey their ships back into station, and this was the result. With the wind moderating and backing the smoke was rising higher than yesterday; it would mark the position of the convoy for fifty miles. It might easily be in sight of a sub out there, and if that sub was doing an “end around” in consequence, it could easily be maintaining a constant range and bearing from Keeling. What was the use of radar at all if the ships he was supposed to protect announced their presence to enemies far beyond radar range?
There was no bitterness in Krause’s soul as he asked himself that question. He was beyond that stage, just as he was beyond that stage of buck fever. He had matured very considerably during the last day. An excellent upbringing as a child; a sound Annapolis training; long experience at sea; even these were not as important as twenty-four hours at grips with the enemy. He noticed that the gloved hand that he laid on the rail detached a thin sliver of ice; there was a row of water drops along the rail’s lowest curve. A rapid thaw was in progress. The ice was melting from stays and guys. The commission pennant had unfrozen itself and now flapped as it should. He was quite calm even though he had a possible submarine not far outside the range of his guns, and the marked contrast between his condition now and his excitement when yesterday’s first contact was made was not due to the apathy of fatigue.
In the pilothouse the voice tube had an announcement to make to him.
“I can’t see that pip any longer, sir.”
“Very well.”
They continued to churn along diagonally across the front of the convoy. Dodge was plainly in sight on her station beyond the starboard flank.
“Permission granted,” said Carling into a telephone. He caught Krause’s eye and explained. “I’ve given permission to shift steering cables, sir.”
“Very well.”
Krause’s standing orders left that decision to the officer of the deck, and Carling had given permission without consulting his captain, as he was entitled to do. If there were a sub just outside radar range it might not be the best moment to choose. But the change should be made daily, and at the present moment there were no contacts. And it was to Carling’s credit that he had accepted that responsibility; it was possible he had learned something in the last twenty-four hours.
In Keeling’s present position it was easy to get a good view of the starboard half of the convoy; visibility was certainly nine miles now. Through his binoculars Krause could see the ships, various in their paint and design, still trailing astern; close beyond them he could see Viktor’s unmistakable foremast as she rode herd on them. They were gradually closing up. Satisfied, Krause gave the order.
“Time to head back, Mr. Carling,” he said.
“Aye aye, sir.”
Krause pretended unconcern; it was his duty to know how Carling reacted.
“Left standard rudder. Steer course zero six zero,” said Carling.
It had not been a very exacting test, to lay Keeling on a course patrolling back again across the front of the convoy, but Carling had passed it quickly and correctly. If the navy was going to expand as prodigiously as apparently it was going to, Carling might easily be commanding a destroyer in battle in six months’ time—if he lived.
“Steady on course zero six zero,” said the helmsman.
It occurred to Krause that it might be provident to get down to the head again; it was over an hour since he had drunk four cups of coffee.
“Periscope! Periscope!” shouted the starboard lookout. “Starboard beam!”
Krause sprang out, binoculars to his eyes, sweeping the sea on the starboard beam.
“Still there, sir!”
The lookout pointed madly with his hand while staring through his binoculars.
“Zero nine nine! Three miles—four miles!”
Krause trained his glasses slowly outwards; the 8-shaped area of vivid magnification which he saw advanced farther from the ship with the movement of the glasses. He saw it—it was gone—he caught it again, as he balanced with the roll of the ship. The slender gray cylinder sliding along over the surface, with a ripple of white at its base, a thing of immeasurable, serpentlike menace.
“Right full rudder,” he roared, and in the same breath as a fresh thought came up into his mind, “Belay that order! Steady as you go!”
Carling was beside him.
“Make sure of that bearing!” he snapped over his shoulder.
Then, slowly, as if with sneering self-confidence, the periscope very gradually dipped below the surface. The wind passeth over it, and it is gone; and the place thereof shall know it no more.
“One six zero, sir,” said Carling; and then added, honestly, “Couldn’t be sure, sir.”
“Very well.”
Krause stared on through his glasses. He wanted to make certain that the periscope did not immediately reappear for a further look around. He made himself count to twenty slowly.
“You have the conn, Mr. Carling,” he said. “Come to course one seven zero.”
“One seven zero. Aye aye, sir.”
During the time the periscope had been visible Keeling and the submarine had been on practically opposite courses. Krause had belayed his order for an immediate turn to encourage the sub in the idea that the periscope had not been sighted. The last information the sub had was that Keeling was still peacefully heading away from the point of danger; the sub might continue in a fool’s paradise, believing that she had slipped unobserved through the gap between Keeling and Dodge, and thinking that she was heading without opposition for that very important tactical point close in to the convoy and broad on its bow from which she could launch a series of torpedoes at its vulnerable beam.
“George to Dicky! George to Dicky!” said Krause into the T.B.S. “Do you hear me?”
“Dicky to George. I hear you. Strength four.”
“I sighted a periscope a minute ago, distance three to four miles and bearing approximately one six zero from me.”
“Three to four miles. One six oh. Yes, sir,” said a calm Canadian voice.
“It seemed to be heading on course two seven zero, for the flank of the convoy.”
“Two seven oh. Yes, sir.”
“I am now on course one seven zero to intercept.”
“One seven oh. Yes, sir. Here’s the captain, sir.”
An incisive voice made itself heard in Krause’s ear.
“Compton-Clowes speaking.” The Canadian captain was one of the rare examples of a Canadian with a hyphenated name. “My officer of the watch took your data, sir. I am turning to course oh two oh to intercept.”
“Very well.”
From where he stood Krause could see the silhouette of the upper works of the little ship foreshortening as she made the turn. Krause wondered if perhaps a course more directly towards the last known position of the sub might not be forceful. Compton-Clowes apparently thought it would be safer to make sure of an intercepting position, and likely enough he was right. The most important
objective was to drive the sub away from the convoy. To destroy the sub was an important objective but not the only one. Especially—Krause knew just what Compton-Clowes was going to say before he started speaking again.
“If we get into a position to attack, sir,” said Compton-Clowes, “I shall be forced to use single depth charges. My supply is low.”
“So is mine,” said Krause.
The analogy of the handicapped duck hunter who had to shut his eyes before shooting could be carried a little further.
Seeing that only single depth charges could be used, it was as if the duck hunter, with all his previous handicaps, now had to abandon his shotgun for a rifle—for a smoothbore musket.
“We have to turn him away,” said Krause. “Keep him down until the convoy gets by.”
“Yes, sir. My noon report about my fuel will be coming in to you soon.”
“Is it very bad?” asked Krause.
“It is serious, sir, but I wouldn’t say it is very bad.”
It was some sort of comfort to hear that something was only serious.
“Very well, Captain,” said Krause.
Even Krause was aware of a certain unreal quality about the situation, to be carrying on a quiet conversation in this manner while both ships were heading towards a hidden submarine. They might be two bankers discussing the state of the money market rather than two fighting men moving into battle. But hard reality pushed far enough became unreal; nothing more could excite surprise or dismay, just as a lunatic feels no surprise at his imaginings. Physical fatigue played its part in keeping Krause cold and calm—and very likely was doing the same with Compton-Clowes—but mental satiety was more important. Krause was making these opening moves in the battle much as he might go through a ritual game to oblige some children; something that might as well be well done, but in which he felt no passionate personal interest.
“Good luck to us both, sir,” said Compton-Clowes.
“Thank you,” said Krause. “Over.”
He spoke down the voice tube to the plot.
“How long before we cross the sub’s predicated course?”
“Twelve minutes, sir.”
That was Charlie Cole’s voice again. Had two hours elapsed since he had given Cole that order to take two hours’ rest? Perhaps it would be as well not to inquire. If Cole were dead asleep in the deepest bowels of the ship he would hear about the sighting of a periscope, and it would take a great deal to keep him out of the chartroom then.
THURSDAY. AFTERNOON WATCH: 1200–1600
Yet it was likely to be two hours; here was the watch changing. Carling saluting and going through the ritual of reporting being relieved. One thing must be promptly done.
“You have the conn, Mr. Nystrom.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
His weary legs carried him to the loudspeaker.
“This is the captain. You men just coming on watch had better know that we sighted a periscope ten minutes ago. We’re after him now. Keep on your toes.”
He was glad he had secured from battle stations yesterday. Otherwise the ship might have been at general quarters ever since yesterday morning; every member of the ship’s company might be as tired as he was, and that would not be so good. Krause knew that there were men who did not go on even trying to produce their best when they were tired.
On the wing of the bridge he took stock of the situation. Dodge over there would not be very far ahead of the leading ship of the right-hand column of the convoy when the chase came. Nor would Keeling be too far for that matter. It was the same speeding up of time. Leisure at first, and then events moving more and more rapidly, space contracting and time hurrying.
“Sonar reports distant contact bearing one six zero, sir,” said the talker suddenly.
Already? The sub had not followed, submerged, the best course she could have chosen, then.
“Contact ten degrees on my port bow,” said Krause into the T.B.S.
“Aye aye, sir.”
“I’ll take the conn, Mr. Nystrom.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
He was practically on a collision course with the sub, it seemed. It was the first meeting of the blades in a bout with a new opponent. In the old days with his opponent’s foil button in front of the wire of his mask, and the feeling of the first contact running quivering up his wrist and arm, it had been necessary to size up an opponent as rapidly as possible, to gauge the strength of the other man’s wrist, the rapidity of his movements and reactions. Krause was doing the same now, remembering that overlong exposure of the periscope and taking into account this not very suitable underwater course of the sub. The captain of this new sub was not like the man who had shaken off Keeling’s pursuit, and Viktor’s, earlier in the day. He had less finesse and less caution. He might be inexperienced, he might be overbold, he might even be fatigued.
“Sonar reports distant contact bearing one six one,” said the talker.
No need for a helm order as yet, with the bearing so little altered. Better to wait. Nourse was at his side.
“I’d better fire single charges, sir?” said Nourse.
It was a statement with a question mark at the end. Nourse could give his opinion but the responsibility was Krause’s. The handicapped duck hunter had a choice; one shot with a shotgun or six with a rifle. Krause thought of all the patterns Keeling had fired without result. The objective was to keep the U-boat down, slow, blind, and comparatively harmless until the convoy had passed on. But one well-placed pattern might destroy her, and this seemed as good an opportunity as ever might present itself. The temptation was enormous. And then Krause thought of what his situation would be like if he fired all his depth charges now and missed. He would be practically helpless, useless. The objective had not changed.
“Yes. Single charges,” said Krause.
He had forgotten the weariness of his legs and his aching feet; tension had not mounted as rapidly this time but he was tense again, with the need for rapidity of decision.
“Sonar reports—”
“Periscope!” said the other talker breaking in; in the pilothouse they heard the yell from forward at the same moment.
“Forward lookout reports periscope dead ahead.”
Krause put his glasses to his eyes; the port side forty-millimeters just forward of the bridge suddenly began to fire tonk-tonk-tonk. Then nothing for a moment. Krause had just seen the splashes thrown up by the forty-millimeter shells. Then two talkers both began to speak at once.
“Sonar first,” said Krause.
“Sonar reports contact bearing one six four, range two thousand yards.”
“Forward lookout reports periscope disappeared.”
“Gun forty-two opened fire at periscope dead ahead. No hits.”
This U-boat captain certainly had a different technique. He had not trusted his listening instruments. He had not been able to resist taking a peep through his periscope. What would be his reaction at the sight of Keeling’s bows pointing right at him? Helm over, most probably. But which way? On across Keeling’s bows or an instinctive flinching away? The next report might show. And dive deep or stay at periscope depth? Dive deep, most likely.
“Deep setting, Mr. Nourse.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
“Sonar reports contact dead ahead, range fifteen hundred yards.”
She was crossing Keeling’s bows, then. She had probably used left rudder.
“Right smartly to course one eight zero.”
“Right smartly to course one eight zero. Steady on course one eight zero.”
“Sonar reports contact dead ahead, range thirteen hundred yards.”
He had anticipated the U-boat’s movement, then. She had come sharply round. Better lead her another ten degrees more.
“Right smartly to course one nine zero.” Then into the T.B.S. “Con
tact crossing my bows, range thirteen hundred yards. I am turning to starboard.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
“Steady on course one nine zero.”
“Very well.”
“Sonar reports contact bearing one eight zero, range eleven hundred yards.”
Ten degrees to port? Suspicious. If sonar had reported a Doppler effect at the same time it would be more suspicious, though. Wait. Wait.
“Sonar reports contact bearing one seven five, range twelve hundred yards.”
That was it. The sub was circling right away. Keeling’s last turn had been worse than unnecessary; it had increased distance and wasted time. Krause felt a momentary annoyance with himself. But how far round would the sub turn? Lead her or follow her?
“Left standard rudder. Steer course one seven five.” Into the T.B.S. “Contact’s circling. I am turning back to port.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
Dodge was drawing up to her station on the edge of the ring, ready to enter into the combat. The convoy was closing on them steadily. There were many factors to be borne in mind at the same time.
“Contact bearing one seven two, range twelve hundred yards.”
Wait for it. Wait. Wait.
“Contact bearing one six six, range steady at twelve hundred yards.”
She was coming right round, then, and at a very slow speed.
“Left full rudder. Steer course one five five.” Into the T.B.S. “I am still turning to port.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
“Sonar reports contact dead ahead, range one thousand.”
This time he had scored a point. He had closed on his victim by two hundred yards and still had her dead ahead. He must rub the advantage in and anticipate again.
“Left full rudder. Steer course one four zero.”
Round they went in the circle, closing in to the point of equilibrium.
“Dicky to George! Dicky to George! Contact, sir. Bearing oh six four, range one thousand.”
“Come in, then.”
The rat had doubled away from one terrier to head for the jaws of the other. A pity that both terriers were so nearly toothless. Krause watched Dodge steady herself on her new course; saw her swing a trifle and then a trifle more as the desperate U-boat came out of her circle. Quick thinking was necessary. In one hundred and eighty seconds the two ships would be meeting—long seconds when chasing a sub; horribly short when closing on another ship at right angles. He must give way and give way so as to be in the most suitable station for taking up the chase if Dodge’s attack failed.
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