In that moment the unnatural silence was ended and Krause became conscious of sounds close beside him, snappings and bangings, and voices. From the wing of the bridge he looked down aft, and what he saw first was a bird’s nest of twisted iron seen dimly through smoke. It was an effort to recall what he should have seen there. The port twenty-millimeter gun tub just abaft the stack was gone, gone. Below it the deck was riven and twisted, with smoke eddying from it, and at the root of the smoke a glimmer of flame visible in the pale daylight, and, just beyond, the torpedoes in their quadruple mount with their brassy warheads. There shot up in Krause’s mind the recollection of the Dahlgren experiment just before the war when it was proved—to the satisfaction of all except those who died—that TNT detonated after a few minutes’ steady cooking.
* * *
• • •
Petty, the damage control officer, hatless and excited, was running to the spot with a team following him. He should not have left his central post. They were dragging hoses. Krause remembered suddenly what was stored there.
“Belay those hoses!” he bellowed. “That’s gasoline! Use foam!”
One hundred gallons of gasoline in two fifty-gallon drums, for the motorboat which Keeling carried. Krause swore a bitter vow that in the future he would have a diesel boat, or else no boat at all; at any rate no gasoline.
Those drums must have burst and the fiery stuff was spreading. The flames were reaching eagerly for the torpedoes.
“Jetison those fish!” hailed Krause.
“Aye aye, sir,” answered Petty, looking up at him, but Krause doubted if he had understood what had been said. The flames were roaring up. Flint, the aging Chief recalled from Fleet Reserve, was there, and looked more sensible.
The convoy was perilously near. He did not dare launch live torpedoes. Krause had been a destroyer officer most of his professional life; for years he had lived with torpedoes in consequence, visualizing their use in every possible situation—save perhaps this one. The old dreams of charging in upon a column of battleships for a torpedo attack had no place here. But at least he was familiar with every detail of the handling of torpedoes.
“Flint!” he yelled, and Flint looked up at him. “Jettison those fish! Get rid of ’em! Launch ’em dead! Lift the tube tripping latches first!”
Flint understood him. He had not been able to think for himself, but he could act when someone thought for him. He sprang through the edge of the flames onto the mount, and went steadily from tube to tube carrying out his instructions. The lifted tripping latches would not engage the torpedo starting lever when the tubes were fired. Tonk! A dull noise, a puff of smoke, and the first torpedo plunged over the side like a swimmer starting a race, but only to dive straight down to the bottom. Tonk! That was the second. Then the third. Then the fourth. They were all gone now. Fifty thousand dollars’ worth of torpedoes tossed deliberately to the bottom of the Atlantic.
“Well done!” said Krause.
The flames were bursting up through the holes in the deck, but one young seaman—in his cold-weather clothes Krause could not determine his rate, but he could recognize him and would remember him—had a foam nozzle in each hand and was playing on the flames from the very edge of the blaze. Other nozzles were appearing now and he could be sure the fire would be smothered. He weighed in his mind the proximity of No. 3 gunhouse’s handling room. No. That was safe. He had many other things to think about. It was only three and a half minutes since the gunfire had ceased, but he had been improperly employed during that time doing his damage control officer’s work. He looked round at Dodge and at the convoy and plunged into the pilothouse.
“Dicky on the T.B.S., sir,” said Nystrom.
There was long enough to note that Nystrom was steady, popeyes and all. His manner still had the faintly apologetic flavor that characterized it at other times and might excite prejudice against him.
“George to Dicky. Go ahead.”
“Submit we turn in to look for survivors, sir,” said the T.B.S.
“Very well. Permission granted. What is your damage?”
“We’ve lost our gun, sir. Our four-inch. Seven dead and some wounded. He hit us right on the mount.”
“What other damage?”
“Nothing serious, sir. Most of his shells went right through without exploding.”
At twenty yards’ range those German four-inch would be traveling at practically muzzle velocity. They would be liable to go right through unless they hit something solid like a gun mount.
“We have our fires under control, sir,” went on the T.B.S. “I think I can report definitely that they are extinguished.”
“Are you seaworthy?”
“Oh yes, sir. Seaworthy enough with the weather moderating. And we’ll have the holes patched in a brace of shakes.”
“Seaworthy but not battleworthy,” said Krause.
Those words would have had a dramatic, heroic ring if it had not been Krause who said them in his flat voice.
“Oh, we’ve still got our Bofors, sir, and we’ve two depth charges left.”
“Very well.”
“We’re going into the oil, sir. Enormous pool of it—it’ll reach you soon, I should think, sir.”
“Yes, I can see it.” So he could, a circular sleek area where no wave top was white.
“Any wreckage?”
“There’s a swimmer, sir. We’ll get him in a minute. Yes, sir, and there are some fragments. Can’t see what they are from here, sir, but we’ll pick them up. It’ll all be evidence, sir. We got him all right.”
“We sure did.”
“Any orders, sir?”
Orders. With one battle finished he had to make arrangements for the next. He might be plunged into another action during the next ten seconds.
“I’d like to send you home,” said Krause.
“Sir!” said the T.B.S. reproachfully.
Compton-Clowes knew as much about escorting convoys as he did, probably more, even despite his recent intensive experiences. Nothing could be spared, not even a battered little ship armed with Bofors and two depth charges.
“Well, take up your screening station as soon as you’ve picked up the evidence.”
“Aye aye, sir. We’re getting a line to the swimmer now, sir.”
“Very well. You know your orders about him.”
“Yes, sir.”
Instructions regarding the treatment of survivors from U-boats were quite detailed; Naval Intelligence needed every scrap of information that could be gleaned from them. Possession had to be taken immediately of every scrap of paper in any survivor’s pocket before it could be destroyed. Any information volunteered was to be carefully noted.
“Over,” said Krause.
The spreading oil had reached Keeling now. The raw smell of it was apparent to everyone’s nostrils. There could be no doubt about the destruction of the U-boat. She was gone, and forty or fifty Germans with her. The Nazi captain had died like a man, even if—as was likely—it was a mere mechanical failure for which as captain he was responsible which had prevented him from diving. He had fought it out to the end, doing all the damage he could. Through Krause’s mind drifted the unsummoned hope that if he had to die he would die in a like fashion although in a better cause, but he would not allow his mind to dwell on such time-wasting aspirations. On the surface the U-boat had fought a good fight, handled superbly, far better than she had been handled under water. That might be a trifle of evidence for Naval Intelligence—the U-boat captain might be a surface ship officer given command of a submarine after insufficient underwater training and experience. Discipline in the U-boat had endured to the end. That last shot she fired, the one that hit Keeling, had been fired by someone with a cool head and iron nerve. Amid that hell of bursting shells, probably with the training mechanism jammed, he had caught Keeling in his sights while th
e U-boat turned and had pressed the firing pedal as his last act before his death. The dead which he slew at his death were more than they which he slew in his life.
Those dead were in Keeling, and he had stood here idle for several seconds when there was so much to be done. Out onto the wing of the bridge to look down on the scene of the damage. The fire was out; patches of foam were still to be seen drifting about the deck with the movement of the ship. Petty was still there.
“Go back to your post, Mr. Petty, and let’s have your report.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
The ship’s damage control system had not stood the test of war; he would have to take some action about that. Two seamen were making their way past the shattered part of the deck carrying a stretcher between them; fastened into it was an inert shape. Seaman Third Class Meyer. Down to the loudspeaker.
“This is the captain. We got that U-boat. The oil from her is all round us now. Dodge has picked up a survivor. We hit her a dozen times with the five-inch. And he hit us. We’ve lost some shipmates. Some have been hard hit.” The sentences were dragging. It was hard to make his mind think of suitable things to say. “It was in the line of their duty. And we’ll make the next U-boat pay for them. We’ve still a long way to go. Keep on your toes.”
It was not a good speech. Krause was no orator, and now once more he was, without realizing it, in the throes of reaction after the extreme tension of the battle, and his fatigue accentuated the reaction. Inside his clothes he was cold and yet sweating. He knew that if he relaxed for a second he would be shivering—trembling. On the bulkhead beside the loudspeaker hung a small mirror, a relic of peacetime days. He did not recognize the face in it—he gave it a second glance for that very reason.
The eyes were big and staring and rimmed with red. The unbuttoned hood hung down beside cheeks that were sprouting with bristles. He still did not think of it as his face until he observed at the base of one nostril a dab of filth—relics of the mayonnaise that had been smeared there so long ago. And there was yellow egg on his chin. He wiped at it with his gloved hand. All round his bristly lips he was filthy. He needed to wash, he needed a bath and a shave, he needed—there was no end to the list of what he needed, and it was no use thinking about it. He dragged himself back into the pilothouse and sank down onto his stool, once more commanding his tired body not to tremble. Next? He still had to go on. The sonar was still pinging; the Atlantic was still full of enemies.
“Mr. Nystrom, take the conn.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
“Take station to patrol ahead of the convoy.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
Petty giving his damage report. Watching Petty’s face as he spoke, concentrating his attention. This was the first time Petty had been tested in action, and it was not fair to judge him finally; and he must put in a word of admonition, but carefully phrased as it would be in the hearing of all in the pilothouse.
“Thank you, Mr. Petty. Now that you’ve had the opportunity of seeing your arrangements in action you will know what steps to take to improve them.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Very well, Mr. Petty.”
Fippler made his gunnery report on the battle circuit. He had counted seven distinct hits in the fifty-odd rounds fired.
“I should have thought it was more,” said Krause.
“It may have been, sir. May have been plenty we didn’t see.”
“But it was good shooting, Mr. Fippler. Well done.”
“Thank you, sir. And number four gun still has a round in the breech. Request permission to unload through the muzzle.”
That was one way of asking permission to fire the gun off. A round left in the heated gun was too dangerous to unload in the ordinary way, and as a result of the chemical changes caused by the heat it would be unreliable in action. Krause looked round him. A sudden unexpected gun going off might puzzle the convoy but could hardly alarm them further than they had been alarmed already.
“Permission granted, Mr. Fippler.” Think of everything; keep the mind concentrated so as to miss no detail. “Send someone first to warn the ship over the loudspeaker about what you’re going to do.”
“Aye aye, sir. Thank you, sir.”
It might alarm the convoy, but the sudden unexpected crash of a gun might well disturb the ship; false alarms were to be avoided if possible for fear of blunting the edge of the men’s attention.
Now he could get down to the head. He did not know how many hours it was since he had thought he should do that as a precautionary measure; now it was something of the most urgent and pressing importance. He heard Fippler’s warning being given over the loudspeaker as he went down the ladder, but it did not register because he was now having to grapple with the problem of whether or not to break radio silence and inform London of the growing helplessness of his command. That was a problem calling for so much thought that he had no attention to spare for anything else, with the result that he forgot all about his recent conversation with Fippler and while still in the head he was taken completely by surprise by the crash of number four gun going off. The sudden galvanization into tension, the reaction from it when he remembered the actual state of affairs, and his annoyance with himself—his shock that he could have forgotten so quickly—left him shaken again. But he deliberately took two more minutes away from the bridge, and washed his face and hands, soaping and rubbing vigorously. That made him feel considerably better. He actually remembered to pick up his hood and gloves before setting himself to make the weary climb back up the ladders to the bridge.
THURSDAY. DOG WATCHES: 1600–2000
The watch was changing as he began the ascent with painful feet and aching legs; the ladders were crowded with men climbing up and men coming down. They were chattering and talking animatedly to each other like schoolboys between classes; perhaps the recent exciting events had keyed them up, but they showed no sign of weariness.
“Did you hear the Kraut?” asked one young seaman loudly. “He said—”
Someone else caught sight of Krause on the ladder and nudged the speaker into silence as they made way for their captain.
“Thank you,” said Krause, pushing past them.
He had been nearly sure before this that on the lower deck he was known as the Kraut. Now he knew. It was inevitable that he should have that nickname. It was only among the officers that he was known by his Annapolis nickname of Squarehead Krause.
In the pilothouse two men turned to salute him; Charlie Cole of course and Temme, the doctor.
“You got him all right, sir,” said Cole.
“Yes, we did, didn’t we?” said Krause.
“Reporting casualties, sir,” said Temme, and then, glancing down at the scrap of paper he held, “Three killed. Gunner’s Mate Third Class Pisani, Seaman Second Class Marx, Mess Attendant Second Class White. All of them badly mutilated. Two wounded. Seaman Second Class Bonnor, Seaman Third Class Meyer. Both of them hospital cases. Meyer has it badly in both thighs.”
“Very well, Doctor.” Krause turned to receive Nystrom’s salute and statement that Harbutt now had the deck. “Very well, Mr. Nystrom.”
“I’ve prescribed something for you, Cap’n,” said Cole, “in consultation with Doc.”
Krause looked at him a little stupidly.
“Something on a tray, sir,” said Cole.
“Thank you,” said Krause in all gratitude, the thought of coffee rising in his mind like sunrise. But Cole obviously had more to say and the doctor was obviously waiting to support him in what he had to say.
“About the funerals, sir,” said Cole.
Certainly the thought of burying the dead had not crossed Krause’s mind.
“Doc here thinks—” said Cole; with a gesture he brought Temme into the conversation.
“The sooner they’re buried the better, sir,” said Temme. “I’ve no
room for corpses down below. I’ve four other bed cases, you know, sir, the survivors from the burning ship.”
“We may be in action again anytime, sir,” said Cole.
Both statements were perfectly true. A destroyer, as full of men as an egg is of meat, had no space to spare for mutilated bodies. Temme had to consider the likely possibility of having dozens more casualties on his hands.
“The exec tells me it may be three days or more before we reach port, sir,” said Temme.
“Quite right,” said Krause.
“On the table, there, messenger,” said Cole.
The “something on a tray” that they had prescribed had arrived. The three of them moved over to the table. A quick gesture by Cole sent the quartermaster and the messenger away out of earshot. Krause lifted the napkin; there was a full meal there. Beside the pot of coffee was a plate of cold cuts painstakingly arranged, bread already buttered, potato salad, a dish of ice cream. Krause looked at it all not entirely comprehendingly—at everything except the coffee.
“Please, sir,” said Cole, “eat it while you’ve time. Please, sir.”
Krause poured himself coffee and drank, and then mechanically picked up the knife and fork and began to eat.
“May I arrange about the burials, sir?” asked Cole.
The burials. Krause had heard about the deaths of Pisani and Marx and White without emotion, too involved at that time with other problems and too encompassed by distractions for those deaths to affect him. Now he found himself eating with this discussion going on. Pisani had been young and dark and handsome and vital; he remembered him perfectly well. But the convoy had to go through.
“We’ve nearly two hours more of daylight, sir,” said Cole. “And I can get it all set in ten minutes while you’re eating your dinner. We might not have another chance.”
Krause rolled an eye on him while chewing a mouthful of cold meat. Before he become captain of his own ship, while still head of a department, he had done his share of prodding or luring a dilatory captain into giving necessary orders. That was what was happening to him at this moment. The discovery, in his present condition, affected him more than the thought of the dead men. It stiffened him.
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