“I shall have to take the service,” he said, coldly.
“Yes, of course, sir,” agreed Cole.
It would never do for the captain to be lounging on his stool in the pilothouse while someone else buried the ship’s dead. The profoundest respect must be paid to the poor relics of the men who had given their lives for their country.
“Very well, then, Charlie,” said Krause. Those were official words, and with them he took a fresh grip on the reins which Cole might have thought were lying loosely in his hands. “You may give the necessary orders. Thank you, Doctor.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
Knife and fork in hand, he could not return the salutes; he gave a sideways nod of his head. The food was very important to him at this moment. He was desperately hungry. He finished the cold meat, the bread, the salad, and he had begun on the ice cream as Cole’s voice made itself heard over the loudspeaker, announcing that the dead would be committed to the deep from the main deck aft, detailing who should be present from each man’s division, and adding a few really well chosen words about the rest of the ship’s company marking the solemnity of the occasion by remaining at their posts of duty. Krause thought about another pot of coffee. The men were dead; the first men who had died under his command. In war men died and ships sank.
Actually Krause was both too weary and too harassed with other problems to feel any emotion about men meeting the fate that he was ready to meet himself. But in a moment of horrible clarity he thought of himself as cold and indifferent, and there was a lightning stab of pain when he thought of how his coldness and indifference must have hurt warmhearted Evelyn.
“All set, sir,” said Cole, saluting.
“Thank you, Charlie. Stay here while I’m down on the main deck.”
Down the ladders again, forcing himself to forget Evelyn, forcing himself to forget how his feet hurt him, forcing his mind to abandon for the moment the problem of breaking radio silence and to apply itself to arranging the necessary sentences in his mind. The three stretchers at the ship’s side; the flags over them; and, with the waning day, a thin gleam of pale sunshine breaking through from the western horizon. The sonar pinging on monotonously as he spoke. The realization that Cole had done an excellent job of organization as the men bent to lift the inboard ends of the stretchers and as the beat of the propellers ceased for a few seconds when the stretchers were tilted and the bundled-up shapes slid out from under the flags—Cole must have been watching from the bridge to give the signal at the right time. The wind blowing through his cropped hair as he stood bareheaded and three men stepped forward with rifles at Silvestrini’s command to fire three small volleys over the boundless sea. Then back again, up the heartbreaking ladders with feet that had to feel for the rungs, dragging himself up to the pilothouse.
“Thank you, Charlie. Well done.”
Lifting his binoculars immediately to his eyes to look round him and take note of the condition of his command. What he had been dong was undoubtedly in the line of duty, but he felt uneasily that he might have been better employed although he could not say how. He swept the horizon aft of the ship with his glasses; visibility was improving steadily. The convoy appeared to him in fair order, although the commodore had the eternal signal flying “Make less smoke.” Dodge and James were up to station, leading on either flank. Somewhere astern of the convoy was Viktor; with the convoy interposed he could not be sure he saw her, but he fancied he could at times see that odd foremast against the pale sunset. The weather forecasts had been really accurate; here was the wind down to force three, southwesterly. That would be of considerable importance with regard to the corvettes’ urgent need of fuel. Tomorrow with luck he could expect air cover, and with the ceiling as high as this the cover would be really effective. He hoped London would appreciate his need.
Night was taking much longer to fall than it had yesterday, thanks to the thinness of the cloud cover, and daylight would come appreciably earlier tomorrow morning, he hoped. At even thou shalt say, Would God it were morning. Those two faint lights against the western sky were not stars. They were—
“Rockets in the convoy!” shouted the after lookout. “Two white rockets right astern!”
Krause stiffened out of the easy mood into which he was nearly falling. Rockets meant trouble; two white rockets meant a torpedoing, unless it was a false alarm set off by some panicky captain. There was a long moment during which Krause hoped it was a false alarm. Viktor was somewhere close to where the trouble was. He had to decide whether he should turn about and go to help her; there was no question of sending either corvette with their limited fuel supply.
“Commodore signals general alarm, sir,” said the signal bridge down to him.
“Very well.”
There were powerful arguments against turning back. Night would be falling before he reached there. He would be astern of the convoy again, with all the prolonged delay before he could rejoin it, especially if the convoy were to get into serious disorder. Whatever mischief a U-boat might do had by now been already done; he could not remedy that. Nor could he hope to avenge it with his small remainder of depth charges. He might pick up survivors—but Cadena and Viktor were on the spot and he would not be there for half an hour. But what would the men on board the convoy think of him if they saw him placidly steaming along ahead of them while their comrades died astern? He went to the T.B.S. Dodge and James answered promptly enough; they were aware of trouble in the convoy and asked for orders; he could only tell them to stay on station. But he could not raise Viktor on the circuit at all. He said “George to Eagle. George to Eagle. Do you hear me?” and received no reply. Viktor was ten miles away—possibly more by now—and it was quite possible that she could not hear. It was faintly possible that her hands were so full she had no time to reply, but it was hardly likely. Krause stood holding the handset yearning inexpressibly to hear one single word even from that nonchalant English voice. The commodore was blinking away, his light directed straight at Keeling; it must be a message for him. And it must be urgent, for it was almost too dark for Morse messages to be safe. The commodore was taking a chance transmitting in these conditions, and the commodore was not the sort of man to take chances.
Someone came dashing down from the signal bridge with the pad.
COMCONVOY TO COMESCORT. CADENA REPORTS VIKTOR HIT.
“Very well.”
No more indecision.
“I’ll take the conn, Mr. Harbutt.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
“What’s your heading?”
“Zero nine three, sir.”
“Right full rudder. Steer course two seven three. Mr. Harbutt, the commodore tells me Viktor has been hit; she’s somewhere astern of the convoy. I’m going back to her.”
“Steady on course two seven three, sir.”
“Very well. All engines ahead flank speed.”
“All engines ahead flank speed. Engine room answers all engines ahead flank speed, sir.”
“Very well.”
Just time to get to the T.B.S. and tell Dodge and James what he was doing.
“You’ll have to cover the front as well as the flanks,” he added. “Go easy with the fuel.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
Convoy and Keeling were rushing at each other. There was still light enough in the western sky to silhouette the ships against it; but aft the sky was already dark and it was quite possible they would not see Keeling approaching. And they were in disorder. Ships were out of station; there were no safe lanes through the convoy. And the ships would be moving unpredictably, avoiding danger or trying to regain station. But he must go on. Viktor was hit. He felt overwhelming sorrow at the thought, even while he stood, poised and ready and keyed up. The sorrow would only endure for a few seconds before it was thrust aside by the urgencies of the moment.
Napoleon long ago in the heat of battle had hea
rd of the death of a favorite soldier and had said, “Why have I not time to weep for him?” Krause had fifteen seconds in which to feel sorrow. Then—
“Right rudder. Meet her. Left rudder. Meet her.”
Keeling was plunging for the gap beside the commodore. She had to snake past her. The gap was widening.
“Right full rudder!”
The ship behind was sheering across. A rapid calculation of the distance of the dark shape beyond. Keeling leaned over as she turned.
“Meet her! Steady as you go! Left rudder, handsomely. Meet her. Left rudder. Meet her.”
Keeling sped across the bows of one ship and across the stern of another, and then down alongside a dark shape. They were through.
“All engines ahead standard speed.”
“All engines ahead standard speed. Engine room answers all engines ahead standard speed, sir.”
“Very well.”
Minutes were precious, but he must have Keeling going slow enough now for the sonar to be effective.
“Resume sonar search.”
“Object on the starboard bow! Close!”
Object? Periscope? Krause sprang out with his glasses to his eyes. There was still the faintest twilight. The object was a fragment of a ship’s lifeboat, just three or four feet of the shattered bows, almost awash. A man was lying there, face upturned, arms outspread, but alive; Krause could see him trying to lift his head to see what was approaching. Next second Keeling’s bow wave struck it, washing high over the face. Krause saw it again as it passed down the side of the ship. Waves washed over it again. That dim shape out there must be Cadena. Forget that just visible face with the waves flowing over it.
“Eagle on the T.B.S., sir,” said Harbutt.
Eagle? Viktor on T.B.S.? A thrill of hope; Krause picked up the handset.
“George to Eagle. Go ahead.”
“We’ve got it in the engine room, sir,” said the lackadaisical English voice. “Cadena’s standing by. She’s taking us in tow.”
“I have Cadena in sight,” said Krause.
“Well, we’re just beside her, sir. Engine room’s flooded and all power lost. We’ve just rigged this jury battery circuit for the radio telephone.”
“One moment. Mr. Harbutt! That’s Cadena there taking Viktor in tow. Circle them at half a mile.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
Back into the T.B.S.
“I am patrolling round you at half a mile.”
“Thank you, sir. We’re doing our best to save her.”
“I am sure you are.”
“The bulkheads are standing up to it pretty well, sir, and we’re shoring them up. Trouble is there are plenty of leaks in the other compartments too. We’re dealing with them as well.”
“Yes.”
“Cadena’s got our surplus men. We’ve put a hundred ratings on board her. We lost thirty in the engine room.”
“Yes.”
“We’ve a five-degree list to starboard and we’re down by the stern, sir, but we’ll tow all right.”
“Yes. Is Cadena passing that tow line satisfactorily?”
“Yes, sir. Another fifteen minutes, I should say, and we’ll be under way.”
“Good.”
“We can use the hand steering, sir, and we’ll be under control to a certain extent.”
“Good.”
“Captain asks me to report to you, sir, that Kong Gustav took it just before we did. He thinks she was hit by three fish at short intervals. It must have been a spread fired at close range.”
“It sounds like it.”
“She sank in less than five minutes. Cadena picked up her captain and some of the crew, sir.”
“Yes.”
“We got ours while she was sinking, sir. Asdic didn’t hear the shots. There was a lot of interference.”
“Yes.”
“We had only one depth charge left, sir. We set it on safety and dropped it.”
“Good.”
The explosion of depth charges in sinking ships had killed many swimmers who might otherwise have been saved.
“The captain asks me to thank you, sir, for all you’ve done. He says those were fine hunts we had.”
“I wish I could have done more,” said Krause.
This was like a conversation with a voice from the grave.
“And the captain asks me to say good-by, sir, in case he doesn’t see you again.”
“Very well.” Never had that navy phrase been of more use than at this moment. But even so it was insufficient—it was only a stopgap. “Tell him I’m looking forward to seeing him in Londonderry.”
“Aye aye, sir. The towing hawser’s going out now. They’ll be taking the strain soon.”
“Very well. Report results. Over.”
All the light had faded from the sky now. It was dark, but not solidly dark. It was possible to see, on the starboard beam, the two dark shapes that were Cadena and Viktor. Keeling was circling about them, her sonar searching the depths, her radar scanning the surface. Krause’s brain took up mathematics again. A circle a mile in diameter was over three miles in circumference; it would take Keeling twenty minutes to complete the circle. A U-boat two miles distant from her, well out of range of her sonar, would need twenty minutes at six knots to creep in those two miles to launch a killing spread at a half-mile range before Keeling came around again. He was covering those two ships as effectively as was possible. And it was most necessary that he should. Destroyers were precious. If he could possibly bring Viktor into port he meant to do so. She would be ready for sea again in one tenth of the time it took to build a new one, and with all her valuable, irreplaceable equipment. And Cadena was full of men. She had saved many lives on this voyage; and big oceangoing tugs of her type were scarce and almost as valuable as destroyers. There could be no doubt that his duty lay in covering Viktor and Cadena, and in leaving the rest of the convoy to the two corvettes. There was some cold comfort to be found in the thought that in this matter he was not confronted by a dilemma calling for painstaking weighing of chances. The T.B.S. demanded his attention again.
“We’re making way now, sir. We’re making three knots and we’re going to work up to five, but the captain’s worried about the bulkheads if we do. She’s steering—she’s steering after a fashion, sir.”
“Very well. Course zero eight five.”
“Oh eight five. Aye aye, sir.”
THURSDAY. FIRST WATCH: 2000–2400
Harbutt saluting in the darkness.
“Report having been relieved, sir.” The rest of the formula. “Mr. Carling has the deck, sir.”
“Very well, Mr. Harbutt. Good night.”
The T.B.S.
“Four knots is the best we can do, sir. The list gets worse if we make any speed. I fancy there’s a flap of plating sticking out from the hole, and it scoops the sea in and it’s bad for the after bulkhead.”
“I understand.”
“We’re learning how to steer her, sir.”
“I understand.”
Here in Keeling all was as still as the grave. Over there in that patch of blackness men were working with desperate haste. They were shoring up bulkheads, working in pitch darkness relieved only by the faint light of flashlights. They were trying to patch up leaks, with the deadly gurgle-gurgle-gurgle of water bubbling in around them. They were trying to steer, passing helm orders back from the bridge through a chain of men, struggling with a hand-steering gear while the ship surged unpredictably to port and to starboard, threatening at any moment to part the towing hawser.
“Mr. Carling!”
“Sir!”
A careful explanation of the situation, of Cadena’s course and speed, of the necessity to maintain a constant sonar guard around her. Keeling must describe a series of ellipses round her as she struggled
on at four knots, each ellipse a trifle—an almost inconsiderable trifle—nearer safely. It would be a neat but easy problem to work out how to handle Keeling at twelve knots circling round Cadena at four.
There were other problems not so easy. With every hour that passed the convoy would be four or five miles farther ahead. It would be long days before Viktor could be brought into port. The question of Keeling’s fuel supply would become urgent before long. He would have to appeal to London for help; he would have to break radio silence. He could take that bitter decision. He would have to do it. But—There were the German direction-finding stations; there were German submarines at sea. Doenitz would by this time be fully aware of the position, course, and even the composition of the convoy; that information would be relayed to him by the subs. At that rate there would seem to be no serious objection to breaking radio silence. But there was. The moment the German monitoring system informed Doenitz that the convoy had sent out a message he would ask himself the reason, and there could be only one reason—that the convoy was in such bad straits that it needed help urgently. It would be enough to prompt Doenitz to turn every available sub against the convoy. It would tell the captain who had fired on Viktor that his torpedo had hit home and that Viktor need no longer be reckoned with. If the convoy went plowing along in silence Doenitz and the sub captains could not be sure that it was still not in a condition to hit back. It was a very important point.
Yet with the convoy practically unguarded and Viktor so far from home help was essential. It was very doubtful whether Dodge and James had sufficient oil to enable them to reach Londonderry. Keeling herself could do practically nothing to beat off a determined attack on Viktor and Cadena. He had to call for help; he had to swallow his pride; he had to take the risk. His pride did not matter, but it was possible to reduce the risk to a minimum. If he were to send the message now Doenitz could employ the whole night in directing his subs to the attack. There were seven or eight hours of darkness still ahead, and during those hours there would be little that London could do to help him. It would be better to get the message off later, at one or two in the morning. That would still allow plenty of time for the Admiralty to get air cover over him at dawn, and it would cut down the interval as far as possible during which Doenitz could concentrate against him. Two in the morning would be early enough; his message would go straight through to the highest authority, he knew. Half an hour for that; half an hour for the Admiralty orders to go out; an hour for preparation. Two hours’ flight; he would have air cover at dawn. He would send the message at two in the morning—perhaps at one-thirty.
Greyhound (Movie Tie-In) Page 22
