Thursday. Morning Watch--0400-0800
Then Nystrom addressing himself to him while Keeling steadied herself on yet one more new course.
“Report having been relieved, sir - - “
The mid-watch was over; thirty more miles gained. Four hours had passed half in misery and half in desperate concentration.
“Very well, Mr Nystrom. Get some rest while you can.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
Rest? That called his attention to the fact that his legs were aching frantically. His muscles, unconsciously taut with the mental tension, protested as violently as did his joints the moment he thought about it. He moved stiffly to the captain’s stool in the starboard corner of the pilothouse. He never sat on that stool while at sea; he had a theory that captains should never sit down--it was allied to the theory that all self-indulgence was suspect--but theories were liable to be discarded under practical test. He could have groaned both with pain and relief as he sat down, but instead it was “Right standard rudder. Steer course zero-eight-seven.”
And now that he had sat down he knew it was pressingly necessary to get down to the head again; and with the self-indulgence of sitting also came the overwhelmingly tempting thought of pots and pots of fiery hot coffee to pour down his throat. But they were closing fast on a contact. Count the seconds. Force the weary brain to think clearly, to try to guess the U-boat captain’s next move, as the closing range broke off the contact.
“Mr Pond!”
“Fire one. Fire two. ‘K’ guns fire.” Once more the underwater thunder and lightning, once more the rapid thinking, the sharp helm orders.
“Sonar reports indications confused, sir.”
“Very well. Mr Harbutt, take the conn.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
His barely rested legs would hardly carry him down the tossing ladder as he went down to the head with the red spectacles over his eyes; on his way back he had to pull with his hands to take some of his body weight as his hesitant feet felt their way from rung to rung.
The brief interval away from the bridge gave him time to think about other problems besides the present and instant one of catching the submarine with which he was in contact. He gave the orders as he was at the top of the ladder, and he heard the result over the ship’s loudspeaker as he came back into the pilot-house.
“Now hear this. Hear this. There won’t be any routine general quarters this watch. If general quarters goes it’ll be the real thing. The watch below can have a full four hours in unless there’s an emergency.”
Krause was glad he had thought of that and decided upon it. He had been in touch with the enemy all day long, and most of the time he had got along without calling all hands to battle stations. The routine of general quarters an hour before dawn would cut into his men’s rest and was not necessary with the whole ship keyed up and ready for action as she was. The strain of Condition Two was bad enough. Keeling had been supplied with new weapons and new instruments. The presence of the additional men to man them had strained her living accommodation to the utmost, and yet she did not have enough trained ratings available to supply three watches in Condition Two--and even if she did have them Krause had no idea where they would sleep or how they would be fed. The shortage of trained ratings had led him to divide his ship’s company into four sections and to institute a routine of watch-and-watch while in Condition Two. He wanted to impose no additional burden on his men, and he wanted to give them all the rest he could. He was more fortunate regarding his officers. Most of them were doing four on and eight off, but even so they might as well be spared an unnecessary call to general quarters.
It had taken Krause all the time he had spent going up and down the ladder to come to this decision; when he re-entered the pilot-house he was ready to take over the handling of the immediate problem. The removal of the red spectacles was a kind of symbolic act, transferring his attention from within the ship to outside it.
“Sonar reports uncertain contact, range indefinite, approximately bearing two-three-one.”
“Is that the first contact since I went below, Mr Harbutt?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Where’s Viktor?”
Harbutt told him. In the three minutes the situation had moved slowly along usual lines. “I’ll take the conn, Mr Harbutt.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
“Right full rudder. Steer course one-six-two.”
“Right full rudder. Steer course one-six-two, sir.”
He was back in the hunt again.
“Steady on course one-six-two, sir.”
“Eagle to George. I am closing in on course nine-seven.”
“Very well.”
This particular chase had already lasted three long hours. Although they had not damaged the sub they had at least contrived to keep her from attacking the convoy; they had forced her away to the flank out of the convoy’s path. Three hours was not a long time for a U-boat hunt; the British Navy had a record of one that had lasted more than twenty-four hours. But at the same time the sub he had been chasing had been using her batteries extensively, going a full six knots much of the time instead of creeping along at three or hanging motionless. The U-boat captain, although he still must have plenty of air, must by now be experiencing a certain anxiety about his batteries, even assuming (as was most likely the case) that when the contact was first made he had only recently submerged and had begun the battle with full air banks and a full charge.
But the U-boat captain’s worries, while dodging two destroyers, while being depth-charged, while exhausting his batteries, were not to be compared with Krause’s. He had herded his enemy away to the flank, but that had left the front of the convoy open to attack. Dodge and James had their hands full, judging by the reports they were making when they had time to spare. It could only be a question of time before the prowling enemy should find the weak spots for which he was probing. To guard the whole circuit round a large convoy with two destroyers and two escort vessels was not just difficult; it was impossible, against a determined enemy under good leadership. In his next moment of leisure, while the next pattern was being fired (so far had Keeling and Krause progressed towards being war-hardened during these twenty hours of battle, that the firing of depth-charges brought a moment of leisure) Krause conjured up a picture of the ideal escorting force--three more escort vessels to guard the front while he and Viktor acted as a pursuit force; two more to reinforce Dodge and James; one to cover the rear; yes, and another pursuit force as well. With eight escort vessels and four destroyers a good job could be done; and air cover; the thought of air cover shot up in Krause’s weary mind like a rocket. He had heard of the small carriers that were being built; with radar-equipped planes they would give a wolf-pack a whole lot more to think about. Escort vessels and destroyers and baby flattops were coming off the ways as fast as America and England and Canada could build them--newspapers and classified pamphlets assured him of that; somehow they would be manned, he presumed, and in a year or so convoys would be well guarded. But meanwhile it was his duty to fight his way through as best he could with the means at his disposal. Every man’s work shall be made manifest.
“Right full rudder. Steer course zero-seven-two,” said Krause. “George to Eagle. I am heading to cross your wake after your next attack.”
He had forgotten about sitting down, but his legs had not forgotten. They reminded him about it with vicious aches as he stepped back from the T.B.S. He sank on to the stool and spread his legs. After all, this was in the darkness, and the people in the pilot-house were hardly able to see their captain lounging in such a slack fashion. He had compounded with his sense of what he could permit himself regarding sitting down, admitting that it was necessary, but he still had qualms about what would be the effect upon discipline and esprit de corps if the men upon whom he kept such a taut hand should see him slacking off with so little excuse.
“After look-out reports fire in the convoy, sir,” said a talker.
/> He was on his feet again, with hardly time to think of this as retribution for his self-indulgence. There it was; now the rockets were soaring into the night above the flames which he could see; now there was another sharp red glow lighting the upper works of one ship, silhouetting the upper works of another--a torpedo explosion as he watched; the length of the interval told him that this was not a “spread” bursting as it reached various targets. A U-boat had been deliberately marking down victims one after another.
“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 may 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 possibility 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 grey; grey sky and grey horizon and a slate-grey 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 grey 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 pilot-house--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 life-lines, 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 halliard. 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 grey 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 pilot-house? 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 littl
e 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 yards.”
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 Com-convoy 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.”