COMESCORT TO “JAMES.” CARRY ON USING UTMOST ECONOMY IN FUEL AND AMMUNITION.
That much was easy, once the decision had been reached. But it might be well to add a heartening word, and it was strange how his mind, still capable of grasping and analysing facts, balked like a stubborn mule at the demand for something further. He wrote “WE CANNOT SPARE YOU” and then, with the utmost deliberation, crossed those words out with three thick lines to make sure they would not be transmitted. They were perfectly true, but a sensitive or touchy recipient might read them as an answer to an unexpressed appeal to be released from escort duty, and there was no such unexpressed appeal in the message he had received. Krause would not willingly hurt any man’s feelings except for the good of the cause in which he was fighting, and it would emphatically not be for the good of the cause to hurt the feelings of the captain of the James. He sat with pencil poised trying to think of the right thing to say. No inspiration came to him. There was only the hackneyed expression which he must use since his mind refused to think of anything better.
GOOD LUCK.
He was in the act of handing the pad back to the messenger when the next idea came.
WE ALL NEED IT.
That would soften the cold official wording. Krause knew academically that a human touch was desirable in these relationships even though he himself had never felt the need of it. He would be perfectly content to do and die in reply to a badly worded order from a superior and would feel no resentment at the absence of a polite phrase. What he did feel was a dull envy of the captain of the James who had no more to do now than to obey orders and no more responsibility than to execute them to the best of his professional ability. He gave the pad to the messenger. Be thou faithful unto death--he nearly said those words aloud, and the messenger, on the point of saluting, seeing him open his mouth and shut it again, waited to hear what he had to say.
“Signal-bridge,” said Krause harshly.
“Aye aye, sir.”
With the departure of the messenger Krause was aware of a new and strange sensation. For the moment he was not being compelled to do something. It was the first time in more than twenty-four hours that instant and important decisions were not being forced on him. There were a hundred minor tasks he could profitably undertake, but he could actually choose between them at leisure. In his fatigued state of mind he contemplated this strange fact as someone in a dream--not in a nightmare--contemplates a new and odd development in what he is dreaming. Even when Carling came and saluted, this new condition was not disturbed.
“Next change of course due in ten minutes, sir,” said Carling.
“Very well.”
It was a routine change of course on the part of the whole convoy, and Carling’s warning was merely in accordance with Krause’s standing orders. The convoy could wheel without Krause’s intervention being called for. And yet--perhaps he should intervene. The convoy was in disorder, and the wheel would accentuate that and prolong it. It might be better if the wheel did not take place. Krause mentally drafted the order he would flash to Comconvoy. “Negative change of course, maintain present course.” No. Better to let matters continue. The convoy would be expecting the change of course, and might be confused if it did not materialize. And when the next routine change of course became due there would be certain confusion as to which change was expected of them this time. “Order, counter order, disorder”; at more than one lecture at Annapolis he had heard that quotation, and during twenty years of service he had seen its truth demonstrated scores of times. He would let the routine continue.
“Commodore signalling for change of course, sir,” said Carling.
“Very well.”
What was this? Something else new and strange. An unreal brightness in the bleak pilot-house. The greyness of the morning was lifting; it was unbelievable. Up in the sky, forward of the starboard beam, Krause actually saw it, a pale, watery sun, more like the moon than the sun but the sun all the same, just visible through the high, thin cloud blowing before its face. The sun; for five seconds it was definitely bright enough for the stanchions to cast the faintest shadows, moving on the deck as the ship rolled. The faint shadows endured for one roll of the ship, moving to port and then to starboard before fading out again while the pale disc vanished for good behind the high cloud. Truly the light is sweet and a pleasant thing it is for the eyes to behold the sun.
“Execute, sir,” said Carling.
“Very well.”
Krause heard the helm order given and repeated. Next moment, it seemed to him, he found himself falling off his stool, swaying right over to one side, falling endlessly as he did sometimes in nightmares. He caught himself up before he had swayed actually more than an inch or two. It was no nightmare. He had really been asleep and had nearly fallen from the stool. He straightened himself up and stiffened his back profoundly shocked at his behaviour. Drowsiness shall clothe a man with rags. It was quite disgraceful that he had allowed sleep to creep up on him unawares. He had never had the experience before in his life. It was only thirty hours since he had been awakened in readiness for yesterday’s general quarters after two hours of perfectly sound sleep. There was absolutely no excuse for him to nod off. But now he had had his warning. He had discovered the insidiousness of the enemy he had to fight against. He would never let it happen again. He got down from the stool and stood erect. The protests of his leg muscles would keep him awake; and his feet were painful now that he stood on them. It really seemed as if his shoes were far too tight for him, as if his feet had grown a size larger during the night. He thought for a moment of taking off his shoes--old and tried companions though they were--and sending down for the slippers in his cabin. But the idea only grew up in his mind to be cut down again instantly. A captain had an example to set and should never appear at his post of duty in slippers; and self-indulgence whether physical or moral was something treacherous and rightly suspect--he had had a clear example of that just now when he fell asleep on his stool. And--and--perhaps if he stood long enough his feet would go numb and cease to hurt him so.
“Mr Carling, we had better come to course one-two-zero and patrol back again across the front of the convoy.”
“One-two-zero. Aye aye, sir.”
A few minutes ago the pinging of the sonar had been a monotonous lullaby lulling him into unconsciousness. Now it was a hard persistent reminder to him to do his duty. I will not give sleep to mine eyes nor slumber to mine eyelids. His eyes did not feel dry or swollen; it was no effort at all to keep his eyelids lifted. That meal that he had eaten had helped to betray him, enmeshing him in the torpor that comes with a full belly--one more example of the dangers of self-indulgence.
He forgot all this when the warning bell rang beside the voice-tube. His feet did not feel painful as he strode to answer it.
“Captain.”
“Cap’n, sir, there’s a pip just showing up. At least I think it’s a pip, sir. Screen’s very bad. Pip bearing zero-nine-two, range nine miles, sir. Now it’s gone. Not sure, sir.”
Was it better to turn in that direction or maintain the present course? At the moment they were heading to interpose between the possible pip and the convoy; it would be better to maintain course.
“I think it’s there again, sir. Wish I could be sure.”
The radar had behaved as well as a radar could be expected to behave for several days now; it was due to start acting up at any time. And at that range--Krause knew the figures, but automatically he did a square root in his head and multiplied by a coefficient--a sub trimmed right down would hardly appear on any radar screen. In any case his present course was a satisfactory one for the next few minutes.
“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 on to 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 the 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 pilot-house 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 hard 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-side look-out. “Starboard beam!“
Krause sprang out, binoculars to his eyes, sweeping the sea on the starboard beam.
“Still there, sir!”
The look-out 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 grey cylinder sliding along over the surface, with a ripple of white at its base, a thing of immeasurable, serpent-like 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 round. 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 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 more 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 singe depth-charges. My supply is low.”
“So is mine,” said Krause.
The analogy of the handicapped duck hunter who had to sh
ut 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 shot-gun for a rifle-- for a smooth-bore 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 predicted 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