“I’m going to take a look at the gun crews and lookouts, sir,” he said.
“Very well, Charlie. Thank you.”
He had to sit down. He simply had to sit. He made his way over to his stool and sank down on it. The relief, what with sitting and what with having been to the head, was considerable. All but his feet. They seemed to be red-hot with agony. A wicked thought came rising up into his mind; he had discarded it once, long before, but now it returned, repulsive and yet insistent, like an insufficiently weighted corpse rising with corruption from the depths. He could take off his shoes. He could defy convention. He could be bold. Important it might be for his crew always to see their captain correctly dressed, but it could not be at this moment more important than the misery of his feet. Nothing could be more important. He was being tortured like an Indian captive. He had to--he simply must. It might be the first step down the slippery path of complete moral disintegration, yet even so he could not hold back. He reached painfully down and undid a shoe-string. He loosened it in its eyelets. He took the mental plunge, and, hand on heel, tried to thrust off the shoe. It resisted stubbornly for a moment and then--and then--the blend of agony and paradise as it came off was something indescribable; only just for a moment did it remind him of Evelyn with whom he had experienced something similar. He forgot Evelyn at once as he worked his toes about, stretched out his foot, felt the returning life creeping back within the thick arctic sock. The necessary seconds to take off the other shoe were hardly bearable. Both feet were free now; all ten toes were squirming with joy. To put the freed soles down on the icy steel deck and feel the chill penetrate the thick socks was a sensuous pleasure so intense that Krause actually forgot to be suspicious of it. He stretched his legs and felt the relieved circulation welling through his muscles. He stretched luxuriously, and caught himself at that moment--or several moments later; he did not know how many--falling forward from the waist sound asleep. He would have been on his nose on the deck in another second.
It was the end of bliss. He was back in a world of war, a world of steel, swaying on a slate-grey sea; and this steel ship of his might at any moment be torn open in thunder and flame with that grey sea flooding in through the holes, exploding boilers and drowning the dazed survivors. There was the pinging of the sonar to remind him of the sleepless watch that was being maintained against the enemies deep below the surface. Far ahead of him he could see a row of dim shapes on the horizon which were the helpless ships he had to guard; he had only to turn on his stool to see behind him the three others he was trying to lead to safety.
“T.B.S., sir,” said Harbutt. “Harry.”
He had already forgotten about taking his shoes off; it was a surprise to find himself walking in his stockinged feet. But there was nothing he could do about that at present.
“George to Harry. Go ahead.”
The careful precise tones of Lieutenant-Commander Rode spoke into his ear.
“We have an aircraft approaching on our screen, sir. Range sixty miles, bearing oh-nine-oh.”
“Thank you, Captain. It may be the plane we have to look out for.”
“It may be, sir.” The tone suggested that Rode had been bombed so often from the air that he took nothing for granted, and the next words went on to confirm the impression. “I’ve seen Condors as far out as here, sir. But we’ll know soon enough.”
“I don’t doubt it.”
“I’ll report again as soon as I’m sure, sir.”
“Very well, Captain, thank you.”
Krause’s heart was beating perceptibly faster as he put down the hand-set. Friend or enemy, the report meant that he had achieved touch with the far side of the ocean.
“Cap’n, sir, yo’ breffus.”
There was the tray with its white napkin cover raised into peaks by what lay under it. He eyed it without interest. If the plane were sixty miles from
James
it would be seventy-five miles from
Keeling.
In a quarter of an hour it would be in sight; in half an hour it might be overhead. Commonsense dictated that he should eat while he had time, and while the food was hot. But between fatigue and excitement he had no appetite.
“Oh, very well. Put it on the chart-table.”
He had forgotten again about being in his stockinged feet. And there were his shoes, lying disgracefully on the deck. He paid ten times over in that minute for the ecstasy he had felt when he had taken them off.
“Messenger! Take those shoes of mine to my cabin and bring me the slippers you’ll find there.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
The messenger evinced no concern at being ordered on such a menial duty; it was Krause who felt the concern. He tasted all the bitterness of the pill he had to swallow; he was sensitive about the dignity of the men who served under him; and was quite unnecessarily worried about the messenger’s feelings. He could order the messenger into mortal danger more easily than he could order him to pick up his shoes. Already, forgetting the agony that had forced him into taking off his shoes, he was taking a mental vow never to indulge himself in that fashion again. It lessened his appetite for food even farther. But he plodded over to the desk and lifted the covers indifferently. Fried eggs, golden and white, looked up at him; from strips of bacon a pleasant odour rose to his nostrils. And coffee! Coffee! The scent of that as he poured it was utterly enticing. He drank; he began to eat.
“Your slippers, sir,” said the messenger, putting them on the deck beside him.
“Thank you,” replied Krause with his mouth full.
Charlie Cole was just entering the pilot-house when he was called again to the T.B.S.
“Catalina in sight, sir,” said Harry.
“Good,” answered Krause. It was only then that he knew he had been worrying in case it had been a Condor. “Is her challenge correct?”
“Yes, sir. And I have made reply.”
“Plane in sight! Plane dead ahead! “
Keeling’s
look-outs were shouting wildly.
“Very well, thank you, Captain,” said Krause.
“PBY, sir,” said Cole, his binoculars to his eyes, looking at the bright eastern horizon, and then, loudly, “Very well, you men. It’s one of ours.”
The 20 mm. gun crews had already started training their weapons forward and upward. It was a black dot over the convoy, approaching fast. It was winking at him feverishly. Dot dot dash dot dash dash.
“Plane signals ‘UW,’ sir,” from the signal-bridge.
“Very well. Reply ‘BD.’ “
UW UW--that pilot had been shot at by so many friendly ships he wanted to make quite sure he was recognized. Now the plane was visible in detail, with all the clumsy comforting elephantine outlines of a PBY.
“One of ours, not British, sir,” commented Cole.
The stars were plain on the wings. It roared on overhead; at the 40 mm. guns the men raised a cheer and waved their arms. It passed on astern; Krause and Cole turned to watch it as it went nearly out of sight. Then they saw it swing leftwards, to the south.
“Checking up on how far we’re scattered,” said Krause.
“I guess so, sir. It looks like that. And he’ll scare down any sub within thirty miles, too, sir.”
So he would. In this clear daylight no sub would venture to remain on the surface with a plane circling overhead. And below the surface a sub would be half-blind and slow, no danger to the convoy unless fortunately right in the convoy’s path. The PBY swung on round, and settled on an easterly course back past the right flank of the convoy. They watched it steadily dwindling in size.
“Isn’t he going to cover us, sir?” asked Cole.
“I know what he’s doing,” said Krause. “He’s homing the escort group on us.”
A bird of the air shall carry the voice, and that which hath wings shall tell the matter. The Earl of Banff and his escort group were already far out at sea, and the PBY was going to inform them of the bearing of the convoy.
“His course is not much south of east, sir,” said Cole, binoculars to his eyes. “They must be nearly dead ahead of us.”
Nearly dead ahead, and probably making fourteen knots. Relief and convoy were heading towards each other at a combined speed of twenty-three knots at least. In an hour or two they would be in sight of each other. Less than that, perhaps. Krause looked forward; the rear line of the convoy was now hull-up;
Keeling
had brought the lost sheep back to the flock.
“Out of sight, sir,” said Cole taking the glasses from his eyes.
Now there was no knowing how much farther the PBY would be going.
“What about your breakfast, sir?” asked Cole.
Krause would not admit that he could not remember in what condition he had left his tray. He walked over to it. The large plate bore a cold egg and strips of congealed bacon.
“I’ll send for some more, sir,” said Cole.
“No, thank you,” replied Krause. “I’ve had all I want.”
“Surely you could use some coffee, sir. This is cold.”
“Well - - “
“Messenger! Bring the captain another pot of coffee.”
“Thank you,” said Krause.
“Watch is just going to change, sir. I’ll get down to the plot.”
“Very well, Charlie.”
When Cole had gone Krause looked down again at the tray. Automatically his hand went out and he picked up a piece of toast and started to eat it. It was cold and leathery, but it disappeared with remarkable rapidity. Krause spread the other piece thick with butter and jelly and ate that. Then he found himself picking up the strips of cold bacon and eating them too.
Friday. Forenoon Watch
--
0800-1200
Harbutt saluted and reported his relief. “Very well, Mr Harbutt. Mr Carling! I want a fuel report from the engine-room.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
Krause looked again at the convoy and back at the three ships aft. Was it sentimental to want to be at the head of his command when the reinforcements arrived?
“Pardon me, sir,” said the messenger, putting hot coffee on the tray in front of him.
“Get me a signal-pad and pencil,” said Krause.
He wrote out the message.
COMESCORT TO SHIPS ASTERN. RESUME STATIONS IN CONVOY.
“Signal bridge,” he ordered. “And tell them to send slowly.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
“The T.B.S., sir,” said Carling.
It was
James.
“The Catalina’s crossing our course at thirty-five miles, sir. Looks as if the escort group isn’t far ahead. Thought you’d like to know, sir.”
“I sure would. Thanks a lot,” said Krause.
He was on the way back to his coffee when the messenger saluted him.
“Ships astern acknowledge message, sir.”
“Very well.”
Lieutenant-Commander Ipsen up from the engine-room with his written fuel report. Enough for fifty-seven hours’ steaming at economical speeds. Enough.
“Thank you, Chief. Very well.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Ahead of him the convoy was practically in good order. He could go ahead up a lane in safety. “I’ll take the conn, Mr Carling.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
Keeling
drew away from the ships astern and entered the lane. Ships all round him. Battered ships and nearly new ships, with every colour of paintwork and every style of build. There had been thirty-seven ships when he had taken over escort duty. Now there were thirty; seven had been lost. Heavy losses, no doubt, but convoys had known even heavier than that. He had brought thirty ships through. Out of his escort force he had lost a destroyer; a very grave loss indeed. But he had sunk two probables and a possible. Thou art weighed in the balance--in the balance--he came to himself with a start. While having the conn, while actually in charge of the ship, he had gone to sleep on his feet, here in a convoy lane with danger all round. While I was musing the fire burned. He had never before known such fatigue.
Coffee might help. It was only then that he remembered the pot that had been brought him. It was nearly cold, but he drank it, draining the second cup as they emerged ahead of the convoy.
“Mr Carling! Take the conn.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
“Take station three miles ahead of the commodore.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
“Forward look-out reports plane dead ahead, sir.”
It was the PBY back again. Krause watched it alter course patrolling in long leisurely zig-zags far out on either side of the convoy’s course. Oh, that I had wings like a dove. Visibility was excellent, the sea moderate.
“Forward look-out reports object dead ahead, sir.”
Krause raised his binoculars. There was nothing in view. Nothing? Nothing? The tiniest speck on the distant horizon.
“Forward look-out reports object is a ship.”
This was the moment. Wink-wink. Wink-wink-wink. Already a light was flashing there. Overhead he heard the clank of
Keeling’s
lamp answering. Wink-wink-wink. He could not keep his heart from beating fast. He could not keep his hands from trembling a little.
“Well, we’ve made it, sir,” said Cole beside him.
“We have,” answered Krause. He was aware of a dryness of the throat that affected his voice.
The messenger came running.
SNO TO COMESCORT. WELCOME. KINDLY MAKE VERBAL REPORT TO DIAMOND.
There followed a wave frequency. Krause handed the message pad to Cole and walked over to the T.B.S. It was not easy to walk so far.
“George to Diamond. Do you hear me?”
“Diamond to George. I hear you.” Another of those English voices. “Afraid you’ve had a rough time.”
“Not so rough, sir. We’ve lost seven ships out of the convoy and two slightly damaged.” “Only seven?”
“Yes, sir.
King’s Langley, Henrietta - - “
“It doesn’t matter about the names at present.” It was a relief to hear that; it was only with an effort that he could recollect them. “We’ve lost Eagle, too, sir.” “Eagle? That’s bad luck.”
“Yes, sir. She was hit in the engine-room last night.” Last night? It was almost impossible to believe it was only then. Krause steadied his Keeling mind. “And she sank at midnight. Everything was done to save her.”
“I don’t doubt it, Captain. And what is the condition of your command?”