“Contact bearing port one-one. Range five hundred yards.”
A constant bearing, and the range closing. He had anticipated the U-boat’s turn.
Keeling
and the U-boat were heading straight for a mutual rendezvous, a rendezvous where death might make a third. Another glance at Nourse; a clenching of hands.
“Contact dead ahead. Range close! “
The gnome-like talker’s equanimity was gone; his voice rose an octave and cracked.
“Fire!” bellowed Krause, and he shot out his hand, index finger pointing at Nourse, and Nourse spoke the order into his mouth-piece. This was the second when Nourse and Krause were trying to kill fifty men.
“Fire one.” Fire two! Fire three!’’
The sudden alteration of bearing of the contact could mean nothing else than that the U-boat captain, finding himself headed off once more, finding the two vessels rushing together, had put his helm hard over again, turning straight for his antagonist, aiming to surprise him by passing on opposite courses and making the danger moment as brief as possible. That “range close” meant three hundred yards or so--the smallest range at which sonar could function. The U-boat might at this very time be passing right under the destroyer, right under Krause’s very feet. The depth-charges rumbling down off the racks, sinking ponderously through the opaque sea, might then be too late, would explode harmlessly astern of the U-boat. But the U-boat might still be just forward of
Keeling,
heading aft, and in that case the depth-charges would burst all about her if the depth setting were anything like correct, and would smash in her fragile hull. Yet she might not be passing directly below; she might be a hundred yards to port or to starboard. The double bark of the” “K” guns at that moment told how further depth-charges were being flung out on either side of the ship in anticipation of this possibility. They might catch her. One of the four depth-charges dropped might burst close enough. It was like firing a sawed-off shotgun into a pitch-dark room to try to hit a dodging man inside. It was as brutal.
Krause strode out on to the wing of the bridge as the “K” gun at the fantail went off. The ugly cylinder it had flung into the air hung in his sight for an instant before it dropped with a splash into the sea. And as it fell the sea far behind in
Keeling’s
wake opened up into a vast, creamy crater, from the centre of which rose a tower of white foam; as it rose Krause heard the enormous but muffled boom of the underwater explosion. And the tower of foam was still hanging, about to drop, when another crater opened, and another tower rose up out of the sea, and another on one side, and another on the other. He maketh the deep to boil like a pot, as Job said. It looked as if nothing could possibly live in the long ellipse of tortured water, but nothing showed at all. No dripping hull emerged, no huge bubbles, no oil. The odds were ten to one at least against a single depth-charge pattern scoring a hit. It would have been fortunate indeed if
Keeling’s
first pattern--if Krause’s first attempt to kill a man--had been successful.
Indeed that was so; Krause felt a dreadful pang of conscience as he jumped into the pilot-house. He should not have been out here at all. It was five seconds since the last explosion, five seconds during which the U-boat could travel a full hundred yards towards safety. Buck-fever again; and simple neglect of duty.
“Right full rudder,” he ordered as he entered.
“Right full rudder.”
The quartermaster repeated the order that Krause gave.
“Get a course from the plot back to the firing point.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
“Steady on reverse of present heading,” ordered Krause.
“Sonar reports apparatus temporarily not functioning, sir,” said the talker.
“Very well.”
Sonar, as delicate as a human ear, was deafened for a time by underwater explosions.
Keeling
was coming round in a tight circle, but not nearly fast enough for Krause’s impatience. It always took several minutes for her to come all the way round, with the U-boat--if she were uninjured--making off as fast as her propellers would drive her. She could well be a mile away--more-- by the time
Keeling
had her bows pointed at her again, so far away that sonar would not be able to tell him that she had achieved this state of affairs. And Dawson was thrusting the clip-board at him again. He had actually forgotten about Dawson’s arrival on the bridge with a message, three minutes ago. He took the board and read the central words of the message first.
HUFF-DUFF INDICATES ENEMY CONCENTRATION -- here followed a latitude and a longitude -- SUGGEST RADICAL CHANGE OF COURSE SOUTHWARD.
Those figures for latitude and longitude had a suspiciously familiar appearance, and it was the work of only a moment to confirm those suspicions. Within a mile or two either way that was exactly where
Keeling
found herself at this moment. They were right in among the U-boat wolf-pack. It was an Admiralty message, addressed to him as Comescort, and it was two hours old. That was the speediest transmission that could be expected; the Admiralty staff, with its charts and its plotting-board, must have hoped hopelessly for good fortune when it sent out that warning. Miraculously speedy transmission, and the convoy steaming an hour or two late, and there would have been time to wheel the convoy away from the wolf-pack. As it was? Quite impossible. The convoy, well closed up by now, he hoped, was lumbering forward with its dead-weight momentum. It would only take a few seconds to transmit orders to the Commodore, but it would take minutes to convey those orders to every ship in the convoy, and to make sure they were understood. And the wheel round would lead to a repetition of the previous disorder and straggling--worse, probably, seeing that it was quite unscheduled.
“Back on reverse course, sir,” reported Watson.
“Very well. Start pinging.”
And even if the convoy should execute the wheel round perfectly, it would be of no avail in the midst of a wolf-pack which would be fully aware of it. It would only mean delay, not merely unprofitable but dangerous.
“Sonar reports no contact, sir.”
“Very well.”
Wednesday. Afternoon Watch--1200-1600
The only thing to do was to fight a way through, to beat off the wolf-pack and lumber on ponderously across the Atlantic. He had at least had his warning; but seeing that convoy and escort habitually were as careful as if there was always a wolf-pack within touch the warning was of no particular force. There was no purpose, for that matter, in passing on the warning to his subordinates and to the Commodore. It could not affect their actions, and the fewer people who were aware how accurately the Admiralty was able to pin-point U-boat concentrations the better.
“Sonar reports no contact, sir,”
“Very well.”
The plan then was to fight his way through, to plod doggedly onward, smashing a path through the U-boat cordon for his lumbering convoy. And this message which he still held in his hand? These few words from the outside world which seemed so impossibly far away from his narrow horizon? They must remain unanswered; there must be no violation of radio silence for a mere negative end. He must fight his battle while the staffs in London and Washington, in Bermuda and Reykjavik, remained in ignorance. Every man shall bear his own burden, and this was his--that was a text from Galatians; he could remember learning it, so many years ago--and all he had to do was his duty; no one needed an audience for that He was alone with his responsibility in this crowded pilothouse, at the head of the crowded convoy. God setteth the solitary in families.
“Sonar reports no contact, sir, for thirty degrees on both bows.”
“Very well.”
He turned from the one problem straight back to the other.
“Come right handsomely.”
“Come right handsomely.”
“Call out your heading, Quartermaster.”
“Aye aye, sir. Passing one-three-zero. Passing one-four-zero. Passing one-five-zero. Passing one-six-zero. Passing one-seven-zero.”
“Meet her. Steady as you go.”
“Meet her. Steady as you go. Heading one-seven-two, sir.”
Krause handed back the clip-board. “Thank you, Mr Dawson.”
He returned Dawson’s salute punctiliously, but he did not notice Dawson any more. He was quite unaware of Dawson’s glance or of the rapid play of expression on Dawson’s young chubby face. Surprise succeeded by admiration, and that by something of pity. Only Dawson besides his captain knew what weighty news there had been in the message he bore. Dawson alone could feel admiration for the man who could receive that news with no more than a “thank you” and go straight on with what he was doing. Krause would not have understood even if he had noticed. There was nothing spectacular to him about a man doing his duty. His eyes were sweeping the horizon before Dawson had turned away.
Contact was certainly lost, and they had searched for thirty degrees on either side of the course the U-boat had been following at the moment of the last contact. Now he had started on a new sector, to starboard and not to port, with no observational data at all on which to base his choice. But a turn to starboard would be towards the convoy, now just visible in the distance. If the U-boat had gone off to port she was heading away from the convoy’s path, to where she would be temporarily harmless. The course he had just ordered would carry
Keeling
back towards her station in the screen, and it would search out the area in which the U-boat would be most dangerous.
“Steady on course one-seven-two, sir,” said Watson.
“Very well.”
“Sonar reports no contact, sir.”
“Very well.”
They were heading for the centre of the convoy now.
Viktor
was in plain sight on their starboard bow, patrolling ahead of the convoy, but
James
on the left flank was still invisible. Krause began to consider the matter of securing from general quarters; he must not forget that he was using up the battle reserve of his men’s energy and attention.
“Sonar reports distant contact, sir! “ said the talker, his voice several tones higher with excitement. “Port two-zero. Range indefinite.”
The slackening tension in the pilot-house tightened up again.
“Right standard rudder to course one-nine-two.”
“Right standard rudder to course one-nine-two.”
Keeling
came round; Krause was looking at
Viktor
again through his glasses. It was a question whether he should use
Viktor
to make a thrust or retain her where she was to make a parry.
“Sonar reports distant contact one-nine-zero. Range indefinite.”
Another brief order, another minute turn. There was the temptation to niggle at Ellis with questions and orders, to ask him if he could not do better than that “range indefinite.” But his knowledge of Ellis had vastly increased during the last few minutes; Krause guessed that he needed no prodding to do his best, and there was the danger that prodding might disturb his vitally-important equanimity.
A wild yell from the look-out forward of the bridge; a piercing yell.
“Periscope! Periscope! Dead ahead!”
Krause was on the wing of the bridge in a flash, before the last word was uttered, glasses to his eyes.
“How far?”
“Gone now, sir. ‘Bout a mile, I guess, sir.”
“Gone? You sure you saw it?”
“Positive, sir. Dead ahead, sir.”
“A periscope or a feather?”
“Periscope, sir. Certain. Couldn’t mistake it. Six feet of it, sir.”
“Very well. Thank you. Keep looking.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
It seemed very likely that the look-out had seen what he said he saw. The U-boat would know, after the dropping of the depth-charges, that she was a long way from her pursuer. She would be aware of the proximity of the convoy and of the screen, and it would be desperately important for her to get the bearings of her enemies. She would put up her periscope for a sweep round; that was so likely that it could be considered certain. And with this sea running she would show plenty of periscope, too. The six feet the look-out reported was not at all an unlikely figure. That grim object cutting through the tossing water was something a man one year enlisted could be sure about if he caught even a glimpse of it. Even the briefness of the glimpse--just long enough for one complete sweep round--was confirmation. Krause walked back to the radio-telephone.
The excitement in the pilot-house was intense. Even Krause, with his hard lack of sympathy, could feel it beating round him like waves about the foot of a cliff; he was excited as well, but he was too preoccupied with the need for quick decision to pay attention in any case. He spoke into the T.B.S.
“George to Eagle. George to Eagle. Do you hear me?”
“Eagle to George,” bleated the T.B.S. “I hear you. Strength four.”
“I have a contact dead ahead of me, bearing one-nine-zero.”
“Bearing one-nine-zero, sir.”
“Range about a mile.”
“Range about a mile, sir.”
“I sighted his periscope there a minute ago.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Leave your station and give us a hand.”
“Come and give a hand. Aye aye, sir.”
Viktor
could cover the five miles between her and the U-boat in fifteen minutes, if she set her mind to it.
“Sonar reports contact dead ahead, sir. Range indefinite.”
“Very well.”
As long as the contact was right ahead he could be sure he was closing up on it as fast as he could. With the glasses to his eyes he swept the horizon again. The convoy seemed to be in fair order from what he could see of it. He went to the T.B.S. again.
“George to Harry. George to Dicky. Do you hear me?”
He heard the bleated answers.
“I am seven miles from the convoy bearing zero-eight-five from it. I’ve called Eagle to join me in chasing a contact.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You must screen the convoy.”
“Wilco.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
The talker at Krause’s elbow broke into the conversation.
“Sonar reports no contact, sir.”