The Good Shepherd (2 page)

He turned away from the stranger in the mirror, satisfied that he was properly shaved, and then he stood still, with one hand on the chair-back and his eyes cast down to the deck on which he stood.

“Yesterday, to-day, and forever,” he said to himself, as he always did when he had passed his own inspection. That was a passage from Hebrews viii; it marked the fact that he was starting out on a fresh stage of his journey through the temporary world, to the grave and to immortality beyond it. He gave the necessary attention to that train of thought; and while his mind was so occupied his body automatically retained its balance, for the ship was rolling and pitching as only a destroyer can roll and pitch --as she had rolled and pitched without ceasing for the past several days. The deck was rising and falling beneath his feet, inclining sharply to port and starboard, forward and aft, sometimes seemingly changing its mind, with a tremor, in mid-movement, interrupting the rhythm of the rattle of the scant furnishings of the cabin under the urging of the vibration of the propellers.

Of the twenty years which had elapsed since Krause’s graduation from Annapolis, thirteen had been spent at sea, and mostly in destroyers, so that his body was amply accustomed to retaining its balance in a rolling ship, even at these moments when Krause himself was thinking about the immortality of the soul and the transience of earthly things.

Krause raised his eyes and reached for the sweater that was the next garment he had planned to put on. Before his hand touched it there came a loud note from the bell on the bulkhead, and from the voice-tube issued the voice of Lieutenant Carling, who had taken over the deck when the ship secured from general quarters.

“Captain to the bridge, sir,” said Carling. “Captain to the bridge, sir.”

There was urgency in the voice. Krause’s hand changed its objective. It snatched, not the sweater, but the uniform coat dangling on its hanger. With his other hand Krause swept aside the fibre-glass curtain that screened the doorway, and in his shirt-sleeves, still holding the coat, he plunged for the bridge. Seven seconds elapsed between the time when the bell sounded its note to the time when Krause entered the pilot-house. He did not have another second in which to look around him.

“Harry’s made a contact, sir,” said Carling.

Krause sprang to the radio-telephone--the T.B.S., the “talk between ships.”

“George to Harry. George to Harry. Go ahead.”

He swung to his left as he spoke, staring out over the heaving sea. Three and a half miles to port was the Polish destroyer
Viktor;
three and a half miles beyond her was H.M.S.
James;
she was on
Viktor’s
quarter, considerably aft; from the pilot-house she was only just visible round the corner of the superstructure, and at that distance she was often invisible, when both she and
Keeling
were down in the trough. Now she was off her course, heading northwards away from the convoy, presumably following up her contact. It was the
James
who called herself Harry in the T.B.S. code. As Krause’s eyes focused on her the telephone bleated. No amount of distortion could disguise the peculiar English intonation of the voice.

“Distant contact, sir. Bearing three-five-five. Request permission to attack.”

Eleven words, one of which might possibly be omitted; but they presented a problem of enormous complexity, in which a score of factors had to be correlated--and to which a solution had to be found in as few seconds as possible. Krause’s eye sought the repeater and a well-accustomed mind simplified one factor in a moment. A contact-bearing three-five-five lay, on the present leg of the zigzag, just forward of the port beam.
James,
as the wing ship of the four-destroyer escort, was three miles to port of the convoy. The U-boat--if indeed the contact indicated the presence of a U-boat, which was by no means certain--then must lie several miles from the convoy, and not far forward of the convoy’s port beam. A glance at the clock; in fourteen minutes another change of course was due. This would be to starboard, turning the convoy definitely away from the U-boat. That was a point in favour of leaving the U-boat alone.

There were other factors favouring the same decision. There were only four fighting ships for the whole screen, only sufficient when all were in station to cover the whole immense front of the convoy by sonar search. Detach one --or two--and there would be practically no screen, only gaps through which other U-boats might well slip. It was a weighty factor, but there was a factor more weighty still, the question of fuel consumption--the factor that had burdened the mind of every naval officer since sail.
James
would have to work up to full speed; she would be detached far off the convoy’s course. She might be searching for hours, and, whatever the result of the search, she would have to rejoin the convoy which most likely would be heading away from her during the whole search. That would mean an hour, or two, or three, at high speed with an extra consumption of some tons of fuel. There was fuel to spare, but little enough, only a small reserve. Was it advisable, at this moment, with action only just beginning, to make inroads upon that reserve? During Krause’s lifetime of professional training no point had been more insisted on than that every wise officer kept a reserve in hand to employ at the crisis of a battle. It was an argument--the constant argument--in favour of caution.

But then, on the other hand, a contact had been made. It was possible--it might even just be called likely--that a U-boat might be killed. The killing of a U-boat would be a substantial success in itself. And the consequences might be more important still. If that U-boat were allowed to depart unharmed, she could surface, and by her radio she could inform German U-boat headquarters of the presence of shipping at this point in the Atlantic-- shipping that could only be Allied shipping, that could only be targets for U-boat torpedoes. That was the least the U-boat might do; she might surface, and, making use of her surface speed, twice that of the convoy, she might keep the latter under observation, determine its speed and base course, and call up--if German headquarters had not already issued such orders--a wolf-pack of colleagues to intercept and to launch a mass attack. If she were destroyed, nothing of this could happen; if she were even kept down for an hour or two while the convoy made good its escape, the business of finding the convoy again would be made much more difficult for the Germans, much more prolonged, possibly made too difficult altogether.

“Still making contact, sir,” squawked the telephone.

It was twenty-four seconds since Krause had arrived on the bridge, fifteen seconds since he had been confronted with the complex problem in its entirety. It was fortunate that during hours on the bridge, during hours solitary in his cabin, Krause had thought deeply about similar problems. No possible amount of thinking could envisage every circumstance; the present case--the exact bearing of the contact, the current fuel situation, the position of the convoy, the time of day--added up to one out of thousands of possible situations. And there were other factors that Krause had envisaged as well, he was an American officer whom the chances of war had tossed into the command of an Allied convoy. A freak of seniority had put under the orders of him, who had never heard a shot fired in anger, a group of hard-bitten young captains of other nations with experience of thirty months of war. That introduced a number of factors of enormous importance but not susceptible of exact calculation like a fuel-so consumption problem--not even as calculable as the chances of effecting a kill after making a contact. What would the captain of the
James
think of him if he refused permission to attack? What would the seamen in the convoy think of him if other U-boats got in through the screen so dangerously attenuated by that permission? When the reports started to come in would one government querulously complain to another that he had been too rash? Or too cautious? Would officers of one navy shake their heads pityingly, and officers of another navy try half-heartedly to defend him? Gossip flies rapidly in an armed service; seamen can talk even in wartime until their complaints reach the ears of congressmen or members of parliament. Allied goodwill depended to some extent on his decision; and upon Allied goodwill depended ultimate victory and the freedom of the world. Krause had envisaged these aspects of his problem, too, but in the present case they could not affect his decision. They merely made his decision more important, merely added to the burden of responsibility that rested on his shoulders.

“Permission granted,” he said.

“Aye aye, sir,” said the telephone.

The telephone squawked again instantly.

“Eagle to George,” it said. “Request permission to assist Harry.”

Eagle was the Polish destroyer
Viktor,
on
Keeling’s
port beam between her and the
James,
and the voice was that of the young British officer who rode in her to transmit T.B.S. messages.

“Permission granted,” said Krause.

“Aye aye, sir.”

Krause saw the
Viktor
wheel about as soon as the words were spoken; her bows met a roller in a fountain of spray, and she heaved up her stern as she soared over it, still turning, working up speed to join the
James. Viktor
and
James
were a team that had already achieved a “probable sinking” in a previous convoy.
James
had the new sound range-recorder and had developed a system of coaching
Viktor
in to make the kill. The two ships were buddies; Krause had known from the moment the contact had been reported to him that if he detached one it would be better to detach both, to make a kill more likely.

It was now fifty-nine seconds since the summons to Krause in his cabin; it had taken not quite a minute to reach an important decision and to transmit the orders translating that decision into action. Now it was necessary to dispose his two remaining escort ships,
Keeling
and H.M.C.S.
Dodge,
out on his starboard quarter, to the best advantage; to attempt with two ships to screen thirty-seven. The convoy covered three square miles of sea, an immense target for any torpedo fired “into the brown,” and such a torpedo could be fired advantageously from any point of a semi-circle forty miles in circumference. The best attempt to cover that semi-circle with two ships would be a poor compromise, but the best attempt must still be made. Krause spoke into the telephone again.

“George to Dicky.”

“Sir!” squawked the telephone back to him instantly.
Dodge
must have been expecting orders.

“Take station three miles ahead of the leading ship of the starboard column of the convoy.”

Krause spoke with the measured tones necessary for the transmission of verbal orders; it called attention to the unmusical quality of his voice.

“Three miles ahead of the leading ship of the starboard column,” said the telephone back to him. “Aye aye, sir.”

That was a Canadian voice, with a pitch and a rhythm more natural than the British. No chance of misunderstanding there. Krause looked at the repeater and then turned to the officer of the deck.

“Course zero-zero-five, Mr Carling.”

“Aye aye, sir,” answered Carling, and then to the quartermaster, “Left standard rudder. Steer course zero-zero-five.”

“Left standard rudder,” repeated the helmsman, turning the wheel. “Course zero-zero-five.”

That was Parker, quartermaster third class, aged twenty-two and married and no good. Carling knew that, and was watching the repeater.

“Make eighteen knots, Mr Carling,” said Krause.

“Aye aye, sir,” answered Carling, giving the order.

“Make turns for eighteen knots,” repeated the man at the annunciator.

Keeling:
turned in obedience to her helm; the vibration transmitted from the deck up through Krause’s feet quickened, as the ship headed for her new station.

“Engine room answers one eight knots,” announced the hand at the engine-room telegraph. He was new to the ship, a transfer made when they were in Reykjavik, serving his second hitch. Two years back he had been in trouble with the civil authorities for a hit-run automobile offence while on leave. Krause could not remember his name, and must remedy that.

“Steady on course zero-zero-five,” announced Parker; there was the usual flippant note in his voice that annoyed Krause and hinted at his unreliability. Nothing to be done about it at present; only the mental note made.

“Making eighteen by pit, sir,” reported Carling.

“Very well.” That was the pitometer log reading. There were more orders to give.

“Mr Carling, take station three miles ahead of the leading ship of the port column of the convoy.”

“Three miles ahead of the leading ship of the port column of the convoy. Aye aye, sir.”

Krause’s orders had already set
Keeling
on an economical course towards that station, and now that she was crossing ahead of it would be a good moment to check on the convoy. But he could spare a moment now to put on his coat; until now he had been in his shirt-sleeves with his coat in his hand. He slipped into it; as his arm straightened he dug the telephone talker beside him in the ribs.

“Pardon me,” said Krause.

“Quite all right, sir,” mumbled the telephone talker. Carling had his hand on the lever that sounded the general alarm, and was looking to his captain for orders. “No,” said Krause.

Calling the ship to general quarters would bring every single man on board to his post of duty. No one would sleep and hardly anyone would eat; the ordinary routine of the ship would cease entirely. Men grew fatigued and hungry; the fifty-odd jobs about the ship that had to be done sooner or later to keep her efficient would all be left until later because the men who should be doing them would be at their battle stations. It was not a condition that could long be maintained---it was the battle reserve, once more, to be conserved until the crucial moment.

And there was the additional point that some men, many men, tended to become slack about the execution of their duty if special demands were continually made on them without obvious reason. Krause knew this by observation during his years of experience, and he knew it academically, too, through study of the manuals, in the same way as a doctor is familiar with diseases from which he has never suffered himself. Krause had to allow for the weaknesses of the human flesh under his command, and the flightiness of the human mind.
Keeling
was already in Condition Two, with battle stations largely manned and water-tight integrity--with its concomitant interference with the routine of the ship--strictly maintained. Condition Two meant a strain on the hands, and was bad for the ship, but the length of time during which Condition Two could be endured was measurable in days, compared with the hours that battle stations could be endured.