2

 

Wednesday. Forenoon Watch--0800-1200

 

There were nearly two thousand men in the convoy; there were over eight hundred in the four destroyers and escort vessels that guarded it. Expressing uselessly values quite immeasurable, three thousand lives and property worth fifty million dollars were in the charge of Commander George Krause, of the United States Navy, aged forty-two, height five feet nine, weight one hundred and fifty-five pounds, complexion medium, colour of eyes grey; and he was not only escort commander but captain of the destroyer Keeling of the Mahan class of fifteen hundred tons displacement, commissioned in 1938.

These were bald facts; and facts may mean very little. Back in the centre of the convoy was the tanker Hendrikson; it was of no importance that in the books of the company that owned her she was valued at a quarter of a million dollars and the oil she carried at another quarter of a million. That meant literally nothing; but the fact that if she should arrive in England her cargo would provide an hour’s steaming for the entire British Navy meant something too important to be measured at all--what money price can be put on an hour’s freedom for the world? The thirsty man in the desert pays no heed to his pocketful of banknotes. Yet the fact that Commander Krause tipped the scale at a hundred and fifty-five could be of appreciable importance; it could be a measure of the speed with which he could reach the bridge in an emergency, and, once on the bridge, it might give some faint indication of his ability to withstand the physical strain of remaining there. That was something of far more importance than the book value of the Hendrikson; it was of more importance even to the men who owned her, although they might not believe it, never having heard of Commander George Krause of the United States Navy. And they would not have been in the least interested to hear that he was the son of a Lutheran minister, that he had been devoutly brought up, and that he was a man very familiar with the Bible. Yet these were matters of primary importance, for in war the character and personality of the leader are decisive of events much more than minor questions of material.

He was in his cabin, having come out from under the shower, and he had towelled himself dry. It was the first opportunity he had had in thirty-six hours to take a bath, and he did not expect to have another for a long time. This was the blessed moment after securing from general quarters with the coming of full daylight. He had put on his thick woollen underclothes, his shirt and his trousers, his socks and his shoes. He had just finished combing his hair, a rather perfunctory gesture, for the mouse-coloured bristles, recently cropped short, were insusceptible to treatment. He stared into the mirror to check that his shave had been all that it should be. His eyes (grey by courtesy; more hazel than grey, and with a stony quality) met those of the reflection in the mirror without recognition or sympathy, as they would meet those of a stranger-- for Krause was indeed a stranger to himself, someone to be regarded impersonally if regarded at all. His body was something to be employed upon duty.

This bathing and shaving, this putting on of a clean shirt at this hour of the morning, all this dressing with the day far advanced, were a distortion of the proper order of things caused by the exigencies of war. Krause had already been on his feet for three hours. He had gone to the bridge in the darkness before general quarters had sounded, ready for the crisis that dawn might bring, and he had stood there as the blackness of the night turned slowly into the grey of dawn, with his ship and his men braced for action. With full daylight--if that melancholy greyness merited the term--the ship had secured from general quarters, and Krause could read the accumulated messages brought him by the communication officer, and he could receive brief reports from his heads of department, inspect with his own eyes, by the aid of his binoculars, the fighting ships under his command to starboard and port, and the vast mass of the convoy manoeuvring far astern of him. With dawn an hour ago it might be considered that the safest moment of the day had come, and Krause could briefly retire. He could offer up his prayers on his knees. He could take his breakfast. And then he could bathe and change even though it seemed highly irregular to do so at this time and not at the beginning of a new day.

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.

The fact that James was running down a contact at some distance from the convoy, with Viktor to help her, was not sufficient justification for sounding the general alarm; it was likely that dozens more such contacts would be reported before the convoy reached home. So Krause said “No” in reply to Carling’s unvoiced enquiry. Glance, decision, and reply consumed no more than two or three seconds of time. It would have taken at least several minutes for Krause to have given verbally all the reasons for that decision; it would have taken a minute or two at least for him to assemble them in his mind. But long habit and long experience made the reaching of decisions easy to him, and long thought had familiarized his mind beforehand with the conditions surrounding this particular emergency.

And at the same time his memory made a note of the incident, even though apparently it passed out of his mind as soon as it was disposed of. Carling’s readiness to sound general quarters was an item added to Krause’s mental dossier about Carling. It would affect, to some possibly infinitesimal extent, how much Krause could trust Carling as officer of the deck. It might eventually affect the “fitness report” which in course of time Krause would be making on Carling (assuming both of them lived long enough for that report to be made) with special bearing on the paragraph regarding Carling’s “fitness for command.” A tiny incident, one in thousands that made a complex whole.

Krause picked up his binoculars, hung them round his neck, and trained them towards the convoy. In the crowded pilot-house it was impossible to get a clear sight, and he stepped out on to the port wing of the bridge. The transition was instant and prodigious. The north-east wind, almost from dead ahead on this course, shrieked round him. As he raised the glasses to his eyes his right armpit felt the bitter cold strike into it. He should be wearing his sweater and his greatcoat; he would have been doing so if he had been left undisturbed for a minute longer in his sea-cabin.

They were passing the convoy flagship, an ancient passenger vessel with upper works lofty in comparison with the rest of the convoy. The convoy commodore whose pennant flew in her was an elderly British admiral back from retirement, undertaking a difficult, monotonous, dangerous and inglorious duty of his own free will, as of course he ought to do as long as the opportunity presented itself, even though that meant being under the orders of a young Commander of another nation. His present duty was to keep the ships of the convoy as nearly in order as possible, so as to give the escort every chance of protecting it.

Beyond the convoy flagship the rest of the convoy spread itself in irregular lines; Krause swept his binoculars round to examine them. The lines were certainly irregular, but not nearly as irregular as they had been when he had examined them at the end of the night, in the first light of dawn. Then the third column from starboard had been revealed in two halves, with the last three ships--five ships in that column, four in each of the others --trailing far astern, out of the formation altogether. Now the gap had been nearly closed. Presumably No. 3 ship, the Norwegian Kong Gustav, had experienced an engine-room defect during the night and had fallen astern; in the radio silence and the blackout that were so strictly-enforced, and with flag signals invisible in the darkness, she had been unable to inform the others of her plight, and had fallen farther and farther astern, with the ships following her conforming to her movements. Apparently the defect had been made good and Kong Gustav and her two followers were slowly crawling up into position again. The Southland, immediately astern of Kong Gustav - Krause had checked the name on his list soon after dawn --was smoking badly, perhaps in the effort to steam an extra half-knot to regain station, and several other ships were making more smoke than they should. Luckily, with the wind from ahead, and blowing hard, the smoke was lying low and dispersing rapidly. In calmer conditions the convoy would have been surmounted by a pillar of cloud visible fifty miles away. The Commodore had a signal-hoist flying--almost for certain it was the signal so frequently displayed in every navy--”Make less smoke.”

But conditions in the convoy could generally be described as good, with only three ships badly out of station and only a certain amount of smoke being made. There was time for a rapid glance round the Keeling; significant it was that Krause’s first care had been for the convoy and only his second care had been for his own ship. He lowered his binoculars and turned to look forward, the wind hitting him in the face as he did so, and, along with the wind, a few drops of spray hurled aft from the heaving bows. Aloft, the “bed-spring” of the radar antenna was making its methodical gyrations, turning round and round while the mast, with the rolling and pitching, was outlining cones, apex downward, of every conceivable dimension. The look-outs were at their posts, seven of them, all bundled-up in their arctic clothing, their eyes at the binoculars in the rests in front of them, traversing slowly to left and to right and back again, each sweeping his own special sector, but with each having to pause every few seconds to wipe from the object-glasses the spray flying back from the bows. Krause gave the look-outs a moment’s inspection; Carling, with his mind preoccupied with the duty of taking the ship to her new station, would not be giving them a glance at present. They seemed to be doing their work conscientiously; sometimes--unbelievable though it might be--look-outs were found wanting in that respect, tiring of a monotonous job despite frequent relief. It was a duty that had to be carried out with the utmost pains and method, without an instant’s interruption; a U-boat would never expose more than a foot or two of periscope above the surface of the sea, and never for more than half a minute at most; search had to be constant and regular to give any chance, not speaking of probability, of the transient appearance being detected. A second’s glimpse of a periscope could decide the fate of the convoy. There was even the chance that the sight of torpedo wakes streaking towards the ship and instantly reported might at least save the Keeling.

This was as long as he dared stay out on the wing of the bridge; half his force was heading towards battle out there to port-- Viktor had “peeled off” to join James some time ago--and he must be at the T.B.S. to exert control if necessary. Young Hart was approaching the port pelorus to take the bearings for Carling in his task of taking up station. Krause gave him a nod and went back into the wheel-house. The comparative warmth of it reminded him that in that brief time outside, without sweater or P-jacket, he had been chilled through. He stepped to the telephone; it was bleating and gurgling. He was overhearing the conversations between the British officers in James and Viktor.

“Bearing three-six-oh,” said one English voice.

“Can’t you get the range, old boy?” said another.

“No, damn it. Contact’s too indistinct. Haven’t you picked it up yet?”

“Not yet. We’ve swept that sector twice.”

“Come ahead slowly.”

From where Krause stood James was indistinguishable in the murk of the near horizon. She was only a little ship and her upper-works were not lofty. Viktor was bigger and higher and nearer; he could still see her, but she was already vague. With visibility so poor and the ships separating rapidly he would not have her in sight much longer although she would be prominent enough on the radar screen. Carling’s voice suddenly made itself audible; he may have been speaking before but Krause, concentrating on the T.B.S., had not listened to him, as what he was saying had no bearing on the problem in hand.

“Right standard rudder. Steer course zero-seven-nine,” said Carling.

“Right standard rudder. Course zero-seven-nine,” repeated Parker.

Keeling was at her new station now, or near it, evidently. She swung round, turning her stern almost directly towards Viktor. The distance between the two ships would now be widening more rapidly than before. Keeling rolled deeply to starboard, unexpectedly; feet slipped on the pilot-house deck, hands grabbed for security. Her turn had brought her into the hollow of the next roller without the opportunity to lift to it. She lay over for a long second, levelled herself abruptly, and equally abruptly lay over to port as the roller passed under her keel, so that feet slipped in the opposite direction and Carling came sliding down upon Krause.

“Sorry, sir,” said Carling.

“All right.”

“Steady on zero-seven-nine,” announced Parker.

“Very well,” answered Carling, and then to Krause, “Next zigzag is due in five minutes, sir.”

“Very well,” said Krause in his turn. It was one of his standing orders that he should be called five minutes before any change of course on the part of the convoy. The turn would bring the convoy’s sterns exactly towards Viktor and James. It was nine minutes since James had peeled off; she must be more than three miles from her station now, and the distance would be increasing by a quarter or even half a mile every minute. Her maximum speed in this sea would not be more than sixteen knots. It would take her half an hour--and that half-hour one of maximum fuel consumption--to retain her station if he recalled her now. And every minute that he postponed doing so meant she would spend five extra minutes overtaking the convoy; in other words if he left her out there for five more minutes it would be a full hour before she would be back in her station. Another decision to be made.

“George to Harry,” he said into the telephone.

“I hear you, George.”

“How’s that contact of yours?”

“Not very good, sir.”

Sonar notoriously could be inconsistent. There was much more than a faint chance that James was pursuing something that was not a submarine. Possibly even a school of fish, more likely a layer of colder or warmer water, seeing that Viktor was finding difficulty in getting a cross-bearing on it.

“Is it worth following it up?”

“Well, sir. I think so, sir.”

If there really were a U-boat there the German captain would be well aware that contact had been made; he would have changed course radically, and would now be fish-tailing and varying his depth; that would account at least in large part for the unsatisfactory contact. There was a new German device for leaving a big bubble behind, producing a transient sonar effect baffling to the sonar operator. There might be some new unknown device more baffling still. There might be a U-boat there.

On the other hand, if there were, and if James and Viktor were recalled, it would be some minutes before the U-boat would venture to surface; she would be doubtful as to the bearing of the convoy which would be heading directly away from her; she would certainly not make more than sixteen knots on the surface in this sea and probably less. The risk involved in leaving her to her own devices had been considerably diminished by those few minutes of pursuit. There was the matter of the effect such a decision would have on his British and Polish subordinates; they might resent being called off from a promising hunt, and sulk on a later occasion--but that reply to his last question had not been enthusiastic, even allowing for British lack of emphasis.

“You’d better call it off, Harry,” said Krause in his flat, impersonal voice.

“Aye aye, sir.” The reply was in a tone that echoed his own.

“Eagle, Harry, rejoin the convoy and take up your previous stations.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

There was no guessing whether the decision had caused resentment or not.

“Commodore’s signalling for the change of course, sir,” reported Carling.

“Very well.”

This slow convoy did not zigzag in the fashion of fast convoys; the passage would be prolonged inordinately if it did. The alterations of course were made at long intervals, so long that it was impossible for merchant captains to maintain station on the difficult lines of bearing involved in the fast convoy system--it was hard enough for them to maintain simple column and line. Consequently every change of course meant a ponderous wheel to left or to right, only a matter of ten or fifteen degrees, but that was a major operation. One wing had to maintain speed while the other reduced speed. Leaders had to put their helms over gently, and it seemed as if the ships following would never learn the simple lesson that to follow their leaders round in a wheel to starboard it was necessary to wait and then to turn exactly where the ship ahead turned; to turn too soon meant that one found oneself on the starboard side of the leader, and threatening the ships in the column to starboard; to turn too late meant heading straight for the ships in the column to port. In either event there would be need to jockey oneself back into one’s proper place in the column; not too easily.

Moreover, in this wheeling movement of the whole mass, it was necessary for the ships in the outer flank to move faster than those in the inner flank, which actually meant--seeing that those on the outer flank were already steaming as hard as they could go--that the ships in the starboard column must reduce speed. The large mimeographed booklet of instructions issued to every captain laid down standard proportionate reductions in speed for every column, but to comply with those instructions meant leafing hurriedly through the booklet and doing a rapid calculation when the right place was found. And if the correct figure were ascertained there was still the difficulty of getting an unpractised engine-room staff to make an exact reduction in speed; and there was always the difficulty that every ship responded to the rudder in a different way, with a different turning circle.

Every wheel the convoy made was in consequence followed by a period of confusion. Lines and columns tended to open out, vastly increasing the area the escort had to guard, and there were always likely to be stragglers, and experience had long proved that a ship straggling from the formation would almost certainly be sent to the bottom. Krause went out on to the starboard wing of the bridge and levelled his binoculars at the convoy. He saw the string of flags at the Commodore’s halyards come down.

“Execute, sir,” reported Carling. “Very well.”

It was Carling’s duty to report that hauling down even though Krause was aware of it; it was the executive moment, the signal that the wheel was to begin. Krause heard Carling give the order for the new course, and he had to train round his binoculars as Keeling turned. The ship leading the starboard column six miles away lengthened as he presented her side to his gaze; the three “islands” of her superstructure differentiated themselves in his sight now that she was nearly broadside on to him. A heavy roll on the part of Keeling swept the-ship out of the field of his binoculars; he found himself looking at the heaving sea, and he had to retrain the glasses, balancing and swaying with the roll to keep the convoy under observation. There was confusion almost instantly. The convoy changed from an almost orderly checker-board of lines and columns into a muddle of ships dotted haphazard, ships shearing out of line, ships trying to regain station, columns doubling up with the tail crowding on the head. Krause tried to keep the whole convoy under observation, even though the farthest ships were hardly visible in the thick weather; a collision might call for instant action on his part. He could detect none, but there must be some tense moments in the heart of the convoy.

The seconds, the minutes, were passing. The front of the convoy was an indented line. To all appearances there were not the nine columns that there should have been, but ten, eleven, no, twelve. On the starboard quarter of the Commodore an intrusive ship appeared. Ships were straying, as was only to be expected, out beyond the starboard leader. If one single ship did not obey orders exactly, did not reduce speed at the correct moment, or turned too soon or too late, ten ships might be forced out of station, jostling each other. As Krause watched he saw one of the most distant ships turning until her stern was presented to him. Someone out there of necessity or from recklessness was turning in a full circle; squeezed out from his position he was about to try to nose his way into it again. And out there on that heaving expanse of water could be a U-boat, possibly one commanded by a cautious captain, hanging on the outskirts of the convoy. An outlying ship like that would be a choice victim, to be torpedoed without any chance of one of the escort running down to the attack at all. Be sober, be vigilant, because your adversary the Devil as a roaring lion walketh about seeking whom he may devour.

There were flag-hoists ascending the Commodore’s halyards, presumably orders designed to straighten out the confusion. Inexperienced men would be trying to read them, through ancient telescopes, and with their ships heaving and swaying under their feet. Krause swung round to examine the port side column over Keeling’s quarter. That was in the least disorder, as might be expected; Krause looked beyond them. In the haze on the far horizon he could see a dot with a line above it. That was Viktor, coming up at her best speed to resume her station. James, with her poor sixteen knots, must be far astern of her.

As Krause turned back to re-examine the convoy a bright flash of light caught his eye, a series of flashes, from the Commodore. She was sending a searchlight signal, and her searchlight was trained straight at Keeling. It would be a signal for him; P-L-E- he fell behind with his reading of it, for the transmission was too fast for him. He looked up at his signallers; they were reading it without difficulty, one man noting down the letters as read to him by the other. A longish message, not one of desperate urgency then--and for moments of desperate urgency there were far more rapid means of communication. Up above they blinked back the final acknowledgment.

“Signal for you, sir,” called the signalman, stepping forward pad in hand.

“Read it.”

“ ‘Comconvoy to Comescort. Will you please direct your corvette on the starboard side to assist in getting convoy into order, question. Would be grateful.’ “

“Reply ‘Comescort to Comconvoy. Your last. Affirmative.’ “

“ ‘Comescort to Comconvoy. Your last. Affirmative.’ Aye aye, sir.”

Comconvoy had to word his signal like that, presumably; he was making requests of an associate, not giving orders to a subordinate. Let thy words be few, said Ecclesiastes; the officer drafting an order had to bear that recommendation in mind, but a retread admiral addressing an escort commander had to remember the Psalms and make his words smoother than butter.

Krause went back into the pilot-house, to the T.B.S.

“George to Dicky,” he said in that flat distinct voice. The reply was instant; Dodge was alert enough.

“Leave your station,” he ordered. “Go and - - “ he checked himself for a moment; then he remembered that it was a Canadian ship he was addressing so that the phrase he had in mind would not be misunderstood as it might be by the James or the Viktor, and he continued --”go and ride herd on the convoy on the starboard side.”

“Ride herd on the convoy. Aye aye, sir.”

“Look to the Commodore for instructions,” went on Krause, “and get those stragglers back into line.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

“Keep your sonar searching on that flank. That’s the dangerous side at present.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

I say to this man “Go,” and he goeth; and to another “Come” and he cometh. But what of the “great faith” that centurion had? Dodge was already wheeling round to carry out her orders. Now there was more to be done. The front of the convoy had been inadequately enough screened already, and now nearly all of it was wide open to attack. So there were more orders to give, orders to set Keeling patrolling along the whole five-mile front of the convoy, her sonar sweeping first on one side and then on the other as she steamed back and forth in a stout-hearted attempt to detect possible enemies anywhere in the convoy’s broad path, while Dodge moved about on the right flank of the convoy, her captain shouting himself hoarse through his bull-horn at the laggards--the words of the wise are as goads--at the same time as her sonar kept watch behind him. I was eyes to the blind, and feet was I to the lame.

Krause walked from the starboard wing of the bridge to the port side as Keeling made her second turn about. He wanted to keep his eye on the convoy; he wanted to use his own judgment as to when Dodge would have completed her task on the right flank, and as to when Viktor would be available to take her share of the patrol across the front. Even on the wing of the bridge, with the wind blowing, he was conscious, when he thought about it, of the monotonous ping-ping-ping of the ship’s sonar as it sent out its impulses through the unresponsive water. That noise went on ceaselessly, day and night, as long as the ship was at sea, so that the ear and the mind became accustomed to it unless attention were called to it.

The Commodore’s searchlight was blinking again, straight at him; another message. He glanced up at the signalman receiving it. The sharp rattle of the shutters of their light in reply told him that they had not understood a word and were asking for a repeat; he checked his irritation, for perhaps the Commodore was using some long-winded English polite form outside the man’s experience. But the time the message took to transmit did not indicate that it was long.

“Signal for you, sir.”

“Read it.”

The signalman, pad in hand as before, was a little hesitant.

“ ‘Comconvoy to Comescort,’ sir. ‘Huff-Duff‘ - - “

There was an inquiring note in the signalman’s voice there, and a second’s pause.

“Yes, Huff-Duff,” said Krause, testily. That was HFDF, high-frequency direction finding; his signalman had not met the expression before.

“ ‘Huff-Duff reports foreign transmission bearing eight-seven range from one-five to two-zero miles,’ sir.”

Bearing zero-eight-seven. That was nearly in. the path of the convoy. Foreign transmission; that could mean only one thing here in the Atlantic; a U-boat fifteen to twenty miles away. Leviathan, that crooked serpent. This was something far more positive and certain than James’s possible contact. This was something calling for instant decision as ever, and that decision had to be based as ever on a score of factors.

“Reply ‘Comescort to Comconvoy. Will run it down.’ “

“ ‘Comescort to Comconvoy. Will run it down.’ Aye aye, sir.”

“Wait. ‘Will run it down. Thank you.’ “

“ ‘Will run it down. Thank you.’ Aye aye, sir.”

Two strides took Krause into the pilot-house.

“I’ll take the conn, Mr Carling.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

“Right smartly to course zero-eight-seven.”

“Right smartly to course zero-eight-seven.”

“All engines ahead flank speed. Make turns for twenty-two knots.”

“All engines ahead flank speed. Make turns for twenty-two knots.”

“Mr. Carling, sound general quarters.”

“General quarters. Aye aye, sir.”

The warning horns blared through the ship as Carling pressed down on the handle; a din fit to wake the dead, to wake the exhausted sleepers in their bunks far below, summoning every man to his post, starting a torrent of men up the ladders. Clothes would be dragged on, unfinished letters flung aside, equipment snatched up. Through the din came the report, “Engine-room answers flank speed, sir.” Keeling was heeling as she turned; Heeling-Keeling was what the men called her, Heeling-Keeling, Reeling-Keeling.

“Steady on course zero-eight-seven,” said Parker.

“Very well. Mr Hart, how does the Commodore bear?”

Ensign Hart was at the pelorus in a moment.

“Two-six-six, sir,” he called.

Practically dead astern. The Huff-Duff bearing in itself would be exact enough. No need to plot a course to the estimated position of the U-boat.

Already the wheel-house was thronging with newcomers, helmeted figures, bundled-up figures, telephone talkers, messengers. There was much to be done; Krause went to the T.B.S.

“Eagle, I am running down a Huff-Duff indication bearing zero-eight-seven.”

“Oh-eight-seven. Aye aye, sir.”

“Take my place and cover the front of the convoy as quickly as you can.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

“You hear me, Harry?”

“I hear you, George.”

“Cover the left flank.”

“Cover the left flank. Aye aye, sir. We are four miles astern of the last ship, sir.”

“I know.”

It would be more than half an hour before James would be in her station; it would be nearly fifteen minutes before Viktor would be in hers. Meanwhile the convoy would be unprotected save by Dodge on the starboard wing. The risk run was one of the score of factors that had been balanced in Krause’s mind when the Commodore’s message came through. On the other hand there was this clear indication of an enemy ahead--Huff-Duff was highly reliable--and there was the poor visibility which would shroud Keeling while her radar could see through it. There was the need to drive the enemy under; there was the need to kill him. Even twenty miles ahead of the convoy Keeling would be of some protection to it.

Here was Lieutenant Watson, the navigator, reporting having taken over as officer of the deck from Carling. Krause returned his salute; it took only two sentences to inform him regarding the situation.

“Aye aye, sir.”

Watson’s handsome blue eyes shone in the shadow of his helmet.

“I have the conn, Mr Watson.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

“Messenger, my helmet.”

Krause put the thing on; it was for form’s sake, but at the same time the sight of the thickly-clad men about him reminded him that he was still only wearing his uniform coat and that he was already chilled through by his sojourn on the wing of the bridge.

“Go to my sea-cabin and bring me the sheepskin coat you’ll find there.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

The executive officer was reporting by voice-tube from the chartroom below. Down there was an improvisation of the combat information centre already fully developed in bigger ships. At the time when Keeling was launched sonar was in its infancy and radar had hardly been thought of. Lieutenant-Commander Cole was an old friend; Krause told him how matters stood.

“You’re likely to get her on the radar screen any time now, Charlie.”

“Yes, sir.”

Keeling was pulsating as she tore along under nearly full power. She lurched and she shuddered as a green roller burst over her forecastle. But the huge rolling waves were just regular enough and convex enough to permit her to maintain her present high speed. Eighteen miles away or less was a surfaced U-boat; at any moment the radar antenna far above the wheel-house might pick her up; the reports had all come in that battle stations were manned. The men who had been roused from their tasks, even the men who had abandoned their routine work to seize their equipment and go to their posts, were ignorant of the reason for this sudden call. Down in the engine-room there must be plenty of men wondering why there had been the call for flank speed; the men at the guns and the men at the depth-charge racks must be warned to be ready for instant action. A second or two must be spared for that. Krause walked to the loudspeaker. The bosun’s mate stationed there saw him coming, put his hand to the switch and received an approving nod. The call sounded through the ship.

“Now hear this. Now hear this.”

“This is the captain.”

Long training and long-practised self-control kept his voice even; no one could guess from that flat voice the excitement which boiled inside him, which could master him if he relaxed that self-control for an instant.

“We’re running down a U-boat. Every man must be ready for instant action.”

It might almost be thought that Keeling quivered afresh with excitement at the message. In the crowded pilot-house as Krause turned back from the receiver every eye was upon him. There was tenseness in the air, there was ferocity. These men were on their way to kill; they might be on their way to be killed, although for most of those present neither consideration weighed beside the mere fact that Keeling was heading for action, towards success or failure.

Something obtruded itself upon Krause’s attention; it was the sheepskin coat he had sent for, offered him by the young messenger. Krause was about to take it.

“Captain!”

Krause was at the voice-tube in a flash.

“Target bearing zero-nine-two. Range fifteen miles.”

Charlie Cole’s voice was genuinely calm. He was speaking with the unhurried care of a thoughtful parent addressing an excitable child, not that he thought of Krause as an excitable child.

“Right smartly to course zero-nine-two,” said Krause.

At the wheel now was Quartermaster First Class McAlister, a short, skinny Texan; Krause had been his division officer in the old days in the Gamble. McAlister would have been made Chief by now had it not been for a couple of deplorable incidents in San Pedro in the early ‘thirties. As he dryly repeated the order no one would imagine the fighting madman he had been with liquor in him.

“Steady on course zero-nine-two,” said McAlister, his eyes not moving from the compass repeater.

“Very well.”

Krause turned back to the voice-tube.

“What do you make of the target?”

“Dead ahead, sir. Not too clear,” said Charlie.

This Sugar Charlie radar was a poor job. Krause had heard of Sugar George, the new radar; he had never seen one, but he wished passionately that Keeling had been equipped with one.

“Small,” said Charlie Cole. “Low in the water.”

A U-boat for certain, and Keeling was rushing down upon her at twenty-two knots. We have made a covenant with death, and with hell are we at agreement. Comconvoy’s radio operator must be wonderfully good to have estimated the distance so accurately by the strength of the signals.

“Bearing’s changing a little,” said Charlie. “Bearing zero-nine-three. No, zero-nine-three and a half. Range fourteen miles. She must be on a nearly reciprocal course.”

The range had decreased by a mile in one minute and sixteen seconds. As Charlie said, she must be heading nearly straight towards Keeling, coming to meet her. Hell from beneath is moved for Thee to meet Thee at Thy coming. In five more miles, in seven minutes--less than seven minutes now--she would be within range of the five-inch. But Keeling had only two guns that could bear dead ahead. It would be better not to open fire at extreme range. With a high sea running, the range rapidly changing, and a radar that might or might not be accurately lined up, instant hits with a two-shell salvo were unlikely. Better to wait; better to hold on in the hope that Keeling might come rushing out of the murk to find her adversary in plain sight at easier range.

“Range thirteen miles,” said Charlie. “Bearing zero-nine-four.”

“Right smartly,” said Krause, “to course zero-nine-eight.”

The U-boat was apparently holding a steady course. This turn to starboard would intercept her, and if the target were to reveal itself it would be fine on the port bow instead of right ahead; only a small additional turn would then be necessary to bring the after guns to bear as well.

“Steady on course zero-nine-eight,” said McAlister.

“Very well.”

“Stop that noise,” barked Watson, his voice suddenly cutting through the tension. He was glowering at a telephone-talker, a nineteen-year-old apprentice seaman, who had been whistling through his teeth into the receiver before his mouth. From the telephone-talker’s guilty start it was obvious that he had been quite unconscious of what he was doing. But Watson’s sharp order had been as startling as a pistol shot in the tense atmosphere of the crowded pilot-house.

“Range twelve miles,” said Charlie. “Bearing zero-nine-four.”

Krause turned to the telephone-talker.

“Captain to gunnery officer. ‘Do not open fire without orders from me unless enemy is in sight.’ “

The talker pressed the button of his mouthpiece and repeated the words, with Krause listening carefully. That was not a good order, but it was the only one that would meet the present situation, and he could rely upon Fippler to understand it.

“Gunnery officer replies ‘aye aye, sir,’ “ said the talker.

“Very well.”

That boy was one of the new draft, fresh out of boot-camp, and yet it was his duty to pass messages upon which the fate of a battle might depend. But in a destroyer there were few stations which carried no responsibility, and the ship had to fight even with seventy-five recruits on board. With two years of high school to his credit the boy had at least the educational requirements for his station. And only experience would tell if he had the others; if he would stand at his post amid dead and wounded, amid fire and destruction, and still pass on orders without tripping over a word.

“Range twenty thousand,” said the talker. “Bearing zero-nine-four.”

This marked an important moment. Calling the range in thousands of yards instead of in miles was the proof that the enemy was almost within range; eighteen thousand yards was the maximum for the five-inch. Krause could see the guns training round ready to open fire on the instant. Charlie was speaking on the circuit to gunnery control and captain. And the bearing had not been altered either; Keeling was on a collision course with the U-boat. The climax was approaching. What was the visibility? Seven miles? Twelve thousand yards? Apparently about that. But that estimate was not to be relied upon; there might be a clear patch, there might be a thick patch. At any moment the U-boat might come into sight over there, where the guns were pointing. Then the shells would be sent winging to the target. It must be hit, shattered, before the U-boat crew could get below at the sight of the destroyer rushing down upon them, before they could dive, before they could armour themselves with a yard of water as impenetrable to Keeling’s shells as a yard of steel, and armour themselves with invisibility as well. Hide thyself as it were for a little moment, until the indignation be overpast.

“Range one-nine-oh-double oh. Bearing steady on zero-nine-four,” said the talker.

A constant bearing. U-boat and destroyer were nearing each other as fast as was possible. Krause could look round the crowded pilot-house, at the tense faces shadowed by the helmets. The silence and the immobility showed that discipline was good. Forward of the bridge he could see the crew of one of the starboard 40-mm. guns, staring out in the direction the five-inch were pointing. The tremendous spray that Keeling was flinging aft from her bows must be driving against them but they were not taking shelter. They certainly were keen.

“Range one-eight-five-double oh. Bearing steady on zero-nine-four.”

The silence was, of course, even more impressive, because the pinging of the sonar had ceased, for the first time for thirty-six hours. Sound ranging was quite ineffective with the ship making twenty-two knots.

“Range one-eight-oh-double oh. Bearing steady on zero-nine-four.”

He could open fire now. The five-inch were straining upwards, their muzzles pointing far above the grey horizon. A word and they would hurl their shells, upwards and outwards, there was the chance that one of them might crash into the U-boat’s hull. One shell would be enough. The opportunity was his. So was the responsibility for refusing to take advantage of it.

“Range one-seven-five-double oh. Bearing steady on zero-nine-four.”

On the U-boat’s bridge would be an officer and one or two men. The shell would come through the murk instantaneously for them; one moment they would be alive and the next moment they would be dead, ignorant of what had happened. In the control-room below the Germans would be stunned, wounded, flung dying against the bulkheads; in the other compartments the crew would hear the crash, would feel the shock, would stagger as the boat staggered, would see with horrified eyes the water rushing in upon them, in those few seconds before death overtook them as their boat went down, spouting great bubbles of air forced out by the inrushing water.

“Range one-seven-oh-double oh. Bearing steady on zero-nine-four.”

On the other hand, the salvo might plunge into the sea half a mile from the U-boat. The columns of water thrown up would be clear warning. Before another salvo could be fired the U-boat would be gliding down below the surface, invisible, unattainable, deadly. Better to make sure of it. This was only a Sugar Charlie radar.

“Range one-six-five-double oh. Bearing steady on zero-nine-four.”

Any moment now. Any moment. Were the look-outs doing their duty?

“Target disappeared,” said the talker.

Krause stared at him; for a couple of seconds he was uncomprehending. But the boy met his gaze without flinching. He was clearly aware of what he had said, and showed no disposition to amend it. Krause sprang to the voice-tube.

“What’s this, Charlie?”

“Afraid he’s dived, sir. It looked like it the way the pip faded out.”

“Radar’s not on the blink?”

“No, sir. Never known it so good before.”

“Very well.”

Krause turned back from the voice-tube. The crowd in the pilot-house were looking at each other under their helmet brims. By their attitudes, heavily clothed though they were, their disappointment was clearly conveyed. They seemed to sag in their bundled clothing. Now every eye was on him. For two and a half minutes it had been in his power to open fire on a U-boat on the surface; every officer in the United States Navy craved for an opportunity like that, and he had made no use of it. But this was no time for regret; this was not the moment to be self-conscious under the gaze of eyes that might or might not be accusing. There was too much to be done. More decisions had to be taken.

He looked up at the clock. Keeling must be about seven miles ahead of her station in the convoy screen. Viktor would be there by now, with her own sonar trying to search five miles of front. The convoy might now be in order, with Dodge on the starboard flank free to pay all her attention to anti-submarine duty; James would be fast coming up on the other flank. Meanwhile Keeling was still hurtling forward, away from them, at twenty-two knots. And the enemy? What was the enemy doing? Why had he dived? Watson, the ranking officer on the bridge, ventured to voice his opinion.

“He couldn’t have seen us, sir. Not if we couldn’t see him.”

“Maybe not,” said Krause.

Keeling’s look-outs were perched high up; if the U-boat had been visible to them only Keeling’s upper works would have been visible to the U-boat. But visibility was a chancy phenomenon. It was possible, barely possible, that in the one direction visibility had been better than in the other, that the U-boat had sighted them without being sighted herself. She would have dived promptly enough in that case.

But there could be other theories almost without limit. The U-boat might be newly fitted with radar--that was a development that must be expected sooner or later, and this might be the time. Naval Intelligence could debate that point when the reports came in. Or she might have been informed of the course and position of the convoy and have merely gone down to periscope depth as soon as she was squarely in its path--her course up to the moment of disappearing had been apparently laid to intercept the convoy. That was a good tactical possibility, perhaps the likeliest. There were others, though. It might be merely a routine dive. She might merely be exercising her crew at diving stations. Or more trivial yet. It might be the U-boat crew’s dinner time and the cook may have reported that he could not prepare a hot meal with the boat tossed on the sea that was running, and that might have decided the captain to take her down into the calm below the surface. Any explanation was possible; it would be best to retain an open mind on the subject, to remember that about eight miles ahead there was a U-boat under the surface, and to come to a prompt decision regarding what should be done next.

First and foremost it was necessary to get Keeling as close to the U-boat, within sonar range. So flank speed should be maintained at present. The point where the U-boat had dived was known; she could be proceeding outwards from that point at two knots, four knots, eight knots. In the plot down below circles would be drawn spreading out from that point like ripples round the spot where a stone drops into a pond. The U-boat would be known to be within the largest circle. In ten minutes she could travel a mile easily, and a circle within a radius of a mile would be over three square miles in area. To search three square miles thoroughly would take an hour, and in an hour the maximum circle would expand to enclose a hundred square miles.

It was most unlikely that the U-boat would linger near the point where she dived. She would head somewhere, in some direction, along one of the three hundred and sixty degrees radiating out from her centre. Yet it seemed the most reasonable assumption that below the surface she would continue the course she had been following on the surface. Even a German submarine, cruising in the North Atlantic in search of prey, did not wander about entirely aimlessly. She would make a wide sweep in one direction and then a wide sweep in another. If she had dived for some trivial reason she would probably maintain her course; if she had dived to attack the convoy she would probably maintain her course, too, seeing that was the course that would bring her square into its path. If she was on any other course it would be hopeless to seek her with a single ship; hopeless, that was the right word, not difficult, or arduous, or formidable, or nearly impossible.

Then was it worthwhile to make the attempt to regain contact? It would be something over ten minutes before Keeling would cross the U-boat’s path if both ships maintained course, but as the convoy was almost following them Keeling could conduct a search and regain station in the screen without being away much more than that time. The alternative was to head straight back and in the regular position in the screen to hope that the U-boat came into contact as she crept into ambush. Defence or offence? Move or counter-move? It was the eternal military problem. The attack was worth trying; it was worth making a search; so Krause coldly decided, standing there in the crowded pilot-house with every eye on him. He that seeketh findeth.

“Give me a course to intercept if the target maintains course at six knots,” he said into the voice-tube.

“Aye aye, sir.”

It would hardly be different from the present course; on the surface the U-boat must have been making about twelve. He could have produced a close approximation in his head. The tube called him.

“Course zero-nine-six,” it said.

A trifling variation, but would make a difference of a full mile in ten minutes at this speed. He turned and gave the order to the quartermaster, and then turned back to the tube.

“Warn me when we are within two miles,” he said. “Aye, aye, sir.”

“Steady on course zero-nine-six,” said McAlister.

“Very well.”

About nine minutes to go; it would be best if the ship’s company were told of the situation. He addressed himself to the loudspeaker again.

“The U-boat has dived,” he said into the unresponsive instrument. “He appears to have dived, at least. We are going on looking for him.”

A more sensitive man that Krause, a man with the telepathic perception of the orator, might have been aware of the atmosphere of disappointment that pervaded the ship as he stepped away from the instrument. He looked at the clock again and strode out on to the wing of the bridge. The wind there was tremendous, what with Keeling’s twenty-two knots practically added to the northeasterly wind. There was dense spray flying, too, freezing cold. As he looked aft he could see the unfortunate men stationed at the depth-charge racks cowering for shelter; it was well that the routine even of battle stations allowed them regular relief. He raised his glasses. He could just make out in the murk, very vaguely, Viktor’s peculiar foremast, a speck of more solid grey in the general greyness. With Keeling leaping and rolling as she was, and with the spray flying, it was impossible to make out more detail than that, and although he swept the rest of the horizon astern with the glasses he could see nothing else at all. Radar would tell him instantly where the convoy was, but that was not what he wanted. He wanted to see with his own eyes what would be the condition of the battlefield if battle there should be, if miraculous good fortune should lead to a U-boat being located between Keeling and Viktor. He turned and swept the horizon ahead; the same grey murk, the same vague junction of sky and water. But should a U-boat surface within range of the 40-mm. guns her bridge would be visible enough to look-outs and gun crews and gunnery officer.

He came back into the pilot-house with his eyes on the clock. The messenger sprang forward, still holding out the sheepskin coat he had sent for long before. Long before? Not so long, measured in minutes. He put his arms into it and the weight of the coat pressed his clothes against his body. His body was cold but the clothes were colder still, chilled down to freezing-point by the forty-knot wind that had blown between its fibres. He shuddered uncontrollably at the contact. He could hardly bear it. Hands, limbs, and body were frozen; he found his teeth chattering. It had been folly to go out on the open bridge without being fully bundled up; he had not even put on his sweater under his uniform coat. If he had caught young Ensign Hart doing anything as foolish he would have bawled him out. Even now he was not properly clad; sweater, gloves, and scarf were all missing.

He mastered the chattering of his teeth and hugged the coat to him in the comparative warmth of the pilothouse so as to make the chilly contact as brief as possible, for warmth to creep back from his revivifying body into the thick woollen underclothing against his skin. He would send for the rest of his clothes in a moment. The voice-tube summoned him.

“Two miles, sir.”

“Very well.” He swung round, too cold to use the full formula. “Standard speed.”

“Standard speed,” repeated the hand at the annunciator. “Engine-room answers ‘Standard speed.’ “

That was self-evident at once. The churning vibration died away magically, to be replaced by a more measured beat that seemed by contrast almost gentle, and Keeling ceased to crash, shatteringly, into the waves that met her bow. She had time to lift and to incline to them, to heave herself up the long grey slopes and to corkscrew herself over them, so that again by contrast her motion seemed almost moderate.

“Get the sonar going,” ordered Krause, and the words were hardly out of his mouth before the first ping made itself heard through the ship, succeeded before it had died away by another ping, and by another after that, and another, so that the ear, already long accustomed to the monotonous sound, would soon have omitted to record it, were it not that on this occasion everyone in the pilothouse was listening to it intently, wondering if it would reveal an enemy. That monotonous ping, each ping an impulse, feeling out through the dark water in search of a foe creeping along in the depths; it searched slowly to the left, and slowly to the right, searching and searching. This was the hearing ear of Proverbs Twelve, taking over the task of radar’s seeing eye.

Did the last ping sound different? Apparently not, for there was no report from sonar. Down below was Radioman First Class Tom Ellis. He was a graduate of the Key West Sound School and had been in the ship since the outbreak of war; presumably efficient when he came, he had spent the intervening months listening to pings, eternally listening, from watch to watch during all the time Keeling had been at sea. That was not to say he was more efficient than when he left the Sound School; it might mean the reverse. At Key West he had gone through a few hurried exercises. He had listened to the echo from a friendly submarine, had noted the variations of pitch as the submarine altered course under water, had taken the bearing and estimated the range; he had been hurried through a couple of lessons on enemy counter measures, and then he had been sent off to sea to listen to echoes. And never since had he heard one; the vibrations he had sent out had never bounced back to his listening ear from a submarine, friendly or hostile; he had no refresher exercise, and most certainly he had never played the deadly game of hide and seek with an enemy. It was humanly possible that now he would not recognize an echo if he heard one; it was certainly likely that he would not draw the instant deductions from the nature of the echo that were necessary if an attack were to be successful. A depth-charge dropped within ten yards of its target meant a probable victory; a depth-charge dropped twenty yards away meant a certain failure. The difference between ten and twenty yards could be accounted for by the difference between the prompt reactions of a practised operator and the tardy reactions of an unpractised one.

And that still left out of consideration the question of nerve; there was no way of knowing as yet whether Ellis was nervous or cool, which was not the same thing as being cowardly or brave. A man could grow flustered merely at the thought of failure, without even thinking as far as the possible censure of his division officer or his captain. Fingers became thumbs, quick wits became slow, in certain men, merely because much depended on accurate manipulation or rapid thinking. Ellis down there could hardly fail to be aware that success or failure hinged upon his sole efforts, upon the delicacy with which he turned his dial, the deductions he had to make from a variation in the quality of the echo. That could make him stupid or clumsy or both. The fact that failure might mean a torpedo into Keeling’s side which would blow Ellis and his instruments into fragments, was not so important, Krause knew. Plain cowardice was far rarer than idiocy, just as plain courage was more common than nerve. Krause thought about Ellis as he knew him, sandy-haired, a most ordinary type of young man, except perhaps for the slightest hint of a cast in his right eye. He had addressed him personally a dozen times at most. Those few sentences exchanged at inspections and brief interviews could tell him nothing about the man upon whom now everything depended, the young seaman standing at attention, the young seaman indistinguishable in a line of others at quarters.

The seconds were creeping on as Keeling rolled and pitched and staggered her way forward over the waves; Krause stood balancing on the heaving decks in the silence of the pilot-house--silent despite the din of wind and water outside. It was a surprise when the talker spoke.

“Sonar reports contact, sir.”

The talker was a short, stocky man with a misshapen nose; the large helmet, apparently over-large to accommodate his ear-phones, gave him a gnome-like appearance.

“Very well.”

Everyone in the pilot-house was doubly tense at the news. Watson took a step forward; other men fidgeted. No need to harass Ellis with questions; on the contrary, it might fluster him. Ellis must be presumed to know what was wanted of him until the contrary should be proved.

“Contact bearing zero-nine-one,” said the talker. Ellis was passing the first test, then. “Range indefinite.”

“Very well.”

Krause could not bring himself to say more than those words. He shared the tenseness of the others; he could feel the beating of his heart and the sudden dryness of his throat. He looked over at Watson and jerked his thumb; he knew that hand would tremble if he allowed it to; this was buck-fever, unmistakably. Watson sprang to the repeater with the order to McAlister, staring down at the compass repeater.

“Contact bearing dead ahead, sir,” said the talker. “Range still indefinite.”

“Very well.”

This talker was good at his job. Each word was uttered expressionless and distinct. It was like a schoolboy repeating a recitation learned by heart without any understanding at all. Emotion in a talker was a most undesirable quality.

“Contact bearing dead ahead, sir,” said the talker again. “Range two thousand.”

“Very well.”

They were bearing straight down at the U-boat, then. Krause had his watch in his hand; it was an effort to read the sweeping second-hand.

“Range nineteen hundred yards.”

A hundred yards in fourteen seconds? With Keeling going twelve knots? There was something quite impossible about that figure. That was just her time to go a hundred yards, and the U-boat would hardly be lying still. Any other figure than that would be more promising. Those range estimates depended entirely on the accuracy of Ellis’s ear. They could be completely wrong.

“Range eighteen hundred yards.”

“Very well.”

“No contact, sir. Contact lost.”

“Very well.”

It was to be guessed that the talker was repeating exactly word for word what Ellis down below was saying into his mouthpiece. On that evidence it was to be assumed that Ellis was not flustered, at least not as yet.

“Captain to sonar. ‘Search on the starboard bow.’ “

The talker released his button. “Sonar answers ‘Aye aye, sir.’ “

“Very well.”

What was the contact that had been made? Some will-o’-the-wisp effect of a cold layer? A pillenwerfer bubble released by a U-boat? It may have been a real contact broken off by some intervening condition. But it was important that they had made contact almost exactly at the point where contact was to be expected if the deductions he had made from the radar indication were correct. Then the U-boat had been on a course at a slight angle-to Keeling’s, crossing from port to starboard. The likeliest possibility was that she was still maintaining that course after letting off a pillenwerfer; but there was also the chance that she had been moving very slowly across Keeling’s bows--slowly enough for the reported range to have remained constant for a time--and had then taken sudden evasive action, going deep and turning; turning in which direction? The sonar pinged on monotonously; minutes were passing, precious minutes. Five minutes meant that Keeling was at the last indicated position; it also meant that the U-boat was half a mile or more from it. It might mean, too, that she was aiming a torpedo for Keeling’s vitals.

“Sonar reports contact, sir. Port beam, range indefinite.”

So he had been wrong in thinking she had continued her course to his starboard side; but there were no seconds to spare to think about it.

“Left full rudder.”

“Left full rudder,” repeated McAlister.

The desire to increase speed was passionate within him; he wanted to hurl Keeling down along the bearing of the new contact, but that was inadvisable. Already at this snail’s crawl he was going as fast as the sonar would tolerate.

“Report all bearings as relative,” he ordered. “Contact bearing port five-zero, sir.”

“Very well.”

Keeling was still turning; she had not come round far enough, when the echo returned, to be pointing straight in the direction of the previous one.

“Contact starboard zero-five. Range twelve hundred yards.”

Excellent. Keeling’s speed might be a snail’s crawl, but that of the submerged U-boat was slower still.

“Contact starboard one-zero. Range twelve hundred yards.”

The U-boat was turning too. Her turning circle submerged would be considerably smaller than Keeling’s.

“Right full rudder.”

“Right full rudder.”

Speed above versus manoeuvrability below. But with the rudder hard over Keeling would lose speed; two opponents evenly matched. Green water crashed over Keeling’s low waist as she heeled on the sharp turn.

“Contact starboard one-zero. Range steady at twelve hundred yards.”

“Very well.”

Turning exactly together. This high sea was reducing Keeling’s manoeuvrability; a moment’s smooth would give her the chance to come round more sharply, if only one would come.

“Range eleven hundred yards.”

They were cutting down on the U-boat.

“Bearing?” snapped Krause, to regret the question instantly. The talker could only repeat what was coming to him through his ear-phones.

“Bearing starboard one-zero.”

“Very well.”

Bearing constant, range growing less. Keeling’s greater speed was prevailing over the U-boat’s smaller turning circle. In time--in time--Keeling would cut across the U-boat’s track, would pass over her, would destroy her.

“Contact bearing starboard zero-five. Range one thousand.”

Closer! More nearly ahead! Keeling must be answering her helm better. Victory was nearer than he had thought. Keeling was shearing through white water now. She was crossing her own wake, having turned in a full circle.

“Contact bearing port zero-five. Range eleven hundred yards. Opening, sir.”

“Left full rudder! “ roared Krause.

The U-boat had fooled him. At the moment of the previous report she had been turning in the opposite direction. Now she was off on a different track entirely, with Keeling still swinging away from her. She had regained her lost hundred yards and would regain more before Keeling could come round again. McAlister was spinning the wheel round savagely. Keeling lay far over, took in another green sea, and staggered.

“Contact bearing port one-zero. Range twelve hundred.”

The U-boat might be getting clear away. She had made the best use of her superior manoeuvrability, and she had taken full advantage of the necessary time interval intervening between a change of course on her part and the news of it reaching her enemy’s captain. The information reaching Keeling was limited and slow; the deductions to be drawn from it could be faulty--we know in part, and we prophesy in part; the U-boat captain was aware of Keelings limitations.

“Contact bearing port one-five. Range indefinite.”

“Very well.”

Most assuredly had the U-boat fooled him. She had gained some considerable distance on him and widened her bearing. Three minutes ago he had been congratulating himself upon closing on her. Now he felt fear in case she should get clear away. But Keeling was swinging fast.

“Contact bearing port one-five. Range indefinite.”

“Very well.”

With left full rudder Keeling was chasing her tail again in the opposite direction. An ignorant observer might think the analogy to a kitten’s behaviour a close one, if he were not aware of the life-and-death battle she was waging against an invisible opponent.

“Contact bearing port one-five. Range twelve hundred yards.”

So that was the measure of what he had lost. If he were fooled a couple more times like this he might well find himself on an opposite course to the U-boat, and the latter would get clear away before he could turn again. The talker was sneezing, explosively, once and then twice. Now everyone was looking at him. The whole battle could hinge upon his mastering the convulsion; the sneeze of one single seaman might change the fate of empires. He straightened himself and pressed his telephone button.

“Repeat.”

Everyone waited until he spoke again. “Contact bearing port one-three. Range eleven hundred yards.”

So Keeling was regaining the lost ground.

“You going to do that again?” demanded Krause.

“No, sir. Don’t think so, sir.”

The talker had brought his handkerchief out from his bundled clothing, but was not attempting to use it with his instrument clamped before his face. If he was going to have further fits of sneezing it would be best to relieve him. He decided to risk it.

“Contact bearing port one-one. Range one thousand.”

“Very well.”

The U-boat had met with a limitation, too. Having gained in distance from Keeling she was out on a wider arc so that Keeling could turn within her, closing up until equilibrium was again established, for U-boat and destroyer to circle about each other again, like planet and satellite. The equilibrium could only be broken by an extra piece of good fortune on the part of the U-boat enabling her to break off contact altogether--or an extra piece of good management on the part of Keeling enabling her to close with her antagonist. And the time factor might incline to either party; if the struggle were sufficiently prolonged the U-boat would find her batteries and her air exhausted--but if the struggle were sufficiently prolonged Keeling might find herself so far from her post of duty with the convoy that she would have to turn away and rejoin. A game of catch, a game of hide and seek; but a game with table stakes played for keeps.

“Contact bearing port one-one. Range one thousand.”

“Very well.”

Destroyer and submarine were circling about each other. As long as this particular situation prevailed, Keeling had the edge. Time was on her side; the U-boat’s batteries would not last for ever, and the chances were more in favour of Keeling closing the gap through unusual conditions than that the U-boat could simply outrun and out-turn her. As with the last time they had circled, it was up to the U-boat to do something about the situation.

“Contact bearing port one-one. Range steady at one thousand.”

“Very well.”

Krause took a sudden decision. “Right full rudder.”

A fifth of a second’s hesitation in McAlister’s reply; the tiniest sharp note of surprise or protest in his tone. It was as if Keeling were breaking off the battle. McAlister was spinning the wheel round clockwise; Keeling lurched, rolled, shipped a hundred tons of water as her circular momentum was abruptly nullified and then reversed.

Two children running round a table, one in pursuit of the other. It was the oldest stratagem in the world for the pursuer to reverse direction, and run the other way round, for the pursued to run straight into his arms; it was up to the pursued to anticipate that turn and turn himself at the same moment. In this pursuit of U-boat by destroyer it was not possible for the destroyer to attempt the same manoeuvre; the destroyer turned far too slowly and far too wide, reversing her turn would take her far out of sonar range; it would be, as McAlister thought, an abandonment of the pursuit. But that was not all the story. In this pursuit it was up to the U-boat to do something different, for if she maintained her circling course indefinitely she would certainly be caught in the end.

There was really only one change she could make, to turn suddenly and head in another direction, in the opposite direction for choice. She had practised that trick once already with considerable success. She turned faster than the destroyer in any case; and she had the advantage of gaining time. There were the seconds it took for Ellis to note the change in the bearing. There were the seconds it took for that change to be reported to the bridge. There were the seconds it took for new helm orders to be given, and then there were the long, long seconds it took for Keeling to alter course. The U-boat could start her turn at her own selected moment, in response to a single order from her captain. It would be half a minute before the destroyer could begin to imitate her, and half a minute on practically reciprocating courses meant a divergence of some hundreds of yards, an enormous gain. The U-boat had only to repeat the manoeuvre successfully a few times to be out of sonar range and safe.

But what if the destroyer anticipated the manoeuvre, and turned a second or two before the U-boat did? Then for those seconds, or longer, until the U-boat realized what the destroyer was doing--and she would be under much the same handicap regarding the translation of information in action as the destroyer had been labouring under--the U-boat would be running straight into the destroyer’s arms, like the child running round the table. A childish stratagem indeed, simplicity itself, like most of the stratagems of war; but, like most of the stratagems of war, more easily thought of than executed. Not only quickness of thought was necessary for the execution, but resolution, determination. It was necessary to make up one’s mind and carry the plan through, to balance risk against gain and to be neither deterred by the one nor dazzled by the other. At the moment when Krause gave the order for right rudder Keeling had the U-boat well within sonar range, she was in hot pursuit, and even if she took no radical new action she had a slight chance of closing on her enemy. The turn meant risking all this. If the U-boat simply continued her course while Keeling wheeled away loss of all sonar contact would ensue practically for certain. The U-boat would be free to carry out any attack on the approaching convoy that her captain might decide upon. That was the stake that Krause was laying on the table, apparently. But it was not as great as it appeared, for there was the consideration that if he went on circling after the U-boat, turning, tardily, after she turned, he would gradually be left behind, would gradually find himself on a wider and wider bearing and would eventually be shaken off. He was not staking a certainty against a possibility, but one possibility against another.

There was a further consideration that might have influenced Krause; it might have influenced him but it did not. He was handling his ship, so to speak, under the eyes of the battle-hardened crews of the Polish destroyer and the British and Canadian corvettes. They had fought a dozen actions and he had never fought one. They would be keenly interested in the standard of the performance the Yank would put up, especially as mere chance put them under his command, especially as he had called them off from one pursuit already. They might be amused, they might be contemptuous, they might be spiteful. Some temperaments might have given some consideration to this side of the matter. It is a fact that Krause gave it none.

To analyse in this fashion all the tactical elements of the situation, and then the moral factors which led to Krause’s uttering the order for right rudder, would take a keen mind several minutes, and Krause’s decision had been reached in no more than one or two seconds without any conscious analysis at all, as the child running round the table suddenly reverses his course without stopping to think. A fencer’s parry changes into riposte in the tenth of a second, in the fiftieth of a second; that comparison might have additional force because (although it was not often remembered now) eighteen years before, and fourteen years before, Krause had been on the Olympic fencing team.

Keeling wallowed as she made her turn, shipping green water.

“Contact bearing indefinite,” said the caller.

“Very well.”

In the confusion of the water that was not to be wondered at. Keeling was coming round.

“Ease the rudder. Meet her,” ordered Krause.

Keeling had now completed her turn. McAlister repeated the order, and Keeling steadied herself.

“Contact bearing port zero-two. Range eight hundred yards,” said the talker.

“Very well.”

The manoeuvre had met with success. Keeling’s turn had anticipated the U-boat’s. She had her enemy almost dead ahead of her now, and she had closed in by two hundred invaluable yards.

“Steady as you go,” said Krause.

The U-boat might still be turning, probably was; if so it was better to let her continue across Keeling’s bows, losing more distance.

“Contact bearing dead ahead. Up Doppler,” said the talker.

The U-boat had continued her turn, then, coming still closer into Keeling’s power. The Doppler effect indicated that she and Keeling were right in line, on the same course; in other words Keeling was on the U-boat’s tail and overhauling her at their difference in speed, six knots or so, and less than half a mile behind. Four minutes of this and they would be right over her. There was the temptation to let loose all Keeling’s forty thousand horsepower, so as to leap the intervening distance, but that temptation must be resisted because of the deafening effect any increase in speed would have on the sonar.

“Contact bearing starboard zero-one. Range seven hundred. Up Doppler.”

They were overhauling her rapidly. The Doppler effect and the smallness of the change in bearing indicated that she was not turning at the moment Ellis got the last echo. The U-boat captain down there, having swung his boat out of the circle, had had to wait to hear from his own echo-ranging apparatus; perhaps he had not trusted the first report; perhaps he was waiting to see if Keeling were turning farther still; perhaps he was taking a second or two to make up his mind as to what to do next, and he was losing time, time and distance. He had turned straight out of the circle, not completely reversing his course, and he must have been astonished to find his adversary’s bows pointed straight at him when he steadied on the course he hoped would carry him to safety. Now he must manoeuvre again; three more minutes steady on this course and he was lost. He could turn to starboard or he could turn to port. Anticipate him once more and he would be close overside. His last turn had been to starboard; were his reactions such that he would instinctively turn to port this time, or would he be more cunning and repeat his previous turn? Krause had two seconds to think this all out, much longer than, when blade to blade, the fencer has to decide whether his adversary is going to lunge or feint.

“Right standard rudder.”

“Right standard rudder.”

At the moment of the reply the talker reported. “Contact bearing starboard zero-two. Range six hundred yards.”

Only six hundred yards between them; not too wide a turn, then.

“Ease the rudder.”

“Ease the rudder.”

And this was the moment to catch the eye of Lieutenant Nourse, torpedo officer and assistant gunnery officer standing in the starboard after-corner of the wheel-house.

“Stand by for medium pattern.” “Aye aye, sir.”

Nourse spoke into his mouth-piece. Krause gulped with excitement. The moment might be very close. It was always true, handling ships at sea, that time seemed to move faster and faster as the crisis approached. Two minutes ago action seemed far off. Now Keeling might be dropping her depth-charges at any second.

“Contact bearing port one-one. Range six hundred.”

That change in bearing was due to Keeling s turn, uncompleted at the moment when Ellis got his echo. The next report would be the vital one. Nourse was standing tense, waiting. The crews of “K” guns and of the depth-charge racks would be crouching ready to go. As Krause looked back from Nourse to the talker his gaze met momentarily that of a strange pair of eyes, he looked back again. It was Dawson, communications officer, clip-board in hand, come up to the bridge from his station below. That meant that some message--which must be radio-- had come in too secret for anyone to see save Krause and Dawson. Secret and therefore important. But it could not be as important for the next few seconds as the business in hand. Krause waved Dawson aside as the talker spoke again.

“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.”

“Very well.” He spoke those words over his shoulder before continuing his orders. “Harry, patrol all the port half, front and flank.”

“Port half. Aye aye, sir.”

“Dicky, take the starboard half.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

“Over.”

“Sonar reports no contact, sir,” said the talker again.

“Very well.”

It might be thought there was irony in those two words. Having called Viktor from her screening duties, having stretched the defences of the convoy to the utmost, he was greeted with the news that contact had been lost. But he could only hold on and hope that it might be recovered. He felt he could at least trust Ellis to go on trying. Viktor was much more plainly in view now, coming up fast and heading to cross Keeling s course some distance ahead.

“Captain to sonar. ‘A friendly destroyer will be crossing our bows in approximately seven minutes.’ “

The talker was repeating the message as Krause went to the T.B.S. again.

“George to Eagle. George to Eagle.”

“Eagle to George. I hear you.”

“Contact lost at present.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

The talker was speaking now.

“Sonar answers - - -“ The talker broke off as a new message came into his ear-phones. “Faint contact. One-nine-four.”

“Very well.” No time to spare to be pleased. “George to Eagle. Contact again five degrees on our starboard bow. I am turning to follow it.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

No doubt the U-boat was fish-tailing and changing her depth in the effort to shake off her pursuer. She would not have heard Viktor approaching yet.

“Eagle to George.”

“George to Eagle. Go ahead,” said Krause.

“I am reducing speed to one-two knots.”

“One-two knots. Very well.”

When Viktor had slowed down her sonar would be able to come into action; and it would make her approach somewhat harder for the U-boat to detect. Viktor had come up as fast as she could. She was an old hand at the anti-submarine game.

“Sonar reports no contact, sir.”

“Very well.”

Viktor was four miles off, Krause estimated, broad on the starboard bow. That peculiar foremast was clear in every detail. The two ships were converging. The bridge was silent, save for the sound of the sea and the monotonous pinging of the sonar.

“Sonar reports no contact, sir.”

“Very well.”

Keeling must have advanced nearly a mile since the last contact. If the U-boat had made a radical change of course at that time the bearing would by now be changing very fast.

“Two-zero-five!” exclaimed the talker. Everyone on the bridge tensed again. Krause was about to speak on the T.B.S. when he realized what he had heard. A sour note; he glanced at the talker.

“That’s not what you were taught,” he snapped. “Mind what you’re saying. Repeat.”

“Sonar reports contact two-zero-five, sir,” said the talker, abashed.

“Very well.”

There must be no buck-fever on the bridge of the Keeling; better to waste a second now than have confusion arising later.

“Take the conn, Mr Watson,” said Krause harshly; he had two ships to direct. He himself was calm as he addressed the T.B.S.; it was an advantage to be of unsympathetic temperament. Then other people’s excitement pushed one into indifference. “George to Eagle. Contact

again on my starboard bow. I am turning towards it.”

“Eagle to George. Aye aye, sir.”

He fancied he could detect an alteration of course on Viktor’s part, but he could not be certain at that distance and with the relative bearing altering. But there was no need to issue orders to Viktor. That Polish captain knew his job. No need to tell a terrier at a rat-hole what to do.

“Sonar reports contact bearing two-one-zero, sir. Range one mile.”

“Very well.”

“Steady on new course, sir!“ reported Watson at that very moment.

“Very well. Carry on, Mr Watson. George to Eagle. Contact is still crossing my bows from port to starboard, distance one mile.”

“Eagle to George. Aye aye, sir.”

Krause had spoken with the dead flat intonation he relied upon to be intelligible, with distinct pauses between words. The English officer in Viktor was answering as coldly, as far as Krause could tell from his peculiar accent and the distortion of the radio-phone. Now he could see Viktor surging right round, in an eight-point turn or more, so that she was presenting her starboard bow slightly to his gaze. The terrier was running to cut off the rat’s retreat.

“Sonar reports contact bearing two-one-zero, sir. Range two thousand yards.”

“Very well.”

The old situation was repeating itself, the U-boat circling and Keeling circling after her; but this time there was Viktor to intercept.

“Eagle to George.” Just as he was about to speak.

“Contact, sir. On my starboard bow. Range indefinite.”

“Very well. On my starboard bow, too. Range one mile.”

The rat was running into the terrier’s jaws. The two ships were approaching fast, and between them was the U-boat.

“Sonar reports contact dead ahead, sir.”

“Very well.”

That made it seem as if the U-boat had begun to swing in the opposite direction, out of the circle. There was no knowing if she was yet aware of Viktor’s presence, but it seemed as if she must be. Viktor was swinging to starboard already. Her sonar must be good.

“Eagle to George. Eagle to George. Contact close on my port bow. Converging.”

“George to Eagle. I hear you.”

Once more that phenomenon of the varying speed of time. With the ships close together seconds were speeding by; even during the brief exchange of messages the situation had tightened considerably.

“Eagle to George. Submit I attack.”

“George to Eagle. Carry on. Permission granted.”

“Sonar reports contact dead ahead, sir,” said the talker. “Range indefinite. Interference from the other ship.”

“Very well. George to Eagle. Contact dead ahead of me.”

He must hold this course for a moment or two longer to enable Viktor to get a cross-bearing. Then he must alter course to avoid collision. Which way? Which way would the hunted U-boat turn to avoid Viktor’s attack? Which way should he head to intercept her if she survived it? Viktor was turning to starboard a trifle farther. When Keeling had made her attack, the U-boat--as far as he knew--had turned right under her on an opposite course. It was the best thing she could do; it would be her best move again. “Come right fifteen degrees, Mr Watson.”

“Aye aye, sir. Right rudder to course - - “

“Eagle to George. Depth-charges away.”

Keeling was turning. Fine on her port bow rose the first column of water; farther and farther round rose the others, in Viktor’s wake. The sound of the explosions was audible and muffled.

“Sonar reports contact obscured, sir.”

“Very well. Captain to sonar. ‘Search on the port bow.’ “

That tremendous temptation again to call for flank speed, and chance muffling the sonar; the temptation must be put aside. Blessed is the man that endureth temptation; for when he is tried, he shall receive the crown of life. On this course they would pass clear by a wide margin of the area of tortured water which Viktor had depth-charged. Viktor was turning hard to starboard, coming back to the attack.

“Sonar reports close contact bearing one-eight-two.”

“Follow it up, Mr Watson! “ Watson gave the order as Krause spoke into the T.B.S. “George to Eagle. George to Eagle. Keep clear. I am going to attack.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

“I am setting for medium pattern. Set yours for deep.”

“Deep pattern. Aye aye, sir.”

“Medium pattern, Mr Nourse.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

“Sonar reports close contact dead ahead, sir. Strong up Doppler.”

“Very well. George to Eagle. I think contact is on reciprocal course to mine.”

“Eagle to George. Reciprocal course. Aye aye, sir,”

“Sonar reports contact lost, sir.”

“Very well. Mr Nourse! “

Three hundred yards at a combined speed of say eighteen knots; thirty seconds. Deduct fifteen for an ash-can to sink to medium depth. A ten-second spread before and after.

“Fire one! “ said Nourse.

Viktor was close, her bows pointed straight at Keeling; she had wheeled right round and was aiming to cross close behind Keeling’s stern. If this were a peace-time manoeuvre that Polish captain would be bawled out for endangering both ships. The “K” guns were going off on either side, their coughing explosions coinciding with the loud hollow boom of the first depth-charge. Wait fifteen more seconds.

“Come right, Mr Watson.”

No delay this time, no wasting of valuable moments idly watching depth-charge explosions before beginning to circle back again. Now with Keeling beginning her turn he could step out on to the wing of the bridge. The last upflung column of water was falling back to the foaming sea. Viktor was beginning her run at the edge of the area Keeling had searched with her charges; Krause saw the first of Viktor’s depth-charges drop.

“Meet her, Mr Watson! Steady as you go! “

Better not to come too close for a moment, better to hover on the outskirts where Keeling’s sonar would be less seriously deafened, and where he would be free to turn in either direction at the first new contact. The sea exploded again, the huge columns rising towards the grey sky. Krause was watching Viktor closely; with the dropping of her last depth-charge she was turning to starboard too. The last charge flung up its column of water. Now was the time to continue the circle.

“Come right, Mr Watson! “

The two destroyers were circling about each other. It was to be hoped that the U-boat was within the area enclosed by the intersection of the two circles. Krause’s eyes were still on Viktor; he was standing at the end of the bridge when the starboard side look-out yelled, not two yards from him.

“There he is! Sub. on the starboard beam! “

Krause saw it. A thousand yards away the long, conical bow of a U-boat was rearing out of the tortured water. It levelled off as a wave burst round it in a smother of spray. It lowered and lengthened. A gun came into sight. A rounded bridge. The sub. shook itself as though in torment--as indeed it was. Keeling’s guns went off, like doors being slammed intolerably loudly. Wang-o. Wang-o. Wang-o. The look-out was screaming with excitement. It was hard to focus the glasses on the thing. A wave seemed to run along it, and it was gone.

Krause sprang back into the pilot-house.

“Right rudder, Mr Watson.”

“Rudder’s hard over sir,” said Watson. Keeling had been turning at the moment of sighting.

A talker was trying to make a report. At first he jumbled his words with excitement, but he managed to steady himself.

“Gunnery control reports sub. sighted broad on starboard bow, range one thousand. Fifteen rounds fired. No hits observed.”

“Very well.”

Lieutenant Fippler’s first attempt to kill a man had ended in failure.

“Did you get the bearing, Mr Watson?”

“Only approximately, sir. We were turning at the time.”

Speak every man truth with his neighbour. Far better to be honest than to pretend to knowledge one did not have.

“We’re coming to course one-nine-five, sir,” added Watson.

“Better make it one-eight-five.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

The U-boat when sighted had been nearly on the same course as Keeling. Even if she turned instantly on submerging she would need time and distance to effect the turn. Better head to intercept. And would she turn to starboard or port? Hard to guess. Would she go deep or stay close under the surface? That might be easier to guess.

“Sonar reports contact bearing one-eight-zero. Range approximately four hundred yards.”

“Very well. Come left ten degrees, Mr Watson. Deep setting, Mr Nourse.”

The submarine’s instinct after involuntarily surfacing would be to go deep; and the crew would have the controls jammed over hard already to combat the involuntary movement. And in the thirty seconds between submergence and the explosion of the next charge she would have plenty of time to reach extreme depth. He had to watch Viktor; she was still turning, but she would be late this time in crossing Keeling’s wake.

“Fire one,” said Nourse into his mouth-piece, and Krause checked himself as he was about to move to the T.B.S. No need to tell Viktor he was attacking. That was self-evident.

“Fire two,” said Nourse. “ ‘K ‘ guns, fire.”

It would take longer this time for the depth-charges with their deep setting to explode. A longer time for them to sink to the additional depth, and a more irregular spread with their somewhat random downward fall.

Streamlined depth-charges would be more effective than clumsy cylinders; they were already in production and Krause wished he had them.

The boom of the exploding charges was distinctly lower in pitch, distinctly more muffled, at this greater depth. Krause heard the last one; he could stand still now during this interval. Buck-fever was not so evident.

“Come right, Mr Watson.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

There had been a momentary temptation to turn to port instead of to starboard, to change the pattern of the manoeuvre in the hope of surprising the U-boat, but it could not be done this time; too much chance of meeting Viktor bow to bow. He trained his glasses back over the starboard quarter, looking out over the stained and foaming sea. No sign of anything. The T.B.S. calling him.

“Eagle to George! Eagle to George! “

The Englishman in Viktor seemed unwontedly excited.

“George to Eagle. Go ahead.”

“You’ve got him sir! Got him! “ There was a moment’s pause again; when the Englishman spoke next he was calmer, almost languid, but with a crude hardness about his nonchalance. “You’ve got him, sir. We’ve just heard him crunch.”

Viktor had heard the crunch; they had heard the breaking up noises as the U-boat crumpled under the overwhelming pressure like a piece of paper crushed in the hand. Krause stood silent at the T.B.S. He was a hard man, but his silence was partly due to the thought that two minutes ago, far below the Keeling, fifty men had died a horrible death; quick, but horrible. But in most part his silence was due to the unworded realization that this was a peak in his career; he had achieved the thing for which he had been trained as a fighting man for more than twenty years. He had killed his man; he had destroyed an enemy ship. He was like a student momentarily numbed at hearing he has won a prize. Yet the other realization was present equally unworded and even less conscious; fifty dead men graced his triumph. It was a little as though in a fencing match his foil had slipped past the opposing guard and, instead of bending harmlessly against his opponent’s jacket, had proved to be unbuttoned and sharp and had gone through his opponent’s body.

“Do you hear me, George?” bleated the T.B.S.

Krause’s brief numbness vanished at the sound, and he was the trained fighting man again, with rapid decisions to make and an enormous responsibility on his shoulders, a man with a duty to do.

“I hear you, Eagle,” he said. His dead, flat tone disguised the last traces of the emotional disturbance that had shaken him. He was quite normal by the time he had uttered the words. He was searching in his mind for the most appropriate thing to say to the representative of an allied power.

“That’s fine,” he said, and as that did not seem adequate he added, “Magnificent.”

That was an outlandish word. He tried again, a little desperately; the careful wording of some of the British messages he had received welled up in his memory and came to his rescue.

“My heartiest congratulations to your captain,” he said. “And please give him my best thanks for his wonderful co-operation.”

“Aye aye, sir.” A pause. “Any orders, sir?”

Orders. Decisions. There were no seconds to waste even in the moment of victory, not with the convoy inadequately screened and a wolf-pack prowling about it.

“Yes,” he said. “Resume your position in the screen as quickly as possible.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

Krause “was about to leave the T.B.S. when it demanded his attention again.

“Eagle to George,” it said. “Eagle to George. Submit I search for proof of sinking.”

That must be the Polish captain’s reaction when the British liaison officer had reported Krause’s orders to him. Proof was of some importance. Certainty of the U-boat’s destruction would be of help to the staffs in Washington and London writing their appreciations of the situation. And the Admiralty at least, if not the Navy Department, were very insistent upon positive proof before giving credit for a victory; there were jokes that nothing less than the U-boat captain’s pants would satisfy them. His own professional standing, his naval career, depended to some extent on his claim to a success being allowed. But the convoy was almost unguarded.

“No,” he said heavily. “Resume your place in the screen. Over.”

The last word was the decisive one. He could turn away from the T.B.S.

“Mr Watson, take station in the screen, three miles ahead of the leading ship of the second column from the right.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

There was a faintly-puzzled note in Watson’s voice; everyone in the pilot-house was looking at Krause. They had heard something of what he had said on the T.B.S., and this new order seemed to confirm their suspicions-- their hopes--but they could not be sure. Krause’s tone had not been enthusiastic.

“Sonar reports no contact, sir,” said the talker, and Krause realized he had heard that same report several times lately without attending to it.

“Very well,” he said to the talker and then faced the crowd on the bridge. “We got him. We got him. The Pole heard him crunch after that last pattern.”

The faces in the shadow of the helmets broke into smiles. Nourse uttered a half-suppressed cheer. Delight was so obvious and spontaneous that even Krause relaxed into a grin. He felt the marked contrast between this and a stilted international relationship.

“That’s only number one,” he said. “We want lots more.”

“Sonar reports no contact, sir,” said the talker. “Very well.”

The whole ship must be told of the victory, and there must be a special word for Ellis. He went to the loudspeaker and waited while the bosun’s mate called the attention of the ship’s company.

“This is the captain. We got him. Viktor heard him crunch. He’s had it. This was an all-hands job. Well done to you all. Now we’re heading back into screening position. There’s still a long way to go.”

He came back from the loudspeaker.

“Sonar reports no contact, sir,” said the talker.

Ellis was still doing his duty.

“Captain to sonar. ‘Discontinue negative reports unless fresh contact is made.’ Wait. I’ll speak to him myself.” He spoke on the circuit to the sonar. “Ellis? This is the captain.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You heard we got him?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You’ve been a big help. I’m glad I can depend on you.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“You can discontinue negative reports now.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

The light-hearted atmosphere was still apparent on the bridge. But now all the look-outs were reporting at once. Krause hurried on to the starboard wing of the bridge.

“Oil, sir! Oil!” said the look-out, stabbing overside with a mittened hand. Krause looked over; dead fish, white bellies showing, and, as well, a long streak of oil; but not very much. The dirty slick patch was not fifty yards across if three times that amount long. He walked through the pilot-house and out on to the port wing. No oil at all was showing there. Back on the starboard wing they were already leaving the patch behind. As it lifted on a roller it barely extended from crest to trough. Krause tried to visualize a wrecked U-boat sinking down into the fathomless depths, gliding down as it were on a long slope, very likely. Her fuel tanks being kept full might take a long time to rupture; then there would be a considerable interval before the escaping oil came welling up to the surface. Krause knew from reports he had read that it might be as much as an hour all told. This little patch would be what was present in a nearly-empty tank at the moment of disaster. And badly battered U-boats often left a slick of oil behind even though they were still capable of manoeuvre. Naval Intelligence suggested that they sometimes purposely let oil escape to disarm pursuit. But his first decision still appeared the correct one to him; it was not worthwhile to leave a valuable destroyer circling the spot, maybe for an hour, to make sure of the evidence. He could forget the presence of this oil for now. No. He could make some use of it in a minute or two, when he had more time. First he must put an end to the drain on his battle reserve.

“You sure got that sub., sir,” said the starboard-side look-out.

“Oh, yes, sure,” said Krause. The man was not being impertinent. In this moment of victory Krause could let pass the lapse from strict etiquette, especially with so much more on his mind; but he had to think of the safety of the ship. “Keep your mind on your duty there.”

He returned to the pilot-house and spoke into the voice-tube to the executive officer.

“Secure from general quarters, Charlie,” he said. “Set Condition Two, and see if you can manage for some hot chow for the men off watch.”

“Aye aye, sir,” said Charlie.

The loudspeaker blared the order through the ship. Now half the men would be able to eat, to rest, to warm up. Krause looked at the clock; circumstances were different from his preceding glances when he was counting minutes. Now he was perceptibly shocked to note the passage of time. It was past thirteen hundred; over four hours since he had been called from his cabin, and nearly three of general quarters. He should not have brought the men to battle stations at all. He was not much better than Carling. But that was water over the dam; no time for regrets at present.

“Get me a signal-pad and pencil,” he said to the messenger beside him; the crowd in the pilot-house was changing with the setting of the watch.

He tried to write, and the pencil fell from his hand as he applied it to the paper. His fingers were stiff with cold, numb and completely without sensation. Although he had put on his sheepskin coat he still had not put on the sweater and scarf and gloves he should have worn. His hands were freezing, and all the rest of him was bitterly cold.

“Write it for me,” he snapped at the messenger, irritated with himself. “ ‘Keeling to Viktor.’ No.”--he was watching over the messenger’s shoulder--”Spell that with a ‘K’. No, not ‘CK.’ Just V-I-K. ‘Have sighted oil patch confirming destruction of U-boat. Stop. Many thanks for your brilliant’--two ‘L’s’ in ‘brilliant,’ damn it--’co-operation’ C-O-O-P. That’s right. Take that to the signal bridge.”

When the messenger came back he would send him for his gloves and scarf. Meanwhile he must have another look round at the situation. He went out on to the bridge again. There were fresh look-outs at their posts; relieved men were still leaving the gun positions and making their way along the deck, ducking the fountains of spray and timing their dashes from point to point as the ship rolled. Keeling was approaching the front of the convoy; the British corvette on the left flank was rolling hideously in the heavy sea. The leading line of the convoy was fairly straight; as far as he could see the rest of the convoy was fairly well closed up. Out on the right was the Canadian corvette; it was nearly time to give the order for normal screening stations. Above him came the sharp rattle of the shutters of the lamp as his message was transmitted to Viktor.

He looked aft and saw her ploughing along half a mile astern, rolling deeply in the trough, her odd foremast leaning far over towards the sea, first on one side and then on the other. She was nearly up to station, and he must give that order. He might just as well not have come out here into the cold, for all the good he had done, but it was a commanding officer’s duty to keep an eye on his command--and he would not have known any peace of mind until he had done so, duty or not duty. He was just able to relax his hands sufficiently to let the glasses fall from them on to his chest, and he went stiffly back into the pilot-house, to the T.B.S.

“George to escort. Do you hear me?”

He waited for the acknowledgments, Eagle to George, and Harry to George, and Dicky to George. Those code names were an excellent choice. Four distinct vowel sounds, impossible to confuse even with serious distortion. He gave the order in his flat voice.

“Take up normal daylight screening stations.”

The acknowledgments came in one by one, and he replaced the hand set.

“Signal bridge reports your signal acknowledged by Viktor, sir,” said the messenger.

“Very well.”

He was about to send for his extra clothing, but Nystrom, the new officer of the deck who had just taken over, demanded his attention.

“Permission to secure boilers two and four, sir?” said Nystrom.

“Damn it, man, you know the routine to be followed when securing from general quarters. That’s for the officer of the deck to decide without troubling me.”

“Sorry, sir. But seeing you were here, sir - -“

Nystrom’s blue pop-eyes registered his distress. He was a young man frightened of responsibility, sensitive to reproach, and slow of thought. The Annapolis standards were not what they were, decided Krause, the graduate of twenty years’ service.

“Carry on with your duty, Mr Nystrom.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

Dodge was turning away, a mile ahead of Keeling, to take up her station on the right flank. It was almost time for Keeling to turn ahead of the second column from the right. He looked aft; Viktor was already on station, with James moving out to the left flank. He decided to watch Nystrom take the ship into station.

“Leading ship of the second column bears two-five-five, sir,” reported Silvestrini from the pelorus.

“Very well,” said Nystrom.

Ensign Silvestrini was a pert, little fellow newly graduated from officers’ school. Previously he had been majoring in modern languages at an Eastern university.

“Left standard rudder. Steer course zero-nine-two,” said Nystrom, and the helmsman repeated the order.

Keeling came steadily round to take up her station. Everything was well and in order. Krause decided not to send for his clothes. He wanted to get down to the head in any case, and at the same time the thought of a cup of coffee came up into his mind. Instantly he was yearning for it, hot, stimulating, comforting. One cup? Two cups. He was moderately hungry too; the thought of a sandwich along with the cups of coffee made a sudden appeal to him too. And a few minutes’ warmth, and the leisure to dress himself properly. It all seemed like an astonishingly good idea to him. Here was Watson with the noon position, unreported until now with the ship at battle stations. Krause acknowledged the report; the noon position was no news to him, closely coinciding as it did with the Admiralty’s predicted position for the assembling of a wolf-pack. But by the time he had glanced at it Ipsen the Chief Engineer was waiting with the fuel report for noon. That called for closer attention, and a word or two with Ipsen about the fuel situation, and even those few words were a trifle distracted, for Krause, while he talked, was aware out of the tail of his eye that Dodge was blinking a message to the ship. The message was at his elbow as he returned Ipsen’s salute. It was Dodge’s noon fuel report. That had to be studied to, with some care; Dodge was fortunate in having a considerable reserve in hand. There were two more messages waiting for him by the time he had completed his study of it. Here was Viktor’s fuel report, and then James’s. Krause pulled a long face as he studied the James report. A minimum of fast steaming for James in future. He dictated a carefully worded reply.

“Comescort to James. ‘Use utmost efforts to conserve fuel.’ “

Now it was Charlie Cole, up from the chartroom, with a smile on his face and words of congratulation about the sinking of the U-boat. It was pleasant to exchange those few sentences with Charlie. But then Charlie came a little closer, and dropped his voice to a confidential tone, so as not to be heard by the others on the bridge.

“There’s Flusser to be dealt with, sir,” said Charlie.

“Hell,” said Krause. His use of that word was proof of his irritation at the delay.

Yesterday, Flusser had punched a petty officer on the nose and was under arrest for this gravest of crimes. In a ship of war with general quarters being repeatedly sounded the presence of a criminal in a cell is a continual nuisance. And Navy Regs, demanded that his case be considered as promptly as possible.

“It’s more than twenty-four hours, sir,” prompted Charlie.