“Messenger!”

“Yes, sir.”

“Go down to the wardroom. I want a pot of coffee and a sandwich. But no onion. Remember to tell the mess-boy that or he’ll put some in for sure. Wait for it and bring it up yourself.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

No onion; if ever there was another chance of smelling oil he wanted to be sure of whether he smelt it or not. This might even be a good moment to get down to the head, although it was by no means necessary yet. No; as it was not necessary it would be better not to leave Carling in sole charge. The quartermaster, crouching over the table with the red flashlight, was endeavouring to write up the deck log. It would be a poor job he would make of it, with Keeling’s recent evolutions, and in the absence of the hourly readings from the engine-room, but he was scribbling away industriously and fast. Now there was bustle through the ship, voices, clatter on the ladders, and Krause realized that the quartermaster was working in that fashion in anticipation of being relieved at the change of watch. Shadowy figures were crowding up into the pilot-house. Another watch was over. The convoy was another thirty miles or more nearer safety.

 

 

Thursday. Middle Watch--2400-0400

 

“You did a good job, McAlister,” said Krause as the helm was relieved. “Well done.” “Thank you, sir.”

With McAlister at the wheel Keeling had pointed herself straight up the U-boat’s wake, straight for the U-boat itself.

Carling saluted in the darkness and reported his relief. He went through the ceremonial sentences--ceremonial and yet every word important--with an apparent calm.

“Mr Nystrom has the deck, sir,” concluded Carling.

“Thank you, Mr Carling. Very well.”

The flat tone; essential that there should be no suggestion of anything unusual.

“Cap’n, please, sir, I got your coffee.”

It was rather a plaintive voice. The messenger had carried that tray up four ladders, with Keeling leaping on the waves and the ladders crowded with the changing watch, and now there was a crowded pilot-house and as always only the jealously-guarded chart-table on which to put the tray.

“On the table,” said Krause. “Quartermaster, make room for it. Thank you, messenger.”

Because he had chosen that particular moment to send for coffee the messenger had lost ten full minutes of his watch below. The fortune of war for the messenger, but Krause would have waited until the watch was changed if he had noticed the time. Krause pulled off his right-hand fur glove and wedged it in his left armpit; his hand was cold but he still had full use of it. He poured himself a cup of coffee, fumbling in the darkness, and sipped at it. Scalding hot, too hot to drink despite its long journey up from the wardroom. But the taste and the smell of it were sufficient to start his digestive processes working again. He longed for that coffee; he was accustomed to drinking eight big cups every day of his life and had always guiltily put aside the self-accusation that he was a coffee-hound dependent on a drug.

While the coffee cooled he bit into the sandwich. No onion, just bread and cold corned beef and mayonnaise, but he found himself in the darkness snapping at it like a wolf, biting and chewing frantically. During the last sixteen hours or so of ceaseless activity he had eaten half a sandwich. The present one vanished in a few bites, and Krause lingeringly licked the traces of mayonnaise from his fingers before addressing himself to the coffee. It was now exactly cool enough--just hotter than most people would care to drink it--and he emptied the cup without taking it from his lips and poured himself another in passionate anticipation. He sipped at it; Keeling was pitching very considerably and heeling a good deal, but he held the cup level in the darkness even when an unexpected lurch caused him to shift his footing. A towering pitch on Keeling’s part sent the coffee, when next he sipped, surging up his upper lip as far as his nose, and it ran down to drip from his chin, but he drank all the rest and felt in the darkness for the pot hoping there would be a third cupful in it. Of course there was not--there never was; only, as far as he could guess, a thimbleful at the bottom of the pot which he tossed off.

It crossed his mind that he could send for another pot, but he virtuously put the temptation aside. He would not be led astray into self-indulgence; he could be firm in the matter of coffee when he had had nearly enough. He had cast the napkin aside from the tray in his initial eagerness, and now it was hopeless to try to find it in the darkness; his handkerchief was out of reach in his bundled clothes, but he wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, secure in the knowledge no one could see him, and then pulled on his glove again. He had eaten and drunk without a moment’s interruption, and the food and drink brightened his outlook; his momentary depression had vanished. Yet as he moved away from the table he was very conscious of fatigue in his legs--the first time he had noticed it. He determined at that same moment not to notice it; he had often enough before stood balancing on a heaving deck for sixteen hours at a stretch. There was duty still to be done, and endless vistas of days and nights of duty.

“What do you have on the screen?” he asked down the voice-pipe.

Someone down there gave him distances and bearings; the convoy half a mile abaft his starboard beam although out of sight. A pip three miles ahead.

“That’s the British corvette, sir.”

“Very well.”

“Screen’s very fuzzy, sir. And it’s jumping, too.”

“Very well.”

Over the T.B.S.

“George to Harry. Do you hear me?”

“Harry to George. I hear you. Strength three.”

“You bear from me zero-eight-zero. Do you have me on your screen?”

“Yes, we have you, bearing two-six-two, distance three and a half miles.”

“Very well. I’ll cross astern of you. I’ll reduce speed and start sonar search now.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

He put down the hand-set.

“Mr Nystrom, we’ll come down to standard speed. Start sonar search.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

“Set a course to pass astern of James and Viktor. Keep well clear of the convoy.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

Krause’s leg weariness asserted itself again, to his considerable annoyance. He had no business to feel tired yet. And he was gloomily conscious that despite his recent meal depression was only just over the horizon of his mind. He knew it because suddenly, agonizingly, the thought of Evelyn came up into his mind. Evelyn and her handsome black-haired young San Diego lawyer. That was a dreadful thought here in this dark Atlantic night, heaving over a black invisible ocean. Evelyn was quite justified in growing tired of him, he supposed. He was dull. And he had quarrelled with her--he should not have done so, but it was hard to avoid it when she resented the amount of time he spent in his ship; she could not understand--that was his fault for not being able to explain. A cleverer man would have made his feelings, his compulsions, clear to her. Three years ago now, and the memories as bitter as ever.

Thinking about it was every bit as bad as the actual experience had been. “Fitted and retained”--those hideous words which meant so much to him and so little to Evelyn. The quarrels, and then the piercing frightful pain of the news about Evelyn and the lawyer. The pain was as bad as ever, far worse than anything physical Krause had ever experienced. Two years the marriage had lasted; a month of happiness--shamefaced happiness. Evelyn’s amused astonishment at finding she had married a man who knelt down and said his prayers in all sincerity night and morning; her slightly more irritated surprise that her husband would not leave some dull duty in his ship to his executive officer in order to attend a party; these spoilt it a little.

Krause tried to shake off the memories; he was not self-analytical enough to be aware that this was typical mid-watch depression, that it was in these hours when vitality was at a low ebb between midnight and four in the morning that he was assailed by these regrets and yearnings, but he struggled against them. For that matter, it was because of that black-haired lawyer that he was here now, on the tossing Atlantic. He had asked for service on the Atlantic seaboard; he could not face the possibility of seeing Evelyn in San Diego or Coronado, or of hearing fragments of gossip about her. If it had not been for that lawyer he might have died along with so many of his friends at Pearl Harbour.

That could have been a cheering thought, but Krause did not find it so. In part this black mood was due to the reaction from the tension of war-like operations. Krause, like many good fighting men, felt a sharp keying-up, something akin to exhilaration, in battle, and now, in this comparatively quiet moment, he was paying for it with interest, the more painfully because this was the first time he had had the experience. His infinite sadness encompassed him as closely and as impenetrably as the darkness of the night, while he stood on the bridge suffering useless agonies thinking about Evelyn and her lawyer, and wishing for the moon, wishing that in some impossible fashion he had been able to bring both experience and purity to his marriage. The ping-ping of the sonar was a dirge of his dead happiness.

“Eagle on the T.B.S., sir,” said Nystrom, and Krause went to it.

“Eagle to George! Eagle to George! “

Urgency in that English voice.

“George to Eagle. Go ahead.”

“Contact bearing oh-five-oh from us. We’re running it down.”

“I’ll turn towards it. What range?”

“Very distant.”

“Very well.”

The sadness was gone, not only gone but forgotten, as if it had never been. Krause called down to the chartroom for a course.

“I’ll take her now, Mr Nystrom.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

“Dicky to George. Dicky to George! “

The T.B.S. summoned him at the moment when he had given the new course.

“We’ve got a contact too. Distant, bearing nine-seven. And we’ve got a pip as well. Bearing one-oh-one, range twelve miles.”

“Very well. I’ll come over to you after I’ve helped Eagle.”

“George! George!” Another voice breaking into the circuit. “Harry here. Do you hear me?” “George to Harry. I hear you.”

“We’ve got a pip. Range twelve miles, bearing two-four.”

“Very well.” Something must be said besides “very well.” “I’ll send Eagle to you as soon as I can.”

This was a fresh attack, perhaps the decisive one, timed for this moment, with the middle watch half-through and vitality and alertness at their lowest in the blackest part of the night.

“Eagle to George. Contact’s turning. Looks as if she’s heading your way.”

“Very well.”

“Sonar reports contact, sir. Distant, bearing zero-nine-zero.”

“Very well.”

So nearly dead ahead that there was no purpose in altering course yet.

“Eagle to George. Contact bearing two-seven-one from me. Range one mile.”

“It bears zero-nine-zero from me, distant contact.”

“Oh-nine-oh, distant. Aye aye, sir. We’re turning after it.”

“I’ll alter course to zero-eight-five.”

“Oh-eight-five. Aye aye, sir.”

Otherwise the two ships, not much more than two miles apart, would be heading straight for each other in the darkness.

“Left smartly to course zero-eight-five.”

“Left smartly to course zero-eight-five, sir. Steady on course zero-eight-five.”

“Sonar reports contact ahead, bearing indefinite. Strong up Doppler.”

Strong up Doppler; as he had expected, U-boat and Keeling were heading almost straight for each other at the moment the report was transmitted.

“Eagle to George. Contact’s still turning. Bearing two-seven-six. Range one-five-double oh. We’re still turning after it.”

“I’ll hold my course at present.”

Two ships setting to partners in the dark. The sub might complete its circle; she might double back in an “S” turn. The problem was either to intercept her or drive her back upon Viktor, and to do one or other of these things, or both, without collision and without interference with each other’s instruments.

“Dicky to George! I am attacking.”

The Canadian voice had broken in.

“Very well.”

This was like a juggler keeping three balls in the air at once.

“Sonar reports contact bearing zero-eight-seven. Range one mile. No Doppler.”

“Who’s on the sonar?”

“Ellis, sir,” replied the talker.

That was good; there was less chance of being deceived by a pillenwerfer.

“Eagle to George. It looks as if she’s turning back again.”

“Very well. I’ll go on holding my course.”

“Sonar reports distant explosions, sir.”

“Very well.”

That would be Dicky’s depth-charges going off.

“Sonar reports contact dead ahead. Strong up Doppler. Range fifteen hundred yards.”

“Very well. George to Eagle. He’s coming right at me again. Keep clear.”

“Eagle to George. Aye aye, sir.”

That English voice was cold and steady, bearing no hint of the excitement of the hunt.

“Eagle to George. We are on course oh-one-oh.”

Viktor was squarely astern of the U-boat, and heading to intercept her if she turned to starboard.

“Sonar reports contact dead ahead. Strong up Doppler. Range twelve hundred yards.”

Apparently the U-boat had not detected Keeling’s presence as yet. All her attention had been directed to evading Viktor, possibly; or her listening devices had been confused by Viktor’s nearness; or the fact that U-boat and Keeling were exactly bow to bow might be rendering them ineffective.

“Sonar reports contact confused, sir. Approximately dead ahead. No Doppler. Range approximately eleven hundred.”

“Very well.”

The U-boat must by now have become aware of Keeling’s presence, and was doing something about it.

“Sonar reports contact dead ahead. It’s a pill, sir. Range one thousand.”

She had let loose a pillenwerfer; Ellis had detected that, but the bubbling thing had prevented him from ascertaining what new course the U-boat had taken.

“Sonar reports possible contact bearing zero-nine-two, range eleven hundred yards. Pill, still dead ahead.”

So the U-boat had altered course to port most likely; that was its best chance. And thanks to the pillenwerfer she had increased her distance--she had stolen a march on Keeling.

“Right standard rudder. Steer course one-zero-zero. George to Eagle. Contact seems to have altered course to port and dropped a pill. I am altering course to starboard. One-zero-zero.”

“One-double oh. Aye aye, sir.”

“Sonar reports confused contact, sir, on port bow.”

With Keeling turning, the contact would be likely to be indefinite.

“Eagle to George. We’ve only got the pill, sir. No other contact.”

“Very well.”

Keeling and Viktor had the sub between them, and although on their present courses they would be rapidly separating it was the best arrangement until the situation cleared up.

“Sonar reports confused contact bearing zero-eight-five. Range twelve hundred yards. Sounds like the pill.”

Undoubtedly it was the pill; but it was hard to imagine what the sub was doing. A sudden sharp alteration of depth might have added to the confusion. Better to hold on as he was doing even though both he and Viktor were diverging from the last-known position of the sub

“Sonar reports contact bearing zero-eight-zero. Range thirteen hundred yards. Contact weak.”

Getting too far away altogether.

“Left smartly to zero-nine-zero. George to Eagle. I am turning to port. Course zero-nine-zero.”

“Course oh-nine-oh. Aye aye, sir.”

“Steady on course zero-nine-zero.”

“Very well.”

“Sonar reports faint additional contact, range indefinite, bearing three-five-zero.”

Three-five-zero? Right abaft his beam despite his turn?

“George to Eagle. Do you get anything bearing three-five-zero from me? Range indefinite.” “We’ll try, sir. Three-five-oh.”

There was something strange about this. But there was always likely to be something strange about a blindfold hunt for an enemy below water.

“Eagle to George! Eagle to George! We’ve got something. Very faint. Bearing two-two-oh from us.”

“Get after it, then, quick.”

Abaft Viktor’s beam, too. Much nearer the safety of the convoy with its propeller noises. Almost out of the danger circles drawn by the wheeling destroyer. The sub had fooled them both completely. Hard to imagine what she had done. Perhaps she had dropped two pillenwerfers and circled sharply between them and had got away at a very different depth. Viktor had less of a turn to make than he had. Better to send her after the contact while he turned away out of her wake and came down on the outside.

“Right standard rudder. Steer course two-six-zero.”

Keeling came round, wallowing in the trough, corkscrewing on the quartering sea, and the hunt went on again. Round and round went the destroyers, chasing the faint contacts, dodging each other as they passed in the darkness. Viktor just headed off the U-boat from the convoy; Keeling missed her as she circled, and Viktor missed her as she doubled back. Then closer contacts. Depth-charges from Viktor. Depth-charges from Keeling, rumbling in the windy night, momentarily illuminating the fathomless depths below, and deafening the sonar so that there were long anxious waits before the search could be resumed. Bearings and courses called back and forth between the ships. Circle and turn. This U-boat captain was a foxy fellow. Seas coming in over the low freeboard as Keeling turned her defenceless quarter into them; seas crashing against the forecastle as she wheeled towards them. Hunting and hunting, with every small indication of vital importance; straining to keep the mind alert to draw rapid deductions from vague data. Sudden reports coming in from James and Dodge, out on the flanks, fighting their own battles, but with their situation having to be borne in mind as well. “Left rudder.” “Right rudder.” Orders repeated. Orders countermanded as Viktor turned unexpectedly. A tiring game with death, but never tedious with every moment tense.

“Right standard rudder. Steer course zero-four-zero.”

“Right standard rudder to - - “

“Sonar reports torpedoes fired, sir.”

The talker broke in on the quartermaster’s repetition of Krause’s order, and tension acutely rose in the pilothouse where it had seemed as if tension could not possibly be screwed up any tighter.

“George to Eagle. Torpedoes fired.”

“We heard ‘em, sir.”

“Steady on course zero-four-zero,” said the quartermaster. There was discipline in the pilot-house.

Torpedoes; the quarry had poison fangs and was slashing back with them at its tormentors.

“Sonar reports torpedoes’ sound fading out,” said the talker.

They were not aimed at Keeling, therefore. That had seemed likely to Krause already, bearing in mind her changing course and distance from the contact.

“Eagle to George. We are turning away.” The English liaison officer’s voice was positively more languid than usual. “Course oh-seven-oh. Oh-eight-oh.”

Krause stared out into the darkness where the torpedoes were speeding at fifty knots towards Viktor. There might be a sheet of flame and a detonating explosion out there in five more seconds. Subs, did not fire torpedoes at escorting vessels as often as one might have expected. They were too small and too elusive a target and of too shallow a draft. And probably Doenitz’s orders were strict that each U-boat should do her best to expend all her twenty-two torpedoes on bulging cargo vessels.

“Sonar reports - - “

“Eagle to George. Those torpedoes have missed, sir.”

“Very well.” He could be as nonchalant as any Englishman. No; better not to pose; better to try to establish a warm relationship. “Thank God for that. I was worried about you.”

“Oh, we can look after ourselves, sir. Thank you all the same.”

But those were precious seconds to waste on amenities. No time to spare, not with a U-boat trying to break out of the circle. Krause snapped an order over his shoulder at the helmsman before speaking into the T.B.S. again.

“We’re coming in on course zero-eight-zero.”

“Oh-eight-oh. Aye aye, sir. We’ll keep away to starboard.”

Viktor’s compulsory turn away had stretched the circle almost to breaking point--it was to gain herself that relief that the sub had fired the torpedoes, perhaps; only with a faint hope of making a hit. It was necessary to narrow the circle again, to press the pursuit, to continue the contest, as always with one destroyer trying to close in, one steering to intercept, each ready to exchange roles in the intricate figures of the movements in the stormy dark--desperate manoeuvres like nothing ever contemplated by admirals a few years ago planning peace-time exercises under “simulated wartime conditions.” Left rudder Right rudder. Deep pattern. Thunder and storm and strain. And James firing star-shells out on the left flank, while look-outs reported gunfire in that direction, and sonar reported distant explosions as Dodge fought off attackers on the right, and the convoy lumbered along in the darkness, heading eastward, steadily eastward, towards infinitely distant safety.

 

 

Thursday. Morning Watch--0400-0800

 

Then Nystrom addressing himself to him while Keeling steadied herself on yet one more new course.

“Report having been relieved, sir - - “

The mid-watch was over; thirty more miles gained. Four hours had passed half in misery and half in desperate concentration.

“Very well, Mr Nystrom. Get some rest while you can.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

Rest? That called his attention to the fact that his legs were aching frantically. His muscles, unconsciously taut with the mental tension, protested as violently as did his joints the moment he thought about it. He moved stiffly to the captain’s stool in the starboard corner of the pilothouse. He never sat on that stool while at sea; he had a theory that captains should never sit down--it was allied to the theory that all self-indulgence was suspect--but theories were liable to be discarded under practical test. He could have groaned both with pain and relief as he sat down, but instead it was “Right standard rudder. Steer course zero-eight-seven.”

And now that he had sat down he knew it was pressingly necessary to get down to the head again; and with the self-indulgence of sitting also came the overwhelmingly tempting thought of pots and pots of fiery hot coffee to pour down his throat. But they were closing fast on a contact. Count the seconds. Force the weary brain to think clearly, to try to guess the U-boat captain’s next move, as the closing range broke off the contact.

“Mr Pond!”

“Fire one. Fire two. ‘K’ guns fire.” Once more the underwater thunder and lightning, once more the rapid thinking, the sharp helm orders.

“Sonar reports indications confused, sir.”

“Very well. Mr Harbutt, take the conn.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

His barely rested legs would hardly carry him down the tossing ladder as he went down to the head with the red spectacles over his eyes; on his way back he had to pull with his hands to take some of his body weight as his hesitant feet felt their way from rung to rung.

The brief interval away from the bridge gave him time to think about other problems besides the present and instant one of catching the submarine with which he was in contact. He gave the orders as he was at the top of the ladder, and he heard the result over the ship’s loudspeaker as he came back into the pilot-house.

“Now hear this. Hear this. There won’t be any routine general quarters this watch. If general quarters goes it’ll be the real thing. The watch below can have a full four hours in unless there’s an emergency.”

Krause was glad he had thought of that and decided upon it. He had been in touch with the enemy all day long, and most of the time he had got along without calling all hands to battle stations. The routine of general quarters an hour before dawn would cut into his men’s rest and was not necessary with the whole ship keyed up and ready for action as she was. The strain of Condition Two was bad enough. Keeling had been supplied with new weapons and new instruments. The presence of the additional men to man them had strained her living accommodation to the utmost, and yet she did not have enough trained ratings available to supply three watches in Condition Two--and even if she did have them Krause had no idea where they would sleep or how they would be fed. The shortage of trained ratings had led him to divide his ship’s company into four sections and to institute a routine of watch-and-watch while in Condition Two. He wanted to impose no additional burden on his men, and he wanted to give them all the rest he could. He was more fortunate regarding his officers. Most of them were doing four on and eight off, but even so they might as well be spared an unnecessary call to general quarters.

It had taken Krause all the time he had spent going up and down the ladder to come to this decision; when he re-entered the pilot-house he was ready to take over the handling of the immediate problem. The removal of the red spectacles was a kind of symbolic act, transferring his attention from within the ship to outside it.

“Sonar reports uncertain contact, range indefinite, approximately bearing two-three-one.”

“Is that the first contact since I went below, Mr Harbutt?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Where’s Viktor?”

Harbutt told him. In the three minutes the situation had moved slowly along usual lines. “I’ll take the conn, Mr Harbutt.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

“Right full rudder. Steer course one-six-two.”

“Right full rudder. Steer course one-six-two, sir.”

He was back in the hunt again.

“Steady on course one-six-two, sir.”

“Eagle to George. I am closing in on course nine-seven.”

“Very well.”

This particular chase had already lasted three long hours. Although they had not damaged the sub they had at least contrived to keep her from attacking the convoy; they had forced her away to the flank out of the convoy’s path. Three hours was not a long time for a U-boat hunt; the British Navy had a record of one that had lasted more than twenty-four hours. But at the same time the sub he had been chasing had been using her batteries extensively, going a full six knots much of the time instead of creeping along at three or hanging motionless. The U-boat captain, although he still must have plenty of air, must by now be experiencing a certain anxiety about his batteries, even assuming (as was most likely the case) that when the contact was first made he had only recently submerged and had begun the battle with full air banks and a full charge.

But the U-boat captain’s worries, while dodging two destroyers, while being depth-charged, while exhausting his batteries, were not to be compared with Krause’s. He had herded his enemy away to the flank, but that had left the front of the convoy open to attack. Dodge and James had their hands full, judging by the reports they were making when they had time to spare. It could only be a question of time before the prowling enemy should find the weak spots for which he was probing. To guard the whole circuit round a large convoy with two destroyers and two escort vessels was not just difficult; it was impossible, against a determined enemy under good leadership. In his next moment of leisure, while the next pattern was being fired (so far had Keeling and Krause progressed towards being war-hardened during these twenty hours of battle, that the firing of depth-charges brought a moment of leisure) Krause conjured up a picture of the ideal escorting force--three more escort vessels to guard the front while he and Viktor acted as a pursuit force; two more to reinforce Dodge and James; one to cover the rear; yes, and another pursuit force as well. With eight escort vessels and four destroyers a good job could be done; and air cover; the thought of air cover shot up in Krause’s weary mind like a rocket. He had heard of the small carriers that were being built; with radar-equipped planes they would give a wolf-pack a whole lot more to think about. Escort vessels and destroyers and baby flattops were coming off the ways as fast as America and England and Canada could build them--newspapers and classified pamphlets assured him of that; somehow they would be manned, he presumed, and in a year or so convoys would be well guarded. But meanwhile it was his duty to fight his way through as best he could with the means at his disposal. Every man’s work shall be made manifest.

“Right full rudder. Steer course zero-seven-two,” said Krause. “George to Eagle. I am heading to cross your wake after your next attack.”

He had forgotten about sitting down, but his legs had not forgotten. They reminded him about it with vicious aches as he stepped back from the T.B.S. He sank on to the stool and spread his legs. After all, this was in the darkness, and the people in the pilot-house were hardly able to see their captain lounging in such a slack fashion. He had compounded with his sense of what he could permit himself regarding sitting down, admitting that it was necessary, but he still had qualms about what would be the effect upon discipline and esprit de corps if the men upon whom he kept such a taut hand should see him slacking off with so little excuse.

“After look-out reports fire in the convoy, sir,” said a talker.

He was on his feet again, with hardly time to think of this as retribution for his self-indulgence. There it was; now the rockets were soaring into the night above the flames which he could see; now there was another sharp red glow lighting the upper works of one ship, silhouetting the upper works of another--a torpedo explosion as he watched; the length of the interval told him that this was not a “spread” bursting as it reached various targets. A U-boat had been deliberately marking down victims one after another.

“Sonar reports contact bearing zero-seven-seven,” said the talker.

He and Viktor were in touch with one U-boat; at any minute a false move by her captain might mean her destruction. Behind him men were dying in the night, the victims of cold-blooded sharpshooting. He had to choose; it was the most painful moment he had ever known, more painful than when he had heard about Evelyn. He had to leave those men to die.

“Depth-charges away,” said the T.B.S.

If he abandoned the present hunt he could not be sure of making contact with the other U-boat; in fact it was most doubtful that he would. And she had done her damage for the present.

“Sonar reports contact confused,” said the talker--that was Viktor’s depth-charges exploding.

He might save some lives; he might. But in the darkness and confusion of the disordered convoy even that was unlikely, and he would be seriously endangering his ship.

“I am turning away to port,” said Viktor.

“Very well.”

The U-boat which had done the damage would now be harmless for a short space at least while reloading her tubes. It was humiliating, it was infuriating, that he should find comfort even for one moment in such a thought. Fighting anger and baffled rage surged up inside him, a yearning to run amok, to hit out wildly. He could feel the tension rising within him. He could lose all patience and see red, but twenty-four years of discipline saved him. He imposed self-control upon himself; Annapolis may have taught him that, or perhaps his much-loved father in his boyhood. He forced himself to think as coldly and as scientifically as ever.

“Sonar reports contact bearing zero-six-eight.”

“Left smartly to course zero-six-four. George to Eagle. I am turning to port to intercept.”

Men were dying behind him, men he was supposed to protect. What he had to do was to solve little trigonometrical problems in his head quickly and accurately, and give his orders calmly, and issue his information intelligibly, and anticipate the submerged U-boat’s movements as freshly and as rapidly as he had done ever since yesterday. He had to be a machine that did not know emotion; he had to be a machine that did not know fatigue. He had to be a machine uninfluenced by the possibility that Washington and London might think him a failure.

“Sonar reports contact bearing zero-six-six, range one thousand,” said the talker. “But it sounds like a pill, sir.”

If it were a pill, which way was the U-boat turning? What depth would she take up? He applied himself to those problems while the men in the convoy died. He gave his two hundredth successive helm order.

The darkness was not as impenetrable now. The white wave-tops could be seen overside, and even as far ahead as the bow from the wing of the bridge. Day was creeping towards them from the east, an unutterably slow transition from black to grey; grey sky and grey horizon and a slate-grey heaving sea. Weeping may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning. It was not true. The heavens declare the glory of God. These heavens? As Krause noted the coming of the light the well-remembered verses came up into his mind--they had come up in his mind in the old days of Pacific and Caribbean sunrises. Now he thought of them with a bitter, sardonic revulsion of mind. The shattered convoy on the flank; the frozen corpses on the life-rafts; the pitiless grey sky; the certainty that this agony was going to endure until he could bear it no longer--it was more than he could bear already. He wanted to throw in his hand, to cast aside all thought of his duty, his duty to God. Then he drew himself back from the temptation.

“George to Eagle. I am holding my course. Keep clear.” His voice was as flat and as precise as ever.

The fool hath said in his heart, There is no God. He had nearly said that too, while he could still square his shoulders and while his aching legs could still carry him to the T.B.S.

“Contact bearing zero-six-seven, range eleven hundred yards.”

“Very well.”

One more attempt to destroy the hidden enemy. And not one more only; dozens, hundreds if necessary. While Keeling moved in to the attack, while the talker repeated the ranges, there was time to bow his head. Cleanse Thou me from secret faults.

“Stand by for deep pattern, Mr Pond.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

Balked by the U-boat’s turn; helm orders to get into position again; orders to Viktor to head her off. Let us not be weary in well doing.

The wind was still blowing, the sea was still rough, Keeling was still corkscrewing and rolling and pitching. It was as if he had been in that gale and balancing upon that heaving deck for a hundred years. His darkness-accustomed eyes were gradually aware of the interior of the pilot-house--for hours he had seen nothing of it except for one or two glimmering dials and the quartermaster’s red flashlight. Now he could see it; the shattered windows --one pane with a clean bullet hole but the rest in splinters; fragments of glass over the deck; and his discarded trays--a cup here, a napkin, trampled and dirty, there.

“Get this mess cleaned up, Mr Harbutt.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

And there was something strange about Keeling’s appearance in the growing light. Her upper works were coated with ice, frosted white. Stanchions and stays, torpedoes and life-lines, ice was over them all. The commission pennant at the masthead instead of streaming in the wind was frozen in an untidy loop against the halliard. He could see Viktor now, after this long night of talking with her over the T.B.S. I have heard of Thee by the hearing of the ear, but now mine eye seeth Thee. She stood out white against the grey with the ice upon her also. Now he could actually see her making the turn she had just announced to him over the T.B.S. He had to make the corresponding move; now he could judge it by eye in confirmation of his mental trigonometry.

“Left standard rudder. Steer course zero-six-zero.”

It might certainly be called daylight now. At this time yesterday he had secured from general quarters. Today he had saved his men that fatigue. Was that only yesterday? Was it only last evening that those bullets had ripped through the pilot-house? It might well have been last year. And at this time yesterday he had been able to get below; he had eaten bacon and eggs and filled himself with coffee. He had said his prayers and he had had a shower. Unbelievable happiness. It reminded him that during the twenty-four hours since that time he had taken nothing except a sandwich and a half and a few cups of coffee. And he had been on his feet nearly all that time too; he was on them at this moment. He shuffled--he could not walk--to the stool and sat down again, the muscles of his legs throbbing painfully as they relaxed. Palate and throat were dry; he felt nauseated and hungry at the same time. He watched Viktor moving in; he listened to the reports from the talker.

“Permission to light the smoking lamp, sir?” asked Harbutt.

Krause’s mind struggled out of his concentration like a man with his feet embedded in a bog.

“Permission granted. Meet her, Quartermaster! Steady as you go.”

“Now hear this, hear this,” began the loudspeaker, broadcasting the permission he had just granted. Harbutt had a cigarette in his mouth and was filling his lungs with smoke, breathing deeply as if he were inhaling the air of Paradise. And all over the ship, Krause knew, the men whose duty kept them on deck were happily lighting cigarettes and breathing them in; through the night no one had been able to smoke whose post of duty was such that match or glowing cigarette could be seen by an enemy. Whiffs of cigarette smoke drifted past his nostrils, wafting with them a momentary memory again of Evelyn. She had smoked--she had been a little puzzled, almost amused, by the fact that her husband did not do so. Coming back from duty to the little house at Coronado he had always been conscious, on first entering the door, of the faint aroma of cigarette smoke combined with the tiniest hint of the perfume Evelyn used.

“Sonar reports contact bearing zero-six-four, range eleven hundred yards.”

The U-boat captain had outwitted him again, turning to starboard when he planned to head him off on a turn to port. It would call for a long circle to get at him again. He gave a careful order to the quartermaster and conveyed the information to Viktor.

“Messenger! Ask the signal-bridge if they have Com-convoy in sight yet.”

Innumerable things to do even while he was wheeling about trying to kill a U-boat which would kill him at the first opportunity. Another turn; Viktor had been unable to come round sharply enough to depth-charge the U-boat; it might be possible for Keeling unless the U-boat captain did the right thing at the right time--as he had done repeatedly before.

“You timing that, Mr Pond?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Contact bearing zero-five-four, range eight hundred yards.”

Missed again; the U-boat’s smaller turning circle had saved her. Ten degrees on Keeling’s bow meant the U-boat was magically safe from her with both vessels turning as hard as they could.

“Eagle! This is George. Ten degrees on my port bow, range eight hundred yards, turning fast.”

“Our asdic’s got her on an indefinite range. We’ll come in on her, sir.”

“Very well. I’ll come round to starboard. Over. Quartermaster! Right standard rudder. Steer course zero-nine-five.”

“Right standard rudder. Steer course zero-nine-five, sir.”

The messenger was hovering beside him. “Signal-bridge reports Comconvoy in sight, sir. Message just coming in. Long message, sir.”

“Very well.”

And here was pink-faced Dawson, the communications officer, freshly shaved and spruce, with his clip-board of messages.

“Anything important, Mr. Dawson?”

“Nothing special, sir.” Thank God for that. “Except the two weather forecasts, sir.”

More freezing weather? Snowstorms? Gales?

“What do they say?”

“It’s going to moderate, sir. By twenty hundred wind south to south-west, force three.” “Thank you, Mr. Dawson.”

As Krause turned to the T.B.S. the fleeting thought passed through his mind that Dawson now would be going down to the wardroom and would have breakfast. Ham and eggs, probably, and buck-wheat cakes, a stack swimming in syrup. And coffee, gallons of coffee.

“She’s doubled round the other way, sir,” said the T.B.S. “We’re turning to port, course oh-six-oh, sir.”

“Very well. Keep after her. I’ll come round on to your starboard quarter. Over. Right standard rudder. Steer course one-two-five.”

“Right standard rudder. Steer course one-two-five, sir. Steady on course one-two-five.”

“Very well.”

The ranges and bearings reported by the talker were being noted by his mind as they came in. For the moment Keeling was not the active pursuer; Viktor had taken over that role and he was jockeying Keeling into position to charge in again if Viktor were balked. In this comparatively passive role--although they were likely to exchange at any moment--he had more leisure than when hot on the U-boat’s heels. More leisure, even though that was not a great deal, but time at least to take the signal-pad from the waiting messenger from the signal-bridge. Even time to feel, before his eyes focused on it, a feeling of sick apprehension in his stomach while he prepared to read.

COMCONVOY TO COMESCORT. KNOWN LOSSES DURING NIGHT . . .

Four names staring at him in the signalman’s ill-formed print; he went on to read that the convoy was straggling badly and that the list might not be complete. Cadena had saved some lives. Comconvoy went on to submit that it was necessary to cover the rear of the convoy in consequence of straggling.

CHANCE OF PICKING UP SURVIVORS.

“Eagle to George! Eagle to George! She’s still going on round. You’ll be crossing her bows, sir.”

“Very well. I’ll attack.”

Krause waited for a range and bearing. He did trigonometry in his head and thought about the U-boat skipper.

“I’ll come in on course one-two-zero. Over. Left smartly to course one-two-zero.”

But the next bearing told him that the submarine was turning back in the opposite direction.

“Right rudder--handsomely.”

He had been going to give a course when inspiration came to him, and then inspiration was confirmed by the next bearing that came in.

“Meet her! Left rudder! Steady as you go! “

“Sonar reports contact dead ahead close range.”

Inspiration and prompt action had brought its reward; he had this elusive fellow right under his bows. It had been not a feint but a double feint and he was lunging past the disengaged foil.

“Mr Pond!”

“Standing by, sir.”

“Sonar reports no contact, sir.”

“Fire one! “ said Pond. “Fire two! “

Down went the depth-charges, and the first deep rumble and lofty pillar of water marked the descent of the first. Sonar, accurate and sensitive though it was, had many serious defects. It could make not even a rough estimate of the depth of the pursued submarine, it gave no results at a closer range than three hundred yards, it could only be used at speeds of twelve knots or less, and it was deafened for several minutes by depth-charge explosions. A destroyer captain was under the same handicap as a duck hunter with a beautiful hard-hitting gun would be with weights on his wrists to slow down his swing, with no power of estimating the height of the flying duck, and as if he had to shut his eyes two seconds before he pulled the trigger and keep them shut for half a minute afterwards.

“Right standard rudder. Steer course two-one-zero.”

The deficiencies of sonar should be made good one way or another; improvements in design might make it more robust; it should not be difficult to devise a gun or a sling that would throw a depth-charge a quarter of a mile ahead --but then the depth-charge would go off just as the destroyer was over it and it would blow the bottom out of her.

“Steady on course two-one-zero.”

“Very well.”

These thunderous explosions, those volcanoes of water, had brought no results. Not one of the four depth-charges in that pattern had burst within the necessary thirty yards of the hidden target. Viktor was coming round to take up the attack, and the messenger from the signal-bridge was still at his elbow. Krause had a brief interval available in which to divert his weary mind from the problem of fighting an individual U-boat to a consideration of the welfare of the convoy as a whole; he could re-read that horrible message. A chance of picking up survivors; a chance--the torpedoings had been some hours ago and they would be many miles behind. If they were on life-rafts they would be dead by now in this tossing icy sea. If they were in boats --no, it would take even a destroyer all day to go back, search for them, and rejoin the convoy.

“Eagle to George. We’ve got her ten degrees on our starboard bow, sir.”

“Very well. Come on round after her.”

Cover the rear of the convoy? He wished he had a ship to spare to do that. Four names on that list of the lost; that made six ships out of the convoy which had been sunk during this twenty-four-hour battle. Dead men by the hundred. And of the enemy one probable sinking and one faintly possible. Would Washington think that was a profitable exchange in this bloody game of beggar-your-neighbour? Would London? Would Doenitz, in his case-mated advance headquarters at Lorient? No matter what anyone thought, was it basically profitable? And no matter even then; he had his duty to do, whether it was a losing phase of the war or a winning one. He could only go on, fight on to the end of his strength.

“Eagle to George. Attacking now.”

Range and bearing from the talker, noted automatically by the weary mind. Lieutenant Fippler the gunner officer, awaiting his attention--what could he want? Viktor’s first depth-charge was exploding.

“Come right handsomely. Meet her! Steady!”

Keeling’s bows were pointed at the fringe of the area of tortured water, to lose no time in making the next attack if one were possible. And still he held the message-pad in his hand, and still the wind blew--no sign of moderating as yet--and still Keeling rose and plunged and corkscrewed over the heaving sea. He handed back the message-pad.

“Very well,” he said. There was nothing else to say in that respect. He was doing all he could. This is the day which the Lord hath made.

“Stand by, Mr Pond!”

“Aye aye, sir.”

The next bearing showed that the U-boat had turned aside, as was to be expected.

“Right standard rudder. Steer course--three-two-zero.”

Krause was just conscious of that hesitation in his order, and was indignant with himself as far as there was time to be. He had had to glance at the repeater before giving that course; with these distractions he had not been able to carry the tactical situation in his head.

“Sonar reports no contact, sir.”

“Very well.”

“Fire one! “ said Pond.

Krause turned to Fippler now. Those seconds while the pattern was being fired, while the depth-charges tumbled down through the dark water, were for Krause moments of freedom, when he could turn his mind to other matters. He need not grow expectant or hopeful about the result of the attack until the depth-charges had had time to burst and the sub had had time to give evidence of damage--if she were damaged.

“Well, Mr Fippler?”

He raised his hand in reply to Fippler’s salute. Fippler was being very formal; not a good sign.

“If you please, cap’n, I have to report about the consumption of depth-charges.”

Depth-charges were exploding behind them at this moment.

“Well?”

“Thirty-four expended, sir. This pattern makes thirty-eight.”

In the last twenty-four hours Keeling had flung more than seven tons of high explosive over the side. “Well?”

“We’ve only six left, sir. That’s all. I got the extra ones up that we had up our sleeve from the crew’s living quarters last watch.”

“I see.”

One more burden on his shoulders. A destroyer without depth-charges might be as wise as a serpent, but would be as harmless as a dove. But the present pattern was completed. He had to handle his ship.

“Right standard rudder. Steer course zero-five-zero.”

A minute more--one only--to decide upon his orders. Yesterday, before he became an experienced fighting man, these seconds would be spent in eager watching, at a time when nothing could really be expected for quite an interval, a whole minute, perhaps.

“Thank you, Mr Fippler. We must leave off firing patterns, then.”

“That’s what I was going to suggest, sir.”

Six depth-charges left? One day’s fighting had consumed nearly all the supply. Not much more fighting would exhaust it altogether. Yet the mathematicians had calculated the odds; the size of the area searched by a pattern varied with the square of the number of depth-charges. Halve the pattern and the chances of a hit were only a quarter of the previous chance. Divide it by three and the chances were only one-ninth. Only one-ninth. Yet on the other hand a single depth-charge bursting within the hearing of a U-boat had an important moral effect, would deter it, would induce it to take evasive action, at least for a time.

There had been time enough now for the last pattern to have taken effect, if it had. Krause looked back over the starboard quarter, at the area where the foam of explosions was dying away. There was nothing but foam to be seen there. Viktor was hovering, waiting to pick up the contact.

Regarding the question of future patterns. To-morrow morning he would just be within the radius of air cover. All the classified pamphlets he had read, all the lectures he had heard at Casco Bay, had emphasized the reluctance of U-boats to engage under the menace of air attack. With the weather moderating he might expect some air cover. Moreover, it was notorious that recently U-boats had refrained from attacking convoys in the eastern quarter of the Atlantic. Those secret charts of sinkings, month by month, that he had seen, all demonstrated this fact.

“Eagle to George! He’s turning inside us again. On our starboard bow. Range about one-one-double oh.”

Krause gauged the distances and bearings with his eye.

“Very well. Keep after him now. We’ll come in on him next time round.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

“Quartermaster, right standard rudder. Steer course zero-nine-five.”

Krause visualized the pattern of three depth-charges, in line, and the pattern of four, diamond shaped, and the other pattern of three, “V” shaped. He remembered the blackboard at Casco Bay, and the diagrams there with the small circles showing the “limits of lethal effect” dotted over the three-hundred-yard circle marking “limits of possible position of sub” Mathematically the pattern of four was far superior to the pattern of three.

He listened to Eagle again on the T.B.S., gauged her course, waited for the next sonar report, and turned Keeling again further to starboard.

During the past twenty-four hours he had been prodigal with his depth-charges, as he had when a little boy been prodigal with his pennies on his first entrance into the County Fair. But in those days when, with empty pockets, he had ruefully contemplated all the other things for which he needed money a kindly father and a smiling mother had each of them smuggled a dime, a whole dime each, into his hot hands; when dimes were important to buy food in that household. But now there was no one to refill Keeling’s magazines with the depth-charges he had squandered. Krause shook off the memories which had crowded, in one single second, into his tired brain. For that one second in that bleak and cheerless pilot-house he had felt the hot Californian sunshine, and heard the barkers and the calliope, and smelt the cattle, and tasted the spun sugar--and known the utter confidence of the child with a loving parent on either side of him. Now he was alone, with decisions to make.

“We’ll fire single charges, Mr Fippler,” he said. “The timing will have to be exact. Allow for the last estimated course of the target and for the time of the drop according to the depth setting.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

“See that the torpedo officers at the release stations are instructed to that effect before they come on duty. I won’t have time.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

“Tell Mr Pond now. Very well, Mr Fippler.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Right standard rudder. Steer course two-eight-seven.”

That was the best course to intercept.

“George to Eagle! I’m coming in now.”

The single depth-charge could make no attempt to allow for the U-boat’s evasive action. It could only be dropped where she would be if she took none. That was not a likely spot; but the odds against any other spot were far higher. The single charge made it more urgent than ever that he should take Keeling in to the attack with the utmost exactitude. But he always had tried to do that; he could not be more exact than he had been. He had to think clearly, methodically, and unemotionally, even if he had to goad his exhausted mind to perform its functions, even though it was becoming agonizingly urgent that he should get down to the head, even though he was thirsty and hungry and his joints ached vilely.

It was time to vary his methods; the U-boat captain might have grown accustomed to the routine Keeling had been employing lately.

“George to Eagle. I shall come straight through after attacking this time. Keep on my port bow and move in down my wake as soon as I am clear.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

 

 

Thursday. Forenoon Watch--0800-1200

 

He listened to the ranges and bearings; there was no chance of the sub turning inside him. He realized now that some time back, when Fippler was addressing him, the watch had been changing. A different voice had repeated his helm orders; there had been a coming and going in the pilot-house. Carling was back again awaiting an opportunity to report; but Nourse was at the depth-charge release, the telephone instrument at his lips. He was glad to see him there.

“Very well, Mr Carling.”

Carling had had some hours of sleep, and his belly was full of ham and eggs, and he was in no pressing hurry to get to the head.

“Contact bearing two-eight-two. Range close.”

A good interception, tangential to the circle in which the U-boat was presumably turning, as far as he could calculate.

“Mr Noursel”

Nourse was timing the moment carefully. “Fire one! “ said Nourse.

The single depth-charge seemed strange and out of place after all those patterns of four. Keeling kept steadily on her course. Here came Viktor, steering to pass port side to port side, very close indeed, changing rapidly from a full face silhouette to a detailed picture of a ship in profile in frosted ice, the Polish ensign blowing briskly in the breeze, her commission pennant streaming; the muffled-up figures of her look-outs were clearly visible, the people on her bridge--Krause did not know if the British liaison officer to whom he was talking was there or lower down-- and then the depth-charge crews at their exposed station astern.

“Eagle to George. Do we look as cold as you do, sir?”

So he had to joke as well as fight U-boats. He had to goad his weary mind into a prompt reaction, and think of some light-hearted wisecrack, and he was a man who joked with difficulty. He thought academically along the lines of what he believed would be considered funny, and produced an academic pun.

“George to Eagle. You look North Polish.”

Keeling’s port bow smacked into Viktor’s wake as soon as she passed. Back to business.

“George to Eagle. I am turning to port. Quartermaster, left standard rudder. Steer course zero-zero-zero.”

He had reversed the circle, turning anti-clockwise now after several clockwise circles. But perhaps the U-boat captain was paralleling his thoughts.

He went out on to the port wing of the bridge, treading warily on the treacherous surface, and watched Viktor going down to attack. With the bearing changing so rapidly it was not easy to tell by eye if she was altering course at all while running down her contact. The pilothouse even with its shattered windows was warmer, when he returned to it, than the wing of the bridge.

“Eagle to George. We’ve got her right ahead.”

He hoped it would be an unpleasant surprise for the U-boat captain to emerge from one attack and find himself steering straight into another. He hoped more passionately that the attack would be successful, that Viktor’s next pattern would shatter the sub into an uncontrollable derelict. He saw the depth-charge explosions; three only, one in the wake and one on each side. Viktor was using a “V” shaped pattern, then, one charge for the place where the U-boat ought to be and one on each side allowing for a turn to starboard or to port.

“George to Eagle. I am turning to port. Keep away.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

“Left full rudder. Steer course zero-six-nine.”

Keeling headed for the centre of the magic circle that she and Viktor marked out with their wakes.

“Contact bearing zero-seven-nine. Range distant.”

That looked as if the U-boat had doubled back after Viktor’s attack. He would know better with the next reading; meanwhile he must keep his bows on the target.

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

“Sonar reports contact dead ahead. Range distant.”

Was the U-boat on a reciprocal course, then? Towards? or away ?

“Captain to sonar. ‘Is there any Doppler effect?’ “

“Sonar answers ‘No,’ sir.”

“Very well.”

“Sonar reports contact dead ahead. Range fifteen hundred yards.”

Suspicions grew in Krause’s mind--unless the U-boat, crippled, was lying stationary. That was too good to hope for, and the next report strengthened Krause’s suspicions.

“Sonar reports contact dead ahead. Range thirteen hundred yards. Sonar reports it sounds like a pill, sir.”

That was it, then. It was some time since this U-boat had used that device. But which way had she turned after dropping the thing? Had she dropped it before Viktor made her attack or after? It seemed to be a matter of pure chance, but he made himself analyse the situation, looking over at Viktor’s position, judging the distance ahead, trying to think of what the U-boat captain would do when he heard Viktor moving straight in on him, and quite ignorant of whether Keeling had turned to starboard or port. It was the first time in a long while that Keeling had turned to port. The U-boat captain would guess she would turn to starboard, and would himself turn to port. Then he must make a further turn to starboard.

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

While the helmsman was repeating the order the next report came in.

“Contact dead ahead. Range eleven hundred yards. Still sounds like a pill, sir.”

“George to Eagle. He’s dropped a pill. I am moving out to starboard. Move in on my port beam and search.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

The sub had won itself a respite of two or three, or four or five minutes.

“Sonar reports contact with pill, bearing zero-nine-nine, range nine hundred yards.”

If he knew what the endurance of those things was it would help him with his estimates, but--he searched back through his memory of all he had heard and read--no data on that point had been supplied to him. “Sonar reports no contact, sir.”

The bubbles had ended, then; the pillenwerfer had ceased to bob precariously in the limbo of the deep, hauled up by its bubbles and drawn down by gravity. Gravity had won and the mysterious thing was now sinking down and down in the darkness to the sea bed.

“Sonar reports no contact, sir.”

The ripples were widening in the pond; with the passage of every second the circle marking “possible position of U-boat” was growing larger and larger.

“George to Eagle. I’ve had no contact.”

“Neither have we, sir.”

Maybe that last attack of Viktor’s had hit home, maybe the moment after dropping the pillenwerfer the U-boat had been crushed in by a depth-charge close alongside; maybe she had gone down without trace. No; that was unlikely enough to be quite disregarded. The U-boat was still somewhere near, malignant, dangerous. But at twelve knots Keeling was very near the circumference of the circle outside which the U-boat could not possibly be as yet. Viktor was well advanced beyond the centre of that circle.

“Left standard rudder. Quatermaster, call out your heading. George to Eagle. I am circling to port. Turn to port, too.”

“Aye aye, sir. Asdic’s getting echoes from cold layers, sir.”

Very likely. Perhaps the U-boat captain, with a sharp eye on the thermometer readings recording the outside water temperature, had noted a steep rise in the temperature gradient, had sought the cold layer which that indicated, and was now lying deep, deep down, trimmed to a milligram, deathly silent, balanced miraculously upon the invisible and fragile support of a stratum of denser water. The Lord is in His holy temple; let all the earth keep silence before Him--that was a blasphemous thought.

“Passing zero-four-zero. Passing zero-three-zero. Passing zero-two-zero.”

Keeling was coming round; seconds were passing rapidly, and every second precious. Over the port quarter Viktor was turning less sharply, searching in a quarter so far unexplored.

“Passing three-four-zero. Passing three-three-zero. Passing three-two-zero.”

Now Viktor was on her port bow; now she was right ahead.

“Sonar reports no contact, sir.”

“Very well.”

“Passing two-eight-zero. Passing two-seven-zero. Passing two-six-zero.”

“Sonar reports echoes, sir. No contact.”

“Very well.”

The same kind of echoes as Viktor had reported from a little farther away. Many cold streaks of water here, deflecting away the sonar beam if the U-boat was indeed lying stationary here. But she might have slipped away unobserved; she might be two miles, three miles distant by now, her crew laughing derisively at the spectacle of two destroyers circling round and round and round, seeking where they could not possibly find.

“Passing two-zero-zero. Passing one-nine-zero. Passing one-eight-zero.”

They were completing the circle. Was it any use going on with the search? Krause considered the question with the rigid and unrelenting analysis he applied to his nightly review of his actions during the day before his evening prayers. Would it be feeble, faint-hearted, irresolute, light-minded, to abandon the search? He was aware of his fatigue; was he allowing his fatigue to influence his judgment? He wanted to get down to the head; he wanted food and drink. Was he allowing these human weaknesses to deflect him from a determination which he ought to maintain? This was the only kind of self-analysis that Krause ever knew. With his mind’s eye he looked coldly at the wriggling worm, the weak and sinful creature which was Commander Krause, spineless in the presence of temptation and untrustworthy in the presence of an opportunity to err. Yet he came, reluctantly, to admit that perhaps in this case the feeble creature was right.

“Passing one-two-zero. Passing one-one-zero.”

“Steady on course zero-eight-zero,” he ordered, and then, into the T.B.S., “I am going east to the head of the convoy. My course zero-eight-zero.”

“Oh-eight-oh. Aye aye, sir.”

“Make one more sweep and then patrol round the stragglers.”

“Patrol round the stragglers. Aye aye, sir.” “Steady on course zero-eight-zero, sir.”

“Very well.”

He could not quite remember when he had begun this hunt, but it must be seven hours ago or so. Now he was giving it up. He felt a moment of regret, a moment of self-doubt. Submarine hunts had been called off before this, often enough; but that did not mitigate the feeling of failure even so. Over on Keeling’s port side, from just forward of the beam to the quarter, the convoy was just in sight over the horizon. It had certainly straggled during the night as a result of the torpedo attack; it was spread out like smoke trailing from a stack. Viktor would have her hands full covering all that vulnerable flank and herding the stragglers back into formation.  He went wearily over to the stool and sank down on it. Thigh muscles and calf muscles, knee joints and hip joints, were all aching horribly, and in those first few seconds after he had sat down they ached even more sharply with the returning circulation. The physical exhaustion and discomfort were sufficient at the moment to distract his mind from his disappointment and feeling of mental lassitude. Hours and hours ago he had told James he would send Viktor over to help her; and he had told Dodge he would bring Keeling to her assistance. Light-heartedly he had made her promises, conditional ones-- “as soon as I can”; “after I’ve helped Eagle”--without a suspicion of how long and how fruitless his chase would be. He called up Dodge and James on the T.B.S. and listened to their reports, bracing himself to pay close attention. Dodge was seven miles away on his starboard bow--that was how far her operations during the night had drawn her--making her way back to her station having lost contact with the enemy. Looking in that direction through his binoculars, he could just see her, a more solid nucleus in the hazy horizon. James was over on the left flank beyond the convoy, out of sight but close up to station.

“One  moment, please, sir,” said the T.B.S., the wording, so oddly like that of a long-distance operator, in quaint contrast with the precise English accent. A new voice made itself heard in Krause’s listening ear.

“This is Lieutenant-Commander Rode, commanding, sir.”

“Good morning, Captain,” said Krause. Formality always boded ill.

“As soon as we are in visual touch I shall make a report to you, sir. I am taking this opportunity of calling your particular attention to it.”

“You can’t tell me now?” asked Krause.

“No, sir. Jerry’s been in on this circuit more than once during the night. He has an English-speaking rating who chips in with rude remarks, and I wouldn’t like him to hear this.”

“Very well, Captain. I shall await your report.”

It could only be bad news, of course. Fuel problems almost for certain; depth-charge shortages very likely. But at this moment he had his own personal problem, the extreme necessity of getting down to the head. That was something that, having been postponed for hours, could not be postponed one minute more after thinking about it. Charlie Cole was entering the pilot-house.

“Wait for me a minute, Charlie,” said Krause. “Take the conn, Mr. Carling.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

As he lowered himself heavily down the ladders there was some comfort in the thought that Cole was on the bridge, even though the conn was officially handed over to Carling. He climbed heavily back again. This ship of his, with which he was so utterly familiar, seemed foreign to him in his present condition. The sights and sounds and smells which he knew so well seemed to threaten him, like jagged reefs surrounding a ship creeping into narrow, uncharted waters. He had been so long on the bridge, and in a state of such intense concentration, that the real world seemed unreal; furthermore, he had to keep that real world out of his mind, so as not to break the chain of his thinking.

It was a major physical effort to climb the last ladder to the bridge where Cole was awaiting him, and when he had achieved it he sank unashamedly on the stool.

“I’ve ordered something for you to eat, sir,” said Cole. “I suppose there’s no chance of your taking it in the wardroom.”

“No,” said Krause.

His mind was still at work assembling the details of keeping his command as efficient as possible. He fixed his eyes on Cole; the tanned, fleshy face was somewhat drawn with fatigue. Over the cheeks sprouted a thick growth of beard, something most unusual, for Lieutenant-Commander Cole was careful about his appearance.

“You spent the night in the plot,” said Krause, accusingly.

“Most of it, sir.”

“Have you eaten anything yourself?”

“Not much, sir. I’m just going to.”

“You’d better. I want you to have a good breakfast, Charlie.”

“Aye aye, sir. I’ll just go aft first and see - -“

“No. I don’t want you to, Commander. A good breakfast, and then I want you to turn in for at least two hours. That’s an order, Commander.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

“At least two hours. Very well, Charlie.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

There was no more than half a second’s hesitation about Charlie Cole’s salute. He did not want to leave his captain there on the bridge, with his white face and his hollow cheeks and his staring eyes. But there was no chance of argument when an order had been given. That was naval discipline, which had them all in a rigid grip, which the exigencies of war did no more than tighten slightly. Keeling was in the presence of the enemy and Krause on the bridge was at his post of duty and it was inconceivable that he should leave it. Navy Regs and the Articles for the Government of the Navy were quite definite about that. Consideration of any other course led into flights of fancy wilder than the thoughts of a lunatic. Krause could have summoned the medical officer to the bridge, he could have had himself certified as unfit for duty, and then he could have left his post and taken a rest. Only a lunatic could think of an officer going voluntarily through such a humiliation, and it would be beyond any lunatic’s imagination to conceive of a man with Krause’s rigid pride and overwhelming sense of duty submitting to it. Certainly the possibility never developed even in embryo in Krause’s thoughts. It was as far from his mind as a dereliction from duty would be, which meant that it never came into existence at all.

Here was a messenger with a tray.

“Exec, told me to bring this first without waiting for the rest, sir,” he said.

It was coffee; the inevitable set-up with the cream and sugar that he never used, but he viewed it as Galahad would have viewed the Holy Grail. Krause tugged off his gloves and snatched at it. His hands were numb and trembled a little as he poured. He swigged off the cup and refilled and drank again. The warmth as the coffee went down called his attention to the fact that he was cold; not acutely, perishingly cold but chilled through and through as if nothing would ever quite warm him again.

“Get me another pot,” he said, replacing the cup on the tray.

“Aye aye, sir.”

But as the messenger turned away the Filipino mess-boy took his place, also with a tray in his hands; a white cloth covered it, and the humps and valleys of the cloth hinted at much beneath. When he lifted the cloth he saw marvels. Bacon and eggs--no, ham and eggs with hashed brown potatoes! Toast, jelly, and more coffee! Charlie Cole was a wonderful man. Yet it was a proof of the weariness of Krause’s legs that he sat on the stool contemplating these wonders for a short space wondering what to do next. The stool was just too high for him to hold the tray on his knees; the alternative was to put the tray on the chart-table and eat standing up, and Krause experienced a brief hesitation before he decided upon it.

“On the table,” he said, and hobbled after the mess-boy.

And when he addressed himself to the tray then he experienced another momentary hesitation. It was almost as if he were not hungry; he might almost have told the boy to take the tray away again. But with the first mouth-full that feeling disappeared. He ate rapidly, with the cold wind from the broken windows of the pilot-house blowing round him. Fried eggs may not have been the most convenient things to eat while standing up on a heaving deck, but he did not care, not even when yellow drips fell on his sheepskin coat. He shovelled the potatoes into his mouth with the spoon. He spread jelly on the toast with an egg-smeared knife. He wiped his plate with the last fragment of toast and ate that too. Then a third cup of coffee, not swigged down madly like the first two, but drunk more at leisure, savouring it like a true coffee-hound, with the added pleasure of knowing that there was a fourth cup yet to be drunk. The pleasure was not even spoiled when a sudden recollection came to him of a duty yet unfulfilled. He bowed his head for a moment.

“I thank Thee Oh Lord for all Thy mercies - - “

There had once been a kind and understanding father. Krause was fortunate in that memory; that father had been able to smile at the excusable naughtiness of a little boy even though he led the life of a saint himself. Krause was not harassed by the thought of sin at having forgotten to say his thanks until his meal was nearly completed. That would be understood and forgiven him. The letter killeth but the spirit giveth life. Krause’s severest and most unrelenting judge, of whom he went in fear, was Krause himself, but that judge had luckily never taken ritual sin under his jurisdiction.

He finished the third cup and poured the fourth, and turned to find the messenger beside him with yet another pot on a tray. He had given the order before he knew about the breakfast tray, and now he contemplated the results a little aback.

“Can’t drink that now,” he said, and looked round for help. “Mr Carling, would you have a cup of coffee?”

“I could use it, sir.”

Carling had been on the chilly bridge for two whole hours. He poured himself a cup and added cream and sugar to reveal himself as the sort of man he was.

“Thank you, sir,” said Carling, sipping.

In his present state of wellbeing Krause could exchange a grin with him. Wink-wink-wink; out of the tail of his eye he could see a signal flashing far down on the northern horizon. That would be James sending the message about whose coming he had been warned, yet he could finish his fourth cup without any diminution of pleasure. He pulled on his gloves again over his chilly hands, told the mess-boy to remove the tray, and limped back to the stool again. The meal had eased some of his weariness; he was deliberately seating himself so as not to incur more fatigue than necessary. A whole day of battle had made a veteran of him. The message reached him from the signal-bridge as soon as he sat down.

“JAMES” TO COMESCORT. OWING TO PROLONGED ACTION DURING NIGHT . . .

It was exactly what he had expected. James was down to the danger point as regards oil fuel. She had no more than nine depth-charges left. One day’s hard steaming or half an hour’s action with the enemy would equally leave her helpless. The message only contained these bare facts; it made no submissions, and the only excuse it made was in its opening words. If he were to detach James now she would at economical speed fetch Londonderry safely. If he retained her it could be highly questionable. He could imagine that tiny little ship lying helpless off the northern coast of Ireland, a prey to any enemy--and there might be many--in the air or below the surface or even on it. Yet she still had value as part of the escort. With her guns she could out-fight--only just--a submarine on the surface. Her nine remaining depth-charges, dropped singly but at the right moments, might keep a submarine away from the convoy for a vital few hours. Her sonar might guide Keeling or Viktor in to a decisive attack; even its steady pinging, heard by a listening submarine, might have a deterrent effect.

If they lived through to-day and to-night he might expect some air cover to-morrow, and then it would not be wildly difficult to take her in tow--one of the merchant vessels could do it. He balanced possible loss against possible gain. The captain of the James had been perfectly correct in calling his commanding officer’s attention to the condition of his ship; it would have been negligence on his part not to do so. Now the responsibility was Krause’s. He took the pad and pencil and began to print out the reply. Despite the hot coffee he had drunk he was only just warm enough to control the pencil sufficiently to be legible.

COMESCORT TO “JAMES.” CARRY ON USING UTMOST ECONOMY IN FUEL AND AMMUNITION.

That much was easy, once the decision had been reached. But it might be well to add a heartening word, and it was strange how his mind, still capable of grasping and analysing facts, balked like a stubborn mule at the demand for something further. He wrote “WE CANNOT SPARE YOU” and then, with the utmost deliberation, crossed those words out with three thick lines to make sure they would not be transmitted. They were perfectly true, but a sensitive or touchy recipient might read them as an answer to an unexpressed appeal to be released from escort duty, and there was no such unexpressed appeal in the message he had received. Krause would not willingly hurt any man’s feelings except for the good of the cause in which he was fighting, and it would emphatically not be for the good of the cause to hurt the feelings of the captain of the James. He sat with pencil poised trying to think of the right thing to say. No inspiration came to him. There was only the hackneyed expression which he must use since his mind refused to think of anything better.

GOOD LUCK.

He was in the act of handing the pad back to the messenger when the next idea came.

WE ALL NEED IT.

That would soften the cold official wording. Krause knew academically that a human touch was desirable in these relationships even though he himself had never felt the need of it. He would be perfectly content to do and die in reply to a badly worded order from a superior and would feel no resentment at the absence of a polite phrase. What he did feel was a dull envy of the captain of the James who had no more to do now than to obey orders and no more responsibility than to execute them to the best of his professional ability. He gave the pad to the messenger. Be thou faithful unto death--he nearly said those words aloud, and the messenger, on the point of saluting, seeing him open his mouth and shut it again, waited to hear what he had to say.

“Signal-bridge,” said Krause harshly.

“Aye aye, sir.”

With the departure of the messenger Krause was aware of a new and strange sensation. For the moment he was not being compelled to do something. It was the first time in more than twenty-four hours that instant and important decisions were not being forced on him. There were a hundred minor tasks he could profitably undertake, but he could actually choose between them at leisure. In his fatigued state of mind he contemplated this strange fact as someone in a dream--not in a nightmare--contemplates a new and odd development in what he is dreaming. Even when Carling came and saluted, this new condition was not disturbed.

“Next change of course due in ten minutes, sir,” said Carling.

“Very well.”

It was a routine change of course on the part of the whole convoy, and Carling’s warning was merely in accordance with Krause’s standing orders. The convoy could wheel without Krause’s intervention being called for. And yet--perhaps he should intervene. The convoy was in disorder, and the wheel would accentuate that and prolong it. It might be better if the wheel did not take place. Krause mentally drafted the order he would flash to Comconvoy. “Negative change of course, maintain present course.” No. Better to let matters continue. The convoy would be expecting the change of course, and might be confused if it did not materialize. And when the next routine change of course became due there would be certain confusion as to which change was expected of them this time. “Order, counter order, disorder”; at more than one lecture at Annapolis he had heard that quotation, and during twenty years of service he had seen its truth demonstrated scores of times. He would let the routine continue.

“Commodore signalling for change of course, sir,” said Carling.

“Very well.”

What was this? Something else new and strange. An unreal brightness in the bleak pilot-house. The greyness of the morning was lifting; it was unbelievable. Up in the sky, forward of the starboard beam, Krause actually saw it, a pale, watery sun, more like the moon than the sun but the sun all the same, just visible through the high, thin cloud blowing before its face. The sun; for five seconds it was definitely bright enough for the stanchions to cast the faintest shadows, moving on the deck as the ship rolled. The faint shadows endured for one roll of the ship, moving to port and then to starboard before fading out again while the pale disc vanished for good behind the high cloud. Truly the light is sweet and a pleasant thing it is for the eyes to behold the sun.

“Execute, sir,” said Carling.

“Very well.”

Krause heard the helm order given and repeated. Next moment, it seemed to him, he found himself falling off his stool, swaying right over to one side, falling endlessly as he did sometimes in nightmares. He caught himself up before he had swayed actually more than an inch or two. It was no nightmare. He had really been asleep and had nearly fallen from the stool. He straightened himself up and stiffened his back profoundly shocked at his behaviour. Drowsiness shall clothe a man with rags. It was quite disgraceful that he had allowed sleep to creep up on him unawares. He had never had the experience before in his life. It was only thirty hours since he had been awakened in readiness for yesterday’s general quarters after two hours of perfectly sound sleep. There was absolutely no excuse for him to nod off. But now he had had his warning. He had discovered the insidiousness of the enemy he had to fight against. He would never let it happen again. He got down from the stool and stood erect. The protests of his leg muscles would keep him awake; and his feet were painful now that he stood on them. It really seemed as if his shoes were far too tight for him, as if his feet had grown a size larger during the night. He thought for a moment of taking off his shoes--old and tried companions though they were--and sending down for the slippers in his cabin. But the idea only grew up in his mind to be cut down again instantly. A captain had an example to set and should never appear at his post of duty in slippers; and self-indulgence whether physical or moral was something treacherous and rightly suspect--he had had a clear example of that just now when he fell asleep on his stool. And--and--perhaps if he stood long enough his feet would go numb and cease to hurt him so.

“Mr Carling, we had better come to course one-two-zero and patrol back again across the front of the convoy.”

“One-two-zero. Aye aye, sir.”

A few minutes ago the pinging of the sonar had been a monotonous lullaby lulling him into unconsciousness. Now it was a hard persistent reminder to him to do his duty. I will not give sleep to mine eyes nor slumber to mine eyelids. His eyes did not feel dry or swollen; it was no effort at all to keep his eyelids lifted. That meal that he had eaten had helped to betray him, enmeshing him in the torpor that comes with a full belly--one more example of the dangers of self-indulgence.

He forgot all this when the warning bell rang beside the voice-tube. His feet did not feel painful as he strode to answer it.

“Captain.”

“Cap’n, sir, there’s a pip just showing up. At least I think it’s a pip, sir. Screen’s very bad. Pip bearing zero-nine-two, range nine miles, sir. Now it’s gone. Not sure, sir.”

Was it better to turn in that direction or maintain the present course? At the moment they were heading to interpose between the possible pip and the convoy; it would be better to maintain course.

“I think it’s there again, sir. Wish I could be sure.”

The radar had behaved as well as a radar could be expected to behave for several days now; it was due to start acting up at any time. And at that range--Krause knew the figures, but automatically he did a square root in his head and multiplied by a coefficient--a sub trimmed right down would hardly appear on any radar screen. In any case his present course was a satisfactory one for the next few minutes.

“How would that pip bear from Dodge?” he asked down the tube. He could have arrived at a fair approximation mentally, and would have trusted it in the heat of action, but now there was time to spare, for a wonder.

“Zero-seven-zero, range thirteen and a half miles, sir,” replied the plot.

The little ship’s radar antenna was not as lofty as Keeling’s; she could offer no confirmation, then, and certainly there was no chance at present of getting a cross-bearing.

“Very well,” he said.

“If this is a pip, sir,” said the tube, “the range and bearing’s staying constant. It may be the screen.”

“Very well.”

It might be a defect of the radar; on the other hand--he went out on to the starboard wing of the bridge and looked over the quarter. There was a disgraceful amount of smoke rising from the convoy. Captains were calling for an extra knot or two to jockey their ships back into station, and this was the result. With the wind moderating and backing the smoke was rising higher than yesterday; it would mark the position of the convoy for fifty miles. It might easily be in sight of a sub out there, and if that sub was doing an “end around” in consequence it could easily be maintaining a constant range and bearing from Keeling. What was the use of radar at all if the ships he was supposed to protect announced their presence to enemies far beyond radar range?

There was no bitterness in Krause’s soul as he asked himself that question. He was beyond that stage, just as he was beyond the stage of buck-fever. He had matured very considerably during the last day. An excellent upbringing as a child; a sound Annapolis training; long experience at sea; even these were not as important as twenty-four hours at grips with the enemy. He noticed that the gloved hand that he laid on the rail detached a thin sliver of ice; there was a row of water-drops along the rail’s lowest curve. A rapid thaw was in progress. The ice was melting from stays and guys. The commission pennant had unfrozen itself and now flapped as it should. He was quite calm even though he had a possible submarine not far outside the range of his guns, and the marked contrast between his condition now and his excitement when yesterday’s first contact was made was not due to the apathy of fatigue.

In the pilot-house the voice-tube had an announcement to make to him.

“I can’t see that pip any longer, sir.”

“Very well.”

They continued to churn along diagonally across the front of the convoy. Dodge was plainly in sight on her station beyond the starboard flank.

“Permission granted,” said Carling into a telephone. He caught Krause’s eye and explained. “I’ve given permission to shift steering cables, sir.”

“Very well.”

Krause’s standing orders left that decision to the officer of the deck, and Carling had given permission without consulting his captain, as he was entitled to do. If there were a sub just outside radar range it might not be the best moment to choose. But the change should be made daily, and at the present moment there were no contacts. And it was to Carling’s credit that he had accepted that responsibility; it was possible he had learned something in the last twenty-four hours.

In Keeling’s present position it was easy to get a good view of the starboard half of the convoy; visibility was certainly nine miles now. Through his binoculars Krause could see the ships, various in their paint and design, still trailing astern; close beyond them he could see Viktor’s unmistakable foremast as she rode hard on them. They were gradually closing up. Satisfied, Krause gave the order.

“Time to head back, Mr Carling,” he said.

“Aye aye, sir.”

Krause pretended unconcern; it was his duty to know how Carling reacted.

“Left standard rudder. Steer course zero-six-zero,” said Carling.

It had not been a very exacting test, to lay Keeling on a course patrolling back again across the front of the convoy, but Carling had passed it quickly and correctly. If the Navy was going to expand as prodigiously as apparently it was going to, Carling might easily be commanding a destroyer in battle in six months’ time--if he lived.

“Steady on course zero-six-zero,” said the helmsman.

It occurred to Krause that it might be provident to get down to the head again; it was over an hour since he had drunk four cups of coffee.

“Periscope! Periscope!” shouted the starboard-side look-out. “Starboard beam!“

Krause sprang out, binoculars to his eyes, sweeping the sea on the starboard beam.

“Still there, sir!”

The look-out pointed madly with his hand while staring through his binoculars.

“Zero-nine-nine! Three miles--four miles!”

Krause trained his glasses slowly outwards; the 8-shaped area of vivid magnification which he saw advanced farther from the ship with the movement of the glasses. He saw it --it was gone--he caught it again, as he balanced with the roll of the ship. The slender grey cylinder sliding along over the surface, with a ripple of white at its base, a thing of immeasurable, serpent-like menace.

“Right full rudder,” he roared, and in the same breath as a fresh thought came up into his mind, “Belay that order! Steady as you go! “

Carling was beside him.

“Make sure of that bearing!” he snapped over his shoulder.

Then, slowly, as if with sneering self-confidence, the periscope very gradually dipped below the surface. The wind passeth over it and it is gone; and the place thereof shall know it no more.

“One-six-zero, sir,” said Carling; and then added, honestly. “Couldn’t be sure, sir.”

“Very well.”

Krause stared on through his glasses. He wanted to make certain that the periscope did not immediately reappear for a further look round. He made himself count to twenty slowly.

“You have the conn, Mr Carling,” he said. “Come to course one-seven-zero.”

“One-seven-zero. Aye aye, sir.”

During the time the periscope had been visible Keeling and submarine had been on practically opposite courses. Krause had belayed his order for an immediate turn to encourage the sub in the idea that the periscope had not been sighted. The last information the sub had was that Keeling was still peacefully heading away from the point of danger; the sub might continue in a fool’s paradise, believing that she had slipped unobserved through the gap between Keeling and Dodge, and thinking that she was heading without opposition for that very important tactical point close in to the convoy and broad on its bow from which she could launch a series of torpedoes at its vulnerable beam.

“George to Dicky! George to Dicky! “ said Krause into the T.B.S. “Do you hear me?”

“Dicky to George. I hear you. Strength four.”

“I sighted a periscope a minute ago, distance three to four miles and bearing approximately one-six-zero from me.”

“Three to four miles. One-six-oh. Yes, sir,” said a calm Canadian voice.

“It seemed to be heading on course two-seven-zero, for the flank of the convoy.”

“Two-seven-oh. Yes, sir.”

“I am now on course one-seven-zero to intercept.”

“One-seven-oh. Yes, sir. Here’s the captain, sir.”

An incisive voice made itself heard in Krause’s ear.

“Compton-Clowes speaking.” The Canadian captain was one of the rare examples of a Canadian with a hyphenated name. “My officer of the watch took your data, sir. I am turning to course oh-two-oh to intercept.”

“Very well.”

From where he stood Krause could see the silhouette of the upper works of the little ship foreshortening as she made the turn. Krause wondered if perhaps a course more directly towards the last-known position of the sub might not be more forceful. Compton-Clowes apparently thought it would be safer to make sure of an intercepting position, and likely enough he was right. The most important objective was to drive the sub away from the convoy. To destroy the sub was an important objective but not the only one. Especially--Krause knew just what Compton-Clowes was going to say before he started speaking again.

“If we get into a position to attack, sir,” said Compton-Clowes, “I shall be forced to use singe depth-charges. My supply is low.”

“So is mine,” said Krause.

The analogy of the handicapped duck hunter who had to shut his eyes before shooting could be carried a little further. Seeing that only single depth-charges could be used it was as if the duck hunter, with all his previous handicaps, now had to abandon his shot-gun for a rifle-- for a smooth-bore musket.

“We have to turn him away,” said Krause. “Keep him down until the convoy gets by.”

“Yes, sir. My noon report about my fuel will be coming in to you soon.”

“Is it very bad?” asked Krause.

“It is serious, sir, but I wouldn’t say it is very bad.”

It was some sort of comfort to hear that something was only serious.

“Very well, Captain,” said Krause.

Even Krause was aware of a certain unreal quality about the situation, to be carrying on a quiet conversation in this manner while both ships were heading towards a hidden submarine. They might be two bankers discussing the state of the money market rather than two fighting men moving into battle. But hard reality pushed far enough became unreal; nothing more could excite surprise or dismay, just as a lunatic feels no surprise at his imaginings. Physical fatigue played its part in keeping Krause cold and calm--and very likely was doing the same with Compton-Clowes--but mental satiety was more important. Krause was making these opening moves in the battle much as he might go through a ritual game to oblige some children; something that might as well be well done, but in which he felt no passionate personal interest.

“Good luck to us both, sir,” said Compton-Clowes.

“Thank you,” said Krause. “Over.”

He spoke down the voice-tube to the plot. “How long before we cross the sub’s predicted course?”

“Twelve minutes, sir.”

That was Charlie Cole’s voice again. Had two hours elapsed since he had given Cole that order to take two hours’ rest? Perhaps it would be as well not to inquire. If Cole were dead asleep in the deepest bowels of the ship he would hear about the sighting of a periscope, and it would take a great deal to keep him out of the chartroom then.

 

 

Thursday. Afternoon Watch--1200-1600

 

Yet it was likely to be two hours; here was the watch changing. Carling saluting and going through the ritual of reporting being relieved. One thing must be promptly done.

“You have the conn, Mr Nystrom.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

His weary legs carried him to the loudspeaker.

“This is the captain. You men just coming on watch had better know that we sighted a periscope ten minutes ago. We’re after him now. Keep on your toes.”

He was glad he had secured from battle stations yesterday. Otherwise the ship might have been at general quarters ever since yesterday morning; every member of the ship’s company might be as tired as he was, and that would not be so good. Krause knew that there were men who did not go on even trying to produce their best when they were tired.

On the wing of the bridge he took stock of the situation. Dodge over there would not be very far ahead of the leading ship of the right-hand column of the convoy when the chase came. Nor would Keeling be too far for that matter. It was the same speeding up of time. Leisure at first, and then events moving more and more rapidly, space contracting and time hurrying.

“Sonar reports distant contact bearing one-six-zero, sir,” said the talker suddenly.

Already? The sub had not followed, submerged, the best course she could have chosen, then.

“Contact ten degrees on my port bow,” said Krause into the T.B.S.

“Aye aye, sir.”

“I’ll take the conn, Mr Nystrom.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

He was practically on a collision course with the sub, it seemed. It was the first meeting of the blades in a bout with a new opponent. In the old days with his opponent’s foil button in front of the wire of his mask, and the feeling of the first contact running quivering up his wrist and arm, it had been necessary to size up an opponent as rapidly as possible, to gauge the strength of the other man’s wrist, the rapidity of his movements and reactions. Krause was doing the same now, remembering that over-long exposure of the periscope and taking into account this not very suitable underwater course of the sub The captain of this new sub was not like the man who had shaken off Keeling’s pursuit, and Viktor’s, earlier in the day. He had less finesse and less caution. He might be inexperienced, he might be over-bold, he might even be fatigued.

“Sonar reports distant contact bearing one-six-one,” said the talker.

No need for a helm order as yet, with the bearing so little altered. Better to wait. Nourse was at his side.

“I’d better fire single charges, sir?” said Nourse.

It was a statement with a question mark at the end. Nourse could give his opinion but the responsibility was Krause’s. The handicapped duck hunter had a choice; one shot with a shot-gun or six with a rifle. Krause thought of all the patterns Keeling had fired without result. The objective was to keep the U-boat down, slow, blind, and comparatively harmless until the convoy had passed on. But one well-placed pattern might destroy her, and this seemed as good an opportunity as ever might present itself. The temptation was enormous. And then Krause thought of what his situation would be like if he fired all his depth-charges now and missed. He would be practically helpless, useless. The objective had not changed.

“Yes. Single charges,” said Krause.

He had forgotten the weariness of his legs and his aching feet; tension had not mounted as rapidly this time but he was tense again, with the need for rapidity of decision.

“Sonar reports - - “

“Periscope!“ said the other talker breaking in; in the pilot-house they heard the yell from forward at the same moment. “Forward look-out reports periscope dead ahead.”

Krause put his glasses to his eyes; the port side 40 mm, just forward of the bridge, suddenly began to fire tonk-tonk-tonk. Then nothing for a moment. Krause had just seen the splashes thrown up by the 40 mm. shells. Then the two talkers both began to speak at once.

“Sonar first,” said Krause.

“Sonar reports contact bearing one-six-four, range two thousand yards.”

“Forward look-out reports periscope disappeared.”

“Gun forty-two opened fire at periscope dead ahead. No hits.”

This U-boat captain certainly had a different technique. He had not trusted his listening instruments. He had not been able to resist taking a peep through his periscope. What would be his reaction at the sight of Keeling’s bows pointing right at him? Helm over, most probably. But which way? On across Keeling’s bows or an instinctive flinching away? The next report might show. And dive deep or stay at periscope depth? Dive deep, most likely.

“Deep setting, Mr Nourse.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

“Sonar reports contact dead ahead, range fifteen hundred yards.”

She was crossing Keeling’s bows, then. She had probably used left rudder.

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

“Right smartly to course one-eight-zero. Steady on course one-eight-zero.”

“Sonar reports contact dead ahead, range thirteen hundred yards.”

He had anticipated the U-boat’s movement, then. She had come sharply round. Better lead her another ten degrees more.

“Right smartly to course one-nine-zero.” Then into the T.B.S. “Contact crossing my bows, range thirteen hundred yards. I am turning to starboard.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

“Steady on course one-nine-zero.”

“Very well.”

“Sonar reports contact bearing one-eight-zero, range eleven hundred yards.”

Ten degrees to port? Suspicious. If sonar had reported a Doppler effect at the same time it would be more suspicious, though. Wait. Wait.

“Sonar reports contact bearing one-seven-five, range twelve hundred yards.”

That was it. The sub was circling right away. Keeling’s last turn had been worse than unnecessary; it had increased distance and wasted time. Krause felt a momentary annoyance with himself. But how far round would the sub turn? Lead her or follow her?

“Left standard rudder. Steer course one-seven-five.” Into the T.B.S. “Contact’s circling. I am turning back to port.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

Dodge was drawing up to her station on the edge of the ring, ready to enter into the combat. The convoy was closing on them steadily. There were many factors to be borne in mind at the same time.

“Contact bearing one-seven-two, range twelve hundred yards.”

Wait for it. Wait. Wait.

“Contact bearing one-six-six, range steady at twelve hundred yards.”

She was coming right round, then, and at a very slow speed.

“Left full rudder. Steer course one-five-five.” Into the T.B.S. “I am still turning to port.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

“Sonar reports contact dead ahead, range one thousand.”

This time he had scored a point. He had closed on his victim by two hundred yards and still had her dead ahead. He must rub the advantage in and anticipate again.

“Left full rudder. Steer course one-four-zero.”

Round they went in the circle, closing in to the point of equilibrium.

“Dicky to George! Dicky to George! Contact, sir. Bearing oh-six-four, range one thousand.”

“Come in, then.”

The rat had doubled away from one terrier to head for the jaws of the other. A pity that both terriers were so nearly toothless. Krause watched Dodge steady herself on her new course; saw her swing a trifle and then a trifle more as the desperate U-boat came out of her circle. Quick thinking was necessary. In one hundred and eighty seconds the two ships would be meeting--long seconds when chasing a sub; horribly short when closing on another ship at right angles. He must give way and give way so as to be in the most suitable station for taking up the chase if Dodge’s attack failed.

“Right full rudder. Steer course zero-eight-five. Come on in, Dicky. I am turning to starboard.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

Long seconds again now, watching whether the rat would run into the other terrier’s jaws or would just evade them, listening to the sonar bearings, deciding on whether the present course was the most suitable. Dodge was still turning to starboard. Time to turn to port again yet?

“Steady on course zero-eight-five.”

“Torpedoes fired!” said the talker.

One second for thought. The U-boat’s stern was pointing straight at Keeling’s port beam; the U-boat’s bows were pointing, as far as he could tell, somewhat away from Dodge’s bows. Dodge was distant, Keeling was near. The U-boat must be aware of Keeling’s proximity; it was probable she did not know of Dodge’s approach. Foil-blade pressed against foil-blade; one second--one-tenth of a second--for thought. Keeling must be the target.

“Right full rudder. Steer course one-seven-zero.”

Not quite a right angle turn. The torpedoes would be aimed to cross nearly ahead of Keeling’s present position; allow for the advance and Keeling would be as nearly parallel to the tracks as he could judge.

“All engines ahead flank speed!”

“Torpedoes approaching!” said the talker.

“Make your report the way you’ve been taught,” snapped Krause at the talker. “Repeat.”

“Sonar reports torpedoes approaching,” stammered the talker.

It was absolutely essential for the talkers to report in due form. Otherwise confusion was certain.

“Steady on course one-seven-zero,” said the helmsman.

“Very well.”

“Engine-room answers ‘All engines ahead flank speed,’ sir.”

“Very well.”

Time to spare for the T.B.S. now, which was demanding his attention.

“Torpedoes fired at you, sir!“ said the Canadian voice, urgent, distressed. “I see you’ve turned.”

“Yes.”

“Good luck, sir.”

Good luck to the man who might be dead in ten seconds’ time. Good luck to the ship which might be a sinking wreck or a pillar of fire. He had taken the best action, laying his ship parallel to the torpedo tracks. With the call for flank speed the churning of Keeling’s propellers, working furiously against the inertia of the ship, might perhaps have some effect on deflecting a torpedo coming right at them, especially as it would be set for a shallow run against a destroyer. In any case the propeller’s quickening beat would kick Keeling a few yards farther away from the firing-point than she would otherwise have been, and every yard, every foot, counted. Inches might make the difference between life and death; not that life or death mattered, but success or failure did.

“Sonar reports echoes confused, sir,” said the talker.

“Very well.”

“Torpedo to starboard!”

“After look-out reports - - “

“Torpedo to port! “

Look-outs were shouting and talkers talking. One leap to the starboard wing of the bridge. There was the indescribably menacing track along Keeling’s side, not ten yards away, straight along it. Luckily it was a torpedo of the old-fashioned type with none of the rumoured homing devices that the Germans were supposed to be putting into production.

“T’other one went over there, sir,” said the port-side look-out, pointing vaguely.

“How far?”

“Good two hundred feet, sir.”

“Very well.”

Back to the pilot-house.

“All engines ahead standard speed. Left full rudder. Steer course zero-eight-five.”

It was forty seconds since the alarm was given. Forty of those long seconds, and during this time he had been neglectful. He had not watched Dodge to see the effect of her run-in. She had come farther round still. Her turning circle was remarkably small. She was handier than Viktor, and considerably handier than Keeling. Those tiny ships, fantastically uncomfortable to live in, were good antisubmarine craft all the same, even though a single torpedo would blow them to pieces. She was coming round again-- it must be remarkably pleasant to handle a ship that could turn inside a U-boat’s turning circle.

It was time to head round towards the most likely point of interception.

“Left standard rudder. Steer course zero-two-zero.”

His turn away and even his momentary increase in speed had considerably enlarged his distance.

“Dicky to George. We’ve got him right ahead of us. We’ll be firing any minute now.”

“Very well.”

“Glad he missed you, sir. Very glad.”

“Thank you.”

“We’re turning to starboard again.”

“Very well.”

Krause turned to the helmsman.

“Left standard rudder. Steer course three-three-zero.”

The convoy was unpleasantly near. It would not be long before sonar would start complaining about interference. This new enemy was a dangerous man, free with his torpedoes. He would have to be watched very closely indeed if he were like that, giving him as little opportunity as possible for a beam shot, and that meant considerable precaution in manoeuvring round him. At the same time he now had two torpedoes the fewer--he was ten per cent less deadly to the convoy than he had been. Doenitz might take him to task--if he lived to return to Lorient--for those two wasted fish. He might ask why he had not fired a full spread; he might ask why he had fired at all at a shallow-draft fighting vessel with full power of manoeuvre and on the alert. The question as to whether or not it was profitable to use torpedoes against escort craft was a difficult one for the Germans to answer. It was foolish, a foolish waste of time, and yet attractive, to think of luring the U-boat into wasting all its torpedoes in that fashion. The sub would not fire eighteen more torpedoes and miss every time. He must be delirious to give it a thought. Overtired, perhaps.

“Dicky to George. Firing now.”

“Very well. I’ll come in. Right standard rudder. Steer course one-one-zero.”

A single pillar of water in Dodge’s wake. Just the one shot, yet sufficient to deafen Dodge’s sonar.

“Sonar reports underwater explosion, sir.”

“Very well.”

“Sonar reports indications confused.”

“Very well.”

What had this U-boat captain been doing during his three minutes’ grace between Dodge’s arriving close to him and dropping the charge? Starboard? Port? His own sonar indications had not been very conclusive. And what was the U-boat doing now, with Keeling’s sonar deafened?

“Sonar reports contact bearing zero-seven-five, range fourteen hundred yards.”

So he had guessed wrong. Round after him.

“Left full rudder. Steer course zero-six-five. George to Dicky. Contact bearing zero-seven-five from me, range fourteen hundred yards.”

“Zero-seven-five. Aye aye, sir. I am turning to starboard.”

Round after him. Round again. Coach Dodge in against him. Jockey into position to drop a single depth-charge, resisting the temptation to make it a full pattern. Remember that this fellow might fire a spread at any moment. Keep the flagging mind alert. Think quickly. Forget the weary legs and the aching feet which had not, after all, gone numb. Keep from thinking about the ridiculous and yet penetrating need to get down to the head again. Round and round, ever on the alert for something to happen at any moment.

Something did. Keeling on one run, Dodge on another, had each dropped a charge. Hopeless to expect any results from such a feeble attack.

“After look-out reports sub astern.”

Krause leaped to the wing of the bridge. A grey shape showing there, a quarter of a mile away, bridge and hull in full view. The guns in the after gun-mounts began to fire. Wang-o, wang-o.

“Right full rudder!”

Next moment it was gone, plunging violently below the surface.

“Meet her! Steady as you go!”

“Sonar reports close contact dead ahead.”

“Mr Nourse!”

“Sub alongside! Sub alongside!”

That was a scream from the port-side look-out. Almost scraping alongside, not ten feet between them. Krause could have hit her with a rock if he had had a rock to throw. As it was there was nothing to throw. Not a depth-charge at the port-side “K”-gun; the five-inch could not depress so far. Tonk-tonk-tonk went the port-side 40 mm; Krause saw the splashes in the water beyond--it would not depress sufficiently either. Painted on the side of the U-boat’s bridge was a golden-haired angel in flowing white robes riding a white horse and brandishing a sword. The U-boat’s bow submerged again at a sharp angle and the bridge plunged forward into the water again. Bang-bang-bang-bang. Someone had got a fifty-calibre machine-gun into action too late.

“Left full rudder!”

Right in Keeling’s wake the U-boat broke surface again in a flurry of spray and vanished instantly, to reappear again and disappear again. The assumption was obvious that one of her bow-planes was jammed on rise. It might be an ordinary mechanical failure; it might be that one of those depth-charges had by a miracle exploded near enough to damage it.

“Right full rudder!” bellowed Krause, his voice loud enough to be heard from end to end of the ship.

Here was Dodge coming right towards them; in the excitement of finding a sub close alongside he had forgotten all about Dodge, who was coming in to the attack as she had every right to do. The two ships, no more than a cable’s length apart, were wheeling towards each other, heading for a common meeting point where the crash would be tremendous, fatal to both ships probably. Instinctive action, instinctive application of the ordinary rules of the road, saved them. Slowly each ship ceased to swing inwards; for a hair-raising moment inertia carried them on towards each other, and then the kick of the propellers against the turning rudders, the solid, wedgelike thrusts of the rudders against the water, swung the ships slowly outwards again. Dodge went past Keeling’s port side hardly farther than the sub had been a minute ago. Someone waved airily to Krause from Dodge’s bridge and then passed rapidly by at the combined speed of both ships. Krause found himself shaking a little, but as always there was no time to worry; not if he wanted to get Keeling into position to follow up the attack that Dodge was going to deliver.

“Meet her! “he roared. “Left full rudder!”

He went back into the pilot-house forcing himself to be calm; it was helpful to be greeted by the talker’s monotonous voice.

“Sonar reports contacts confused.”

Sonar down below was doing its job in an orderly fashion, whether ignorant or not of all the things that were going on topside.

“Meet her! Steady as you go!“

He was judging Dodge’s course by eye, and trying to anticipate the sub’s next move.

“Dicky to George! Dicky to George!”

“George to Dicky. Go ahead.”

“We’ve no contact, sir. Must be too close.”

Yesterday that situation would have called instantly for a full pattern of depth-charges; today there was no question of wasting all Dodge’s remaining offensive power on the ten-to-one chance that the sub was near enough within the possible three-hundred-yard circle to receive damage.

“Hold your present course. I’ll cross your stem.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

“Left standard rudder! Meet her! Steady as you go!“

“Steady on course - - “ said the helmsman; Krause had no ears for the figures; he was planning to pass across Dodge’s wake sufficiently far from her to give his sonar a chance to pick up an echo from the sub; Dodge would be going twice as fast as the sub, so that was the area to search. With a jammed plane the sub could with care manage to keep submerged by trimming her ballast tanks; even below the surface she might manage to clear . . .

“George! George! Here he is!”

Krause looked forward over the starboard bow at Dodge. There was nothing to see except the little ship steaming along apparently peacefully.

“Too close!” said the T.B.S., and at the same time through the ear-phones came the sound of gunfire, echoed a second later over the air. Dodge was turning rapidly to port. Guns were firing; over the water came the sound of small-calibre machine-guns. Round came Dodge. Grey against her grey side was something else, the surfaced U-boat, bow to stern with her, circling as she circled, each ship chasing the other’s tail. As Dodge came broadside on to Krause’s view a great red eye opened in Dodge’s side and winked once at Krause. A pillar of water rose in the sea half-way between them; something black shot out of the base of the pillar, turning end-over-end with incredible rapidity, rising out of Krause’s sight and roaring overhead with a sound like the fastest underground train ever heard. Dodge had banged off her four-inch at extreme depression and the shell had ricochetted from the surface, luckily bouncing high enough to pass over Keeling. Hard to blame the gunners; with Dodge turning so rapidly and Keeling crossing her stern the situation was  changing so rapidly they could not have guessed that Keeling would come into the line of fire.

Other bangs, other rattles, as the ships wheeled. The U-boat captain must have despaired of effecting a repair and come to the surface to fight it out. Close alongside Dodge, his men must have run to their guns over the streaming decks as she emerged. And, closer to the surface than Dodge’s gun, her gun would bear on Dodge’s loftier side while Dodge’s gun would not depress sufficiently. And what would that four-inch do to that fragile little ship?

In a moment, it seemed, they had turned the half-circle and Dodge’s bow and the U-boat’s stern were presented to Krause’s view; already the U-boat was disappearing behind Dodge on the other side.

“Right full rudder!” said Krause. He had been so fascinated by the sight that he was allowing Keeling to steam straight on away from the fight. “Meet her! Steady as you go! “

“Steady on course - - “

“Very well Captain to gunnery control. ‘Stand by until you have a chance at a clear shot.’ “

A sudden flare-up forward in Dodge; smoke pouring from her below her bridge. The U-boat had scored one hit at least. The embattled ships were coming round again, and he was going in the opposite direction, hovering on the outskirts like a distracted old lady whose pet dog had engaged in a fight with another dog.

“Gunnery control answers ‘Aye aye, sir.’ “

He must get clear, turn, and come in again. With cool judgment and accurate timing he could break into the battle. He would have to ram, picking the U-boat off Dodge’s side as he might pick off a tick. It would be a tricky thing to do. And he might easily tear the bottom out of Keeling, but it was worth trying, even in the face of that probability. They were turning counter-clockwise; best if he came in counter-clockwise too. That would give him more chance.

“Left standard rudder! Meet her! Steady as you go! “

Endless seconds as Keeling drew away from the fight. He had to allow himself sufficient distance to time his run-in. Krause watched the increasing distance. He had his glasses to his eyes; as they came round again he could see the figures on the U-boat’s deck; he saw two of them drop suddenly, inert, as bullets hit them.

“Left full rudder!” Long, long seconds as Keeling turned with exasperating slowness.

“Meet her!”

As Krause braced himself to make the run-in the situation changed in a flash. Keyed up and eager, watching through his glasses to time his movement exactly, he saw Dodge’s bow seemingly waver in the smoke that surrounded it. It was ceasing to turn to port. Compton-Clowes was putting his wheel over. The deduction exploded a further series of reactions on Krause’s part.

“Right standard rudder! Captain to gunnery control. ‘Stand by for target on port beam.’ Meet her! Steady as you go! Steady!”

Keeling’s turn to starboard presented her whole port side to Dodge and the sub All five five-inch guns came training round as she turned, and at the same instant the sub with her wheel hard over and taken momentarily by surprise by Dodge’s abrupt alteration of rudder diverged from her. Ten yards--twenty yards--fifty yards of clear water divided the two ships, and before the U-boat could turn back into the sheltering embrace of her enemy the five-inch opened, like a peal of thunder in the next room, shaking Keeling’s hull as a fit of coughing will shake a man’s body. The sea seemed suddenly to pile up around the grey U-boat, the splashes were so close and so continuous around her; it was as if there was a hillock of water there, with the square grey bridge only dimly to be seen in the heart of it like an object in a glass paper-weight --and, in the heart of it, too, over and over again, a momentary orange glare as a shell burst. Also in the heart of it showed momentarily a vivid red disc, just once. Through the noise of the gunfire and the vibration of the recoil Krause heard a rending crash and felt Keeling undergo a violent shock which made everyone on the bridge stagger; a shock wave like a sudden breath passed into and out of the pilot-house. And before they had steadied themselves the guns fell silent, ending their fire abruptly, so that Krause was conscious of a moment’s unnatural silence, just long enough for him to feel fear lest the main armament had somehow been put out of action. But a glance reassured him. The U-boat was gone. There was nothing in the foaming water over there. The eye-pieces of the binoculars which he raised again to his eyes beat against his eyelashes until he forced his hands to quiet themselves. Nothing? Surely there were some things floating there. And something came and went, came and went again; not strange-shaped wave-tops but two huge bubbles bursting in succession on the surface.

In that moment the unnatural silence was ended and Krause became conscious of sounds close beside him, snap-pings and hangings, and voices. From the wing of the bridge he looked down aft, and what he saw first was a bird’s nest of twisted iron seen dimly through smoke. It was an effort to recall what he should have seen there. The port-side 20-mm. gun tub just abaft the stack was gone, gone. Below it the deck was riven and twisted, with smoke eddying from it, and at the root of the smoke a glimmer of flame visible in the pale daylight, and, just beyond, the torpedoes in their quadruple mount with their brassy warheads. There shot up in Krause’s mind the recollection of the Dahlgren experiment just before the war when it was proved--to the satisfaction of all except those who died-- that TNT. detonated after a few minutes’ steady cooking.

Petty, the damage-control officer, hatless and excited, was running to the spot with a team following him. He should not have left his central post. They were dragging hoses. Krause remembered suddenly what there was stored there.

“Belay those hoses!“ he bellowed. “That’s gasoline! Use foam!”

One hundred gallons of gasoline in two fifty-gallon drums, for the motor whale-boat which Keeling carried. Krause swore a bitter vow that in future he would have a Diesel boat, or else no boat at all; at any rate no gasoline.

Those drums must have burst and the fiery stuff was spreading. The flames were reaching eagerly for the torpedoes.

“Jettison those fish!“ hailed Krause.

“Aye aye, sir,” answered Petty, looking up at him, but Krause doubted if he had understood what had been said. The flames were roaring up. Flint, the ageing Chief recalled from Fleet Reserve, was there and looked more sensible.

The convoy was perilously near. He did not dare launch live torpedoes. Krause had been a destroyer officer most of his professional life; for years he had lived with torpedoes in consequence, visualizing their use in every possible situation--save perhaps this one. The old dreams of charging in upon a column of battleships for a torpedo attack had no place here. But at least he was familiar with every detail of the handling of torpedoes.

“Flint!” he yelled, and Flint looked up at him. “Jettison those fish! Get rid of ‘em! Launch ‘em dead! Lift the tripping latches first!“

Flint understood him. He had not been able to think for himself, but he could act when someone thought for him. He sprang through the edge of the flames on to the mount, and went steadily from tube to tube carrying out his instructions. The lifted tripping latches would not engage the torpedo starting lever when the tubes were fired. Tonk! A dull noise, a puff of smoke, and the first torpedo plunged over the side like a swimmer starting a race, but only to dive straight down to the bottom. Tonk! That was the second. Then the third. Then the fourth. They were all gone now. Fifty thousand dollars’ worth of torpedoes tossed deliberately to the bottom of the Atlantic.

“Well done!“ said Krause.

The flames were bursting up through the holes in the deck, but one young seaman--in his cold-weather clothes Krause could not determine his rate, but he could recognize him and would remember him --had a foam nozzle in each hand and was playing on the flames from the very edge of the blaze. Other nozzles were appearing now and he could be sure the fire would be smothered. He weighed in his mind the proximity of number three gun-mount’s handling-room. No. That was safe. He had many other things to think about. It was only three and a half minutes since the gunfire had ceased, but he had been improperly employed luring that time doing his damage control officer’s work. He looked round at Dodge and at the convoy and plunged into the pilot-house.

“Dicky on the T.B.S., sir,” said Nystrom,

There was long enough to note that Nystrom was steady, pop-eyes and all. His manner still had the faintly apologetic flavour that characterized it at other times and might excite prejudice against him.

“George to Dicky. Go ahead.”

“Submit we turn in to look for survivors, sir,” said the T.B.S.

“Very well. Permission granted. What is your damage?”

“We’ve lost our gun, sir. Our four-inch. Seven dead and some wounded. He hit us right on the mount.”

“What other damage ?’’

“Nothing serious, sir. Most of his shells went right through without exploding.”

At twenty yards’ range those German four-inch would be travelling at practically muzzle velocity. They would be liable to go right through unless they hit something solid like a gun-mount.

“We have our fires under control, sir,” went on the T.B.S. “I think I can report definitely that they are extinguished.”

“Are you seaworthy?”

“Oh, yes, sir. Seaworthy enough with the weather moderating. And we’ll have the holes patched in a brace of shakes.”

“Seaworthy but not battleworthy,” said Krause.

Those words would have had a dramatic, heroic ring if it had not been Krause who said them in his flat voice.

“Oh, we’ve still got our Bofors, sir, and we’ve two depth-charges left.”

“Very well.”

“We’re going into the oil, sir. Enormous pool of it--it’ll reach you soon I should think, sir.”

“Yes, I can see it.” So he could, a circular sleek area where no wave-top was white.

“Any wreckage.”

“There’s a swimmer, sir. We’ll get him in a minute. Yes, sir, and there are some fragments. Can’t see what they are from here, sir, but we’ll pick them up. It’ll all be evidence, sir. We got him all right.”

“We sure did.”

“Any orders, sir?”

Orders. With one battle finished he had to make arrangements for the next. He might be plunged into another action during the next ten seconds.

“I’d like to send you home,” said Krause.

“Sir!“ said the T.B.S. reproachfully.

Compton-Clowes knew as much about escorting convoys as he did, probably more even despite his recent intensive experiences. Nothing could be spared, not even a battered little ship armed with Bofors and two depth-charges.

“Well, take up your screening station as soon as you’ve picked up the evidence.”

“Aye aye, sir. We’re getting a line to the swimmer now, sir.”

“Very well. You know your orders about him.”

“Yes, sir.”

Instructions regarding the treatment of survivors from U-boats were quite detailed; Naval Intelligence needed every scrap of information that could be gleaned from them. Possession had to be taken immediately of every scrap of paper in any survivor’s pocket before it could be destroyed. Any information volunteered was to be carefully noted.

“Over,” said Krause.

The spreading oil had reached Keeling now. The raw smell of it was apparent to everyone’s nostrils. There could be no doubt about the destruction of the U-boat. She was gone, and forty or fifty Germans with her. The Nazi captain had died like a man, even if--as was Iikely-- it was a mere mechanical failure for which as captain he was responsible, which had prevented him from diving. He had fought it out to the end, doing all the damage he could. Through Krause’s mind drifted the unsummoned hope that if he had to die he would die in a like fashion although in a better cause, but he would not allow his mind to dwell on such time-wasting aspirations. On the surface the U-boat had fought a good fight, handled superbly, far better than she had been handled under water. That might be a trifle of evidence for Naval Intelligence--the U-boat captain might be a surface ship officer given command of a submarine after insufficient underwater training and experience Discipline in the U-boat had endured to the end. That last shot she fired, the one that had hit Keeling, had been fired by someone with a cool head and iron nerve. Amid that hell of bursting shells, probably with the training mechanism jammed, he had caught Keeling in his sights while the U-boat turned and had pressed the firing pedal as his last act before his death The dead which he slew at his death were more than they which he slew in his life.

Those dead were in Keeling and he had stood here idle for several seconds when there was so much to be done. Out on to the wing of the bridge to look down on the scene of the damage. The fire was out; patches of foam were still to be seen drifting about the deck with the movement of the ship. Petty was still there.

“Go back to your post, Mr Petty, and let’s have your report.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

The ship’s damage-control system had not stood the test of war; he would have to take some action about that. Two seamen were making their way past the shattered part of the deck carrying a stretcher between them; fastened into it was an inert shape. Storekeeper Third Class Meyer. Down to the loudspeaker.

“This is the Captain. We got that U-boat. The oil from her is all round us now. Dodge has picked up a survivor. We hit her a dozen times with the five-inch. And he hit us. We’ve lost some shipmates. Some have been hard hit.” The sentences were dragging. It was hard to make his mind think of suitable things to say. “It was in the line of their duty. And we’ll make the next U-boat pay for them. We’ve still a long way to go. Keep on your toes.”

It was not a good speech. Krause was no orator, and now once more he was, without realizing it, in the throes of reaction after the extreme tension of the battle, and his fatigue accentuated the reaction. Inside his clothes he was cold and yet sweating. He knew that if he relaxed for a second he would be shivering--trembling. On the bulkhead beside the loudspeaker hung a small mirror, a relic of peacetime days. He did not recognize the face in it--he gave it a second glance for that very reason.

The eyes were big and staring and rimmed with red. The unbuttoned hood hung down beside cheeks that were sprouting with bristles. He still did not think of it as his face until he observed at the base of one nostril a dab of filth--relics of the mayonnaise that had been smeared there so long ago. And there was yellow egg on his chin. He wiped at it with his gloved hand. All round his bristly lips he was filthy. He needed to wash, he needed a bath and a shave, he needed--there was no end to the list of what he needed, and it was no use thinking about it. He dragged himself back into the pilot-house and sank down on to his stool, once more commanding his tired body not to tremble. Next? He still had to go on. The sonar was still pinging; the Atlantic was still full of enemies.

“Mr Nystrom, take the conn.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

“Take station to patrol ahead of the convoy.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

Petty giving his damage report. Watching Petty’s face as he spoke, concentrating his attention. This was the first time Petty had been tested in action, and it was not fair to judge him finally; and he must put in a word of admonition, but carefully phrased as it would be in the hearing of all in the pilot-house.

“Thank you, Mr Petty. Now that you’ve had the opportunity of seeing your arrangements in action you will know what steps to take to improve them.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Very well, Mr Petty.”

Fippler made his gunnery report on the battle circuit. He had counted seven distinct hits in the fifty-odd rounds fired.

“I should have thought it was more,” said Krause. “It may have been, sir. May have been plenty we didn’t see.”

“But it was good shooting, Mr Fippler. Well done.”

“Thank you, sir. And number four gun still has a round in the breech. Request permission to unload through the muzzle.”

That was one way of asking permission to fire the gun off. A round left in the heated gun was too dangerous to unload in the ordinary way, and as a result of the chemical changes caused by the heat it would be unreliable in action. Krause looked round him. A sudden unexpected gun going off might puzzle the convoy but could hardly alarm them further than they had been alarmed already.

“Permission granted, Mr Fippler.” Think of everything; keep the mind concentrated so as to miss no detail. “Send someone first to warn the ship over the loudspeaker about what you’re going to do.”

“Aye aye, sir. Thank you, sir.”

It might alarm the convoy, but the sudden unexpected crash of a gun might well disturb the ship; false alarms were to be avoided if possible for fear of blunting the edge of the men’s attention.

Now he could get down to the head. He did not know how many hours it was since he had thought he should do that as a precautionary measure; now it was something of the most urgent and pressing importance. He heard Fippler’s warning being given over the loudspeaker as he went down the ladder, but it did not register because he was now having to grapple with the problem of whether or not to break radio silence and inform London of the growing helplessness of his command. That was a problem calling for so much thought that he had no attention to spare for anything else, with the result that he forgot all about his recent conversation with Fippler and while still in the head he was taken completely by surprise by the crash of number four gun going off. The sudden galvanization into tension, the reaction from it when he remembered the actual state of affairs, and his annoyance with himself--his shock that he could have forgotten so quickly --left him shaken again. But he deliberately took two more minutes away from the bridge, and washed his face and hands, soaping and rubbing vigorously. That made him feel considerably better. He actually remembered to pick up his hood and gloves before setting himself to make the weary climb back up the ladders to the bridge.

 

 

Thursday. Dog Watches--1600-2000

 

The watch was changing as he began the ascent with painful feet and aching legs; the ladders were crowded with men climbing up and men coming down. They were chattering and talking animatedly to each other, like schoolboys between classes; perhaps the recent exciting events had keyed them up, but they showed no sign of weariness.

“Did you hear the Kraut?” asked one young seaman loudly. “He said

Someone else caught sight of Krause on the ladder and nudged the speaker into silence as they made way for their captain.

“Thank you,” said Krause, pushing past them.

He had been nearly sure before this that on the lower deck he was known as the Kraut. Now he knew. It was inevitable that he should have that nickname. It was only among the officers that he was known by his Annapolis nickname as Squarehead Krause.

In the pilot-house two men turned to salute him; Charlie Cole of course and Temme the doctor.

“You got him all right, sir,” said Cole.

“Yes, we did, didn’t we?” said Krause.

“Reporting casualties, sir,” said Temme, and then, glancing down at the scrap of paper he held. “Three killed. Gunner’s Mate Third Class Pisani, Seaman Second Class Marx, Mess Attendant Second Class White. All of them badly mutilated. Two wounded. Seaman Second Class Bonnor, Storekeeper Third Class Meyer. Both of them hospital cases. Meyer has it badly in both thighs.”

“Very well, Doctor.” Krause turned to receive Nystrom’s salute and statement that Harbutt now had the deck. “Very well, Mr Nystrom.”

“I’ve prescribed something for you, Cap’n,” said Cole, “in consultation with Doc.”

Krause looked at him a little stupidly.

“Something on a tray, sir,” said Cole.

“Thank you,” said Krause in all gratitude, the thought of coffee rising in his mind like sunrise. But Cole obviously had more to say and the doctor was obviously waiting to support him in what he had to say.

“About the funerals, sir,” said Cole.

Certainly the thought of burying the dead had not crossed Krause’s mind.

“Doc. here thinks - - “ said Cole, with a gesture he brought Temme into the conversation.

“The sooner they’re buried the better, sir,” said Temme. “I’ve no room for corpses down below. I’ve four other bed cases, you know⁷, sir, the survivors from the burning ship.”

“We may be in action again any time, sir,” said Cole.

Both statements were perfectly true. A destroyer, as full of men as an egg is of meat, had no space to spare for mutilated bodies. Temme had to consider the likely possibility of having dozens more casualties on his hands.

“Commander tells me it may be three days or more before we reach port, sir,” said Temme.

“Quite right,” said Krause.

“On the table, there, messenger,” said Cole.

The “something on a tray” that they had prescribed had arrived. The three of them moved over to the table. A quick gesture by Cole sent the quartermaster and the messenger away out of earshot. Krause lifted the napkin; there was a full meal there. Besides the pot of coffee was a plate of cold cuts painstakingly arranged, bread already buttered, potato salad, a dish of ice-cream. Krause looked at it all not entirely comprehendingly--at everything except the coffee.

“Please, sir,” said Cole, “eat it while you’ve time. Please, sir.”

Krause poured himself coffee and drank, and then mechanically picked up the knife and fork and began to eat.

“May I arrange about the burials, sir?” asked Cole.

The burials. Krause had heard about the deaths of Pisani and Marx and White without emotion, too involved at that time with other problems and too encompassed by distractions for those deaths to affect him. Now he found himself eating with this discussion going on. Pisani had been young and dark and handsome and vital; he remembered him perfectly well. But the convoy had to go through.

“We’ve nearly two hours more of daylight, sir,” said Cole. “And I can get it all set in ten minutes while you’re eating your dinner. We might not have another chance.”

Krause rolled an eye on him while chewing a mouthful of cold meat. Before he became captain of his own ship, while still head of a department, he had done his share of prodding or luring a dilatory captain into giving necessary orders. That was what was happening to him at this moment. The discovery, in his present condition, affected him more than the thought of the dead men. It stiffened him.

“I shall have to take the service,” he said, coldly.

“Yes, of course, sir,” agreed Cole.

It would never do for the captain to be lounging on his stool in the pilot-house while someone else buried the ship’s dead. The profoundest respect must be paid to the poor relics of the men who had given their lives for their country.

“Very well, then, Commander.” said Krause. Those were official words, and with them he took a fresh grip on the reins which Cole may have thought were lying loosely in his hands. “You may give the necessary orders. Thank you, Doctor.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

Knife and fork in hand he could not return the salutes; he gave a sideways nod of his head. The food was very important to him at this moment. He was desperately hungry. He finished the cold meat, the bread, the salad, and he had begun on the ice-cream as Cole’s voice made itself heard over the loudspeaker, announcing that the dead would be committed to the deep from the main-deck aft, detailing who should be present from each man’s division, and adding a few really well-chosen words about the rest of the ship’s company marking the solemnity of the occasion by remaining at their posts of duty. Krause thought about another pot of coffee. The men were dead; the first men who had died under his command. In war men died and ships sank.

Actually Krause was both too weary and too harassed with other problems to feel any emotion about men meeting the fate that he was ready to meet himself. But in a moment of horrible clarity he thought of himself as cold and indifferent, and there was a lightning stab of pain when he thought of how his coldness and indifference must have hurt warm-hearted Evelyn.

“All set, sir,” said Cole, saluting.

“Thank you, Charlie. Stay here while I’m down on the main-deck.”

Down the ladders again, forcing himself to forget Evelyn, forcing himself to forget how his feet hurt him, forcing his mind to abandon for the moment the problem of breaking radio silence and to apply itself to arranging the necessary sentences in his mind. The three stretchers at the ship’s side; the flags over them; and, with the waning day, a thin gleam of pale sunshine breaking through from the western horizon. The sonar pinging on monotonously as he spoke. The realization that Cole had done an excellent job of organization as the men bent to lift the inboard ends of the stretchers and as the beat of the propellers ceased for a few seconds when the stretchers were tilted and the bundled-up shapes slid out from under the flags--Cole must have been watching from the bridge to give the signal at the right time. The wind blowing through his cropped hair as he stood bare-headed and three men stepped forward with rifles at Silvestrini’s command to fire three small volleys over the boundless sea. Then back again, up the heart-breaking ladders with feet that had to feel for the rungs, dragging himself up to the pilot-house.

“Thank you, Charlie. Well done.”

Lifting his binoculars immediately to his eyes to look round him and take note of the condition of his command. What he had been doing was undoubtedly in the line of duty, but he felt uneasily that he might have been better employed although he could not say how. He swept the horizon aft of the ship with his glasses; visibility was improving steadily. The convoy appeared to him in fair order, although the commodore had the eternal signal flying “Make less smoke.” Dodge and James were up to station, leading on either flank. Somewhere astern of the convoy, Viktor; with the convoy interposed he could not be sure he saw her, but he fancied he could at times see that odd foremast against the pale sunset. The weather forecasts had been really accurate; here was the wind down to force three, south-westerly. That would be of considerable importance with regard to the corvettes’ urgent need of fuel. Tomorrow with luck he could expect air cover, and with the ceiling as high as this the cover would be really effective. He hoped London would appreciate his need.

Night was taking much longer to fall than it had done yesterday, thanks to the thinness of the cloud cover, and daylight would come appreciably earlier to-morrow morning, he hoped. At even thou shalt say Would God it were morning. Those two faint lights against the western sky were not stars. They were . . .

“Rockets in the convoy!” shouted the after look-out. “Two white rockets right astern!“

Krause stiffened out of the easy mood into which he was nearly falling. Rockets meant trouble; two white rockets meant a torpedoing, unless it was a false alarm, set off by some panicky captain. There was a long moment during which Krause hoped it was a false alarm. Viktor was somewhere close to where the trouble was. He had to decide whether he should turn about and go to her help; there was no question of sending either corvette with their limited fuel supply.

“Commodore signals general alarm, sir,” said the signal-bridge down to him.

“Very well.”

There were powerful arguments against turning back. Night would be falling before he reached there. He would be astern of the convoy again, with all the prolonged delay before he could rejoin it, especially if the convoy were to get into serious disorder. Whatever mischief a U-boat might do had by now been already done; he could not remedy that. Nor could he hope to avenge it with his small remainder of depth-charges. He might pick up survivors --but Cadena and Viktor were on the spot and he would not be there for half an hour. But what would the men on board the convoy think of him if they saw him placidly steaming along ahead of them while their comrades died astern? He went to the T.B.S. Dodge and James answered promptly enough; they were aware of trouble in the convoy and asked for orders; he could only tell them to stay on station. But he could not raise Viktor on the circuit at all. He said, “George to Eagle. George to Eagle. Do you hear me?” and received no reply. Viktor was ten miles away--possibly more by now--and it was quite possible that she could not hear. It was faintly possible that her hands were so full she had no time to reply, but it was hardly likely. Krause stood holding the hand-set, yearning inexpressibly to hear one single word even from that nonchalant English voice. The Commodore was blinking away, his light directed straight at Keeling; it must be a message for him. And it must be urgent, for it was almost too dark for Morse messages to be safe. The Commodore was taking a chance transmitting in these conditions, and the Commodore was not the sort of man to take chances.

Someone came dashing down from the signal-bridge with the pad.

COMCONVOY TO COMESCORT. “CADENA” REPORTS “VIKTOR” HIT.

“Very well.”

No more indecision.

“I’ll take the conn, Mr Harbutt.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

“What’s your heading?”

“Zero-nine-three, sir.”

“Right full rudder. Steer course two-seven-three. Mr Harbutt, the Commodore tells me Viktor has been hit; she’s somewhere astern of the convoy. I’m going back to her.”

“Steady on course two-seven-three, sir.”

“Very well. All engines ahead flank speed.”

“All engines ahead flank speed. Engine-room answers ‘All engines ahead flank speed,’ sir.” “Very well.”

Just time to get to the T.B.S. and tell Dodge and James what he was doing.

“You’ll have to cover the front as well as the flanks,” he added. “Go easy with the fuel.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

Convoy and Keeling were rushing at each other. There was still light enough in the western sky to silhouette the ships against it, but aft the sky was already dark and it was quite possible they would not see Keeling approaching. And they were in disorder. Ships were out of station; there were no safe lanes through the convoy. And the ships would be moving unpredictably, avoiding danger or trying to regain station. But he must go on. Viktor was hit. He felt overwhelming sorrow at the thought, even while he stood, poised and ready and keyed up. The sorrow would only endure for a few seconds before it was thrust aside by the urgencies of the moment. Napoleon long ago in the heat of battle had heard of the death of a favourite soldier and had said, “Why have I not time to weep for him?” Krause had fifteen seconds in which to feel sorrow. Then . . .

“Right rudder. Meet her. Left rudder. Meet her.” Keeling was plunging for the gap beside the Commodore. She had to snake past her. The gap was widening. “Right full rudder!”

The ship behind was sheering across. A rapid calculation of the distance of the dark shape beyond. Keeling leaned over as she turned.

“Meet her! Steady as you go! Left rudder, handsomely. Meet her. Left rudder. Meet her.”

Keeling sped across the bows of one ship and across the stern of another, and then down alongside a dark shape. They were through.

“All engines ahead standard speed.”

“All engines ahead standard speed. Engine-room answers ‘All engines ahead standard speed,’ sir.”

“Very well.”

Minutes were precious, but he must have Keeling going-slow enough now for the sonar to be effective.

“Resume sonar search.”

“Object on the starboard bow! Close!“

Object? Periscope? Krause sprang out with his glasses to his eyes. There was still the faintest twilight. The object was a fragment of a ship’s lifeboat, just three or four feet of the shattered bows, almost awash. A man was lying there, face upturned, arms outspread, but alive; Krause could see him trying to lift his head to see what was approaching. Next second Keeling’s bow wave struck it, washing high over the face. Krause saw it again as it passed down the side of the ship. Waves washed over it again. That dim shape out there must be Cadena. Forget that just visible face with the waves flowing over it.

“Eagle on the T.B.S., sir,” said Harbutt.

Eagle? Viktor on T.B.S.? A thrill of hope; Krause picked up the hand-set.

“George to Eagle. Go ahead.”

“We’ve got it in the engine-room, sir,” said the lackadaisical English voice. “Cadena’s standing by. She’s taking us in tow.”

“I have Cadena in sight,” said Krause.

“Well, we’re just beside her, sir. Engine-room’s flooded and all power lost. We’ve just rigged this jury battery circuit for the radio-telephone.”

“One moment. Mr Harbutt! That’s Cadena there taking Viktor in tow. Circle them at half a mile.”

“Aye aye, sir,”

Back to the T.B.S.

“I am patrolling round you at half a mile.”

“Thank you, sir. We’re doing our best to save her.”

“I am sure you are.”

“The bulkheads are standing up to it pretty well, sir, and we’re shoring them up. Trouble is there are plenty of leaks in the other compartments too. We’re dealing with them as well.”

“Yes.”

“Cadena’s got our surplus men. We’ve put a hundred ratings on board her. We lost thirty in the engine-room.”

“Yes.”

“We’ve a five degree list to starboard and we’re down by the stern, sir, but we’ll tow all right.”

“Yes. Is Cadena passing that tow line satisfactorily?”

“Yes, sir. Another fifteen minutes, I should say, and we’ll be under way.”

“Good.”

“We can use the hand steering, sir, and we’ll be under control to a certain extent.”

“Good.”

“Captain asks me to report to you, sir, that Kong Gustav took it just before we did. He thinks she was hit by three fish at short intervals. It must have been a spread fired at close range.”

“It sounds like it.”

“She sank in less than five minutes. Cadena picked up her captain and some of the crew, sir.”

“Yes.”

“We got ours while she was sinking, sir. Asdic didn’t hear the shots. There was a lot of interference.”

“Yes.”

“We had only one depth-charge left, sir. We set it on safety and dropped it.”

“Good.”

The explosion of depth-charges in sinking ships had killed many swimmers who might otherwise have been saved.

“The captain asks me to thank you, sir, for all you’ve done. He says those were fine hunts we had.”

“I wish I could have done more,” said Krause.

This was like a conversation with a voice from the grave.

“And the captain asks me to say good-bye, sir, in case he doesn’t see you again.”

“Very well.” Never had that Navy phrase been of more use than at this moment. But even so it was insufficient-- it was only a stop-gap. “Tell him I’m looking forward to seeing him in Londonderry.”

“Aye aye, sir. The towing hawser’s going out now. They’ll be taking the strain soon.”

“Very well. Report results. Over.”

All the light had faded from the sky now. It was dark, but not solidly dark. It was possible to see, on the starboard beam, the two dark shapes that were Cadena and Viktor. Keeling was circling about them, her sonar searching the depths, her radar scanning the surface. Krause’s brain took up mathematics again. A circle a mile in diameter was over three miles in circumference; it would take Keeling twenty minutes to complete the circle. A U-boat two miles distant from her, well out of range of her sonar, would need twenty minutes at six knots to creep in those two miles to launch a killing spread at half a mile’s range before Keeling came round again. He was covering those two ships as effectively as was possible. And it was most necessary that he should. Destroyers were precious.

If he could possibly bring Viktor into port he meant to do so. She would be ready for sea again in one-tenth of the time it took to build a new one, and with all her valuable, irreplaceable equipment. And Cadena was full of men. She had saved many lives on this voyage; and big oceangoing tugs of her type were scarce and almost as valuable as destroyers. There could be no doubt that his duty lay in covering Viktor and Cadena, and in leaving the rest of the convoy to the two corvettes. There was some cold comfort to be found in the thought that in this matter he was not confronted by a dilemma calling for painstaking weighing of chances. The T.B.S. demanded his attention again.

“We’re making way now, sir. We’re making three knots and we’re going to work up to five, but the captain’s worried about the bulkheads if we do. She’s steering-- she’s steering after a fashion, sir.”

“Very well. Course zero-eight-five.”

“Oh-eight-five. Aye aye, sir.”

 

 

Thursday. First Watch--2000-2400

 

Harbutt saluting in the darkness. “Report having been relieved, sir.” The rest of the formula. “Mr Carling has the deck, sir.”

“Very well, Mr Harbutt. Good night.”

The T.B.S.

“Four knots is the best we can do, sir. The list gets worse if we make any speed. I fancy there’s a flap of plating sticking out from the hole, and it scoops the sea in and it’s bad for the after bulkhead.”

“I understand.”

“We’re learning how to steer her, sir.”

“I understand.”

Here in Keeling all was as still as the grave. Over there in that patch of blackness men were working with desperate haste. They were shoring up bulkheads, working in pitch darkness relieved only by the faint light of flashlights. They were trying to patch up leaks, with the deadly gurgle--gurgle--gurgle of water bubbling in around them. They were trying to steer, passing helm orders back from the bridge through a chain of men, struggling with a hand-steering gear while the ship surged unpredictably to port and to starboard, threatening at any moment to part the towing hawser.

“Mr Carlingl”

“Sir!”

A careful explanation of the situation, of Cadena’s course and speed, of the necessity to maintain a constant sonar guard around her. Keeling must describe a series of ellipses round her as she struggled on at four knots, each ellipse a trifle--an almost inconsiderable trifle--nearer safety. It would be a neat but easy problem to work out how to handle Keeling at twelve knots circling round Cadena at four.

There were other problems not so easy. With every hour that passed the convoy would be four or five miles farther ahead. It would be long days before Viktor could be brought into port. The question of Keeling’s fuel supply would become urgent before long. He would have to appeal to London for help; he would have to break radio silence. He could take that bitter decision. He would have to do it. But. . . There were the German direction-finding stations; there were German submarines at sea. Doenitz would by this time be fully aware of the position, course, and even the composition of the convoy; that information would be relayed to him by the subs.

At that rate there would seem to be no serious objection to breaking radio silence. But there was. The moment the German monitoring system informed Doenitz that the convoy had sent out a message he would ask himself the reason, and there could be only one reason--that the convoy was in such bad straits that it needed help urgently. It would be enough to prompt Doenitz to turn every available sub against the convoy. It would tell the captain who had fired on Viktor that his torpedo had hit home and that Viktor need no longer be reckoned with. If the convoy went ploughing along in silence Doenitz and the sub captains could not be sure that it was not still in a condition to hit back. It was a very important point.

Yet with the convoy practically unguarded and Viktor so far from home, help was essential. It was very doubtful whether Dodge and James had sufficient oil to enable them to reach Londonderry. Keeling herself could do practically nothing to beat off a determined attack on Viktor and Cadena. He had to call for help; he had to swallow his pride; he had to take the risk. His pride did not matter, but it was possible to reduce the risk to a minimum. If he were to send the message now Doenitz could employ the whole night in directing his subs, to the attack. There were seven or eight hours of darkness still ahead, and during those hours there would be little that London could do to help him. It would be better to get the message off later, at one or two in the morning. That would still allow plenty of time for the Admiralty to get air cover over him at dawn, and it would cut down the interval as far as possible during which Doenitz could concentrate against him. Two in the morning would be early enough; his message would go straight through to the highest authority, he knew. Half an hour for that; half an hour for the Admiralty orders to go out; an hour for preparation. Two hours’ flight; be would have air cover at dawn. He would send the message at two in the morning--perhaps at one-thirty.

Krause had reached that decision, standing in the pilothouse with Carling directing the ship as she patrolled round Cadena and Viktor. He was standing because he knew that if he sat down he would go to sleep. He had already caught himself once actually swaying on his feet. Krause had heard of the Mexican bandit who during the 1917 troubles had kept his district terrorized by his method of executing his enemies. He had hoisted them up nearly to the top of roadside telephone poles, one to each. There with their hands bound behind them they were stood with their feet on the climbing supports and ropes round their necks attached to the tops of the poles. Each man stood there, and as long as he stood he lived. When he tired, when his foot slipped, the noose strangled him. Some of them would stand for days, an example to the whole neighbourhood. Krause was in like case. If he sat down he went to sleep, and if he stood--if he stood, as he was doing now, it was unbearable. Feet and muscles and joints all cried out with agony. Unbearable? He had to bear it. There was nothing else to be said about the matter. They that wait upon the Lord shall renew their strength.

He must not go to sleep, and so he went on standing, and while he stood he forced his mind to think about the wording of the message he was going to send. A signal should convey all necessary information; then he should tell about Viktor’s helpless state, the unguarded condition of the convoy, the fact that he was dropping far astern, the need for fuel--nonsense; it would take all night to tell all his troubles. All he need say was something like “Help urgently needed.” They would know in London that he would not send any message otherwise; with all their experience they could guess his troubles. Then there was no need for the “urgently.” If it was not urgent he would not be asking. Then why say “needed”? The one word “help,” the mere fact that it was sent, would tell the whole story. And there was the faintest possible chance that a single word sent like that might slip unnoticed past Doenitz’s monitoring system. No. That was too wild a hope to be reckoned with, but the brevity of the message would be a serious handicap to the German experts trying to break the code. No, he had forgotten--he must be growing stupid. By cryptographic regulations all short messages must be “padded” with indifferent material up to a minimum length, which Dawson would know about. That was the decision of the cryptographic experts, and he could not contravene it. Yet the main conclusion he was reaching was sound enough. He must appeal for help; at zero-one-forty-five to-morrow he would send out the message with the one word “help” and leave the padding to Dawson.

Having reached that decision, and ceasing to concentrate his mind on the matter, Krause found himself swaying on his feet again. This was quite absurd; he had been awake for less than forty-eight hours, and he had had two or even three hours of good sleep the night before last. He was a weak and beggarly element. He must not merely keep standing but he must keep thinking, or he was lost. Strange that he found himself longing for more action, for more need for quick thinking and rapid decision, to key himself up again. But any further action could only be disaster. His command could face nothing further. He made himself stump up and down on his weary legs in the cramped pilot-house. It occurred to him to send for more coffee, and he told himself he would not be indulging in a slavish habit but taking necessary action to keep himself awake. But first he must go to the head; he put on the red spectacles and went down the ladders He stumbled over the coamings like a farmer at sea, and it seemed to him as if he would never be able to drag his dead-weight body up those ladders again, and yet he did. He simply must not allow this lassitude to overcome him. When he reached the pilot-house he walked again; head up, chin in, chest out, shoulders back as he had done on parade at Annapolis. Until he had braced himself up he would not allow himself more coffee.

It was really something of a relief to be summoned to the T.B.S. again.

“Eagle to George. Do you hear me?”

“George to Eagle. I hear you. Go ahead.”

“Submit that we abandon ship, sir.” The cynical English voice was not cynical. It was grave; there was a little break in it before it went on. “Very sorry, sir.”

“You have no choice?” asked Krause.

“The collision mats weren’t large enough, sir. Nor was the hand-billy pump. The water’s been gaining on us steadily--we couldn’t keep it under and it came in faster all the time.”

So it would; the lower the helpless hull sank the greater would be the number of holes below the surface and the greater would be the pressure forcing in the water.

“We’ve fifteen degrees of list now and the main-deck’s under water abaft the bridge, sir.”

“I’m sure you’ve done all you can. Permission granted to abandon ship,” said Krause. “Tell your captain I have no doubt he has done all in his power to save his ship. And tell him I am sorry about his bad luck.”

The tired brain was being driven to work normally, to choose carefully the right words to employ towards an ally.

“Aye aye, sir,” said the English voice, and then the old nonchalance came back into it. “Well, good-bye for now. sir, and thank you for a nice party.”

Krause turned away from the T.B.S. unhappily. When he had first heard that voice he had never dreamed for a moment that he would come to feel something of affection for its owner.

 

 

Friday. Middle Watch--2400-0400

 

It was just light enough in the pilot-house to be aware of the change of watch, talkers handing over head-phones, the wheel being relieved, Carling saluting.

“Mr Nystrom has the deck, sir.”

“Very well, Mr Carling.”

“Good night, sir.”

“Good night, Mr Carling. I’ll take the conn, Mr Nystrom.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

With a couple of helm orders he edged Keeling up closer towards the dark patch that was Cadena coming alongside Viktor. At one moment they distinctly heard a few words coming down wind and over the sea--someone was using a speaking-trumpet and it had traversed in their direction.

“Sonar reports loud breaking up noises, sir,” said a talker.

“Very well.”

That was the requiem of a brave ship. It was two and a half years since Viktor had got away from Gdynia in defiance of all the power of the Luftwaffe, and had escaped from the Baltic in the teeth of the Nazi Navy. For two and a half years she had fought a desperate fight; she had been the only home left to her exiled crew, and now she was gone.

Four blasts from Cadena’s siren, startlingly loud in the night. “F” for Fox--rescue completed.

“Come right handsomely. Still right. Meet her. Steady.”

He took Keeling carefully up to within hailing distance of Cadena--watching like a hawk as she turned--and then stepped out to the bull-horn.

“Cadena! Comescort.”

The speaking trumpet hailed back.

“Have you saved everyone?” asked Krause.

“Yes. We’ve got ‘em all.”

That was a great relief. Krause had had a momentary mental picture of the British liaison officer with all his insouciance falling between the two grinding hulls with his bones snapping as the water leaped at him.

“Course zero-eight-seven,” hailed Krause.

“Eighty-seven,” said the speaking trumpet.

“Make your best speed to rejoin the convoy.”

“Twelve knots if I can,” said the speaking trumpet.

“I’ll screen you ahead,” said Krause. “Use the modified zig plan. Number Seven.”

“Modified zig? But - - “

“That’s an order,” said Krause. “Modified zig. Number Seven. This is zero minute.”

“O.K. then,” said the speaking trumpet grudgingly.

It was remarkable how nearly every merchant captain resented zig-zagging. The almost universal feeling was that it was safer to get through the dangerous zone as quickly as possible; yet five minutes spent with a manoeuvring board and a pair of parallel rulers working out an approach problem would convince anyone that zigzagging made the attacking submarine’s task considerably harder and postponed the moment when a shot might be got in. And an unpredicted change of course at the moment of firing usually meant a clean miss. Zigzagging lessened very appreciably the chances of a hit; it did not even need Krause’s experience at antisubmarine school of a few minutes in a sub’s conning tower planning an approach to convince a thinking man of that.

“You heard that conversation, Mr Nystrom?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Take the conn, then. Screening position ahead of Cadena at five hundred yards’ distance.” “Aye aye, sir.”

‘‘Messenger! Bring me a pot of coffee.”

Now that Viktor had sunk it was necessary to think again regarding his decision to appeal for help. At dawn he and Cadena would be close up to the convoy, so that the situation was greatly modified. And yet there was still the question of James’s oil fuel and the general helplessness of the escort. Despite the fact that Viktor would cause no further delay tomorrow would be a long day; air cover might make a great deal of difference--all the difference. But London would be endeavouring to provide it in any case. Was it worthwhile now to break radio silence, to incur the incidental risks which he had already debated, for the sake of the difference between certainty and likelihood? Was it? Krause tried to plod about the pilot-house. He had almost to repress a mutiny in his aching legs and feet as he did so. His mind was not mutinous; it was merely unwilling. He drove himself into weighing the pros and cons. The coffee would undoubtedly help.

“On the table, messenger.”

There was not enough light for him to see what he was doing, but he was practised in pouring coffee into a cup in the dark. As always, that first cup tasted like nectar, and the last of the first cup tasted possibly even better than the first sip because of the delightful knowledge that there was a second cup to follow. He drank the last of the second cup lingeringly, like a lover reluctant to part from his mistress. Let us eat and drink, for to-morrow--for within the next hour he had to reach a decision.

“Take that tray back to the wardroom, messenger,” he said.

The personal factor must be entirely disregarded. How Washington and London would be affected in their opinion of him must not influence him at all. It was his duty to think only about the convoy, about fighting the war. He must not spend a moment worrying lest he be thought of as an officer who went crying for help without sufficient justification. A good name is rather to be chosen than great riches; his good name, like his life, was at the service of his country. Promotion cometh neither from the east nor the west--what did he care about promotion? There is no discharge in that war. The Bible texts bobbed up in his mind as he tried to think. He could not ignore them.

Again, was it merely his personal weakness that was inclining him to call for help? Was he subconsciously trying to relieve himself of responsibility? Head up, shoulders back. Krause grudgingly gave himself a passing grade after a short but merciless self-examination. At the same time and equally grudgingly he acquitted himself of the other charge, that he was unwilling to break radio silence because of the possible effect on his own career. “Fitted and retained.” Those words were as painful as the memory of Evelyn, but, for all their damning negation, he would not allow them to influence his decision.

The bell rang at the voice-tube, and Krause forgot feet and legs and the problem of breaking radio silence as he sprang to answer it.

“Captain.”

“Cap’n, sir, there are pips ahead of us.”

“Pips?”

“Pips or a pip, sir. This screen’s getting fuzzier all the time. And the range unit’s acting up.” “But what is it you see?”

“Just something, sir. Thought it was two pips, but now I’m not sure. But it’s right ahead of us, bearing around zero-eight-four--zero-eight-eight sometimes.”

“It’s not the convoy?”

“No, sir. That’s out of range. This pip’s about at the limit.”

“Very well.”

Not so well, of course. A pip. Something on the surface right ahead. A U-boat, going full out to overtake the convoy? Very possibly. A straggler from the convoy? Likely enough. It was something that must be dealt with. “I’ll take the conn, Mr Nystrom.”

“Aye aye, sir. Cadena s making all of twelve knots, sir.”

“Thank you. Right standard rudder. Steer course two-four-zero.”

“Right standard rudder. Steer course two-four-zero, sir,” said the helmsman in the quiet of the pilot-house. A pause while Keeling turned; long enough for Krause to work out on which leg of the zig Cadena would be in three minutes’ time. “Steady on course two-four-zero, sir.”

“Very well.” He had to go out on the starboard wing of the bridge to see the dark form of Cadena. “Right rudder, handsomely.”

Cadena’s next zig was due now. As Keeling drew up to her his straining eyes detected her change of silhouette as she put her rudder over. “Meet her. Left rudder. Meet her. Steady as you go.”

To come alongside a zigzagging ship within hailing distance in the darkness called for the most careful handling. The two ships came closer and closer together. Over there a light flashed momentarily. They were growing nervous, unable to guess what Keeling was trying to do. Someone had switched on a flashlight and pointed it at her.

“Port look-out reports a light from Cadena, sir,” said a talker.

“Very well. Right rudder. Meet her.” He reached the bull-horn just as the speaking trumpet voiced an anxious appeal. “Keeling!”

“Comescort. I’m going on ahead of you. There’s something suspicious several miles ahead bearing about zero eight six true.”

“What is it?”

“I don’t know and I’m going to find out Maintain your present base course and keep a good look-out ahead.” A few more seconds for thought. “I’ll warn you if there’s danger. If you see me fire a gun make a radical change of base course, to zero-four-two true.”

“O.K.”

“Maintain that course for half an hour and then return to zero eight seven if you’ve heard nothing from me.”

“O.K.”

He hoped Cadena had understood, and then he remembered that on board her, probably on her bridge at that moment, were the Polish captain and the British liaison officer. They had heard him and would keep Cadena’s captain in line.

“Good-bye. Right full rudder. Steer course zero-eight-six. All engines ahead flank speed.”

Krause’s orders were quietly repeated. Up here in the pilot-house everyone was aware of what was going on. Down below in the engine-room they would be ignorant. They would be conscious of Keeling having circled; they would not be able to guess what new crisis demanded the increase in speed. Their troubles were minor ones. All they had to do was to obey orders. Krause allowed the engine-room staff to disappear from his mind--a passing-twinge of envy was left there like the passing swirl left by a sinking ship. These next few free minutes, while heading towards the unknown danger, he must think once more about breaking radio silence.

“Permission to change the clocks, sir?” said Nystrom, looming up beside him.

Change the clocks? Krause held himself back from a stupid repetition of the words. It was something he had forgotten all about, and yet something he should have remembered. They had just passed from one time zone to the next; they were an hour further forward into the day.

“Mr Watson’s orders?” he asked.

“Yes, sir.”

Watson, as navigating officer, had been charged by Krause to alter the ship’s time at the most convenient moment.

“Permission granted,” said Krause.

Nystrom could not know that he had broken into an important chain of thought in his captain’s mind. Yet Nystrom’s request had a powerful bearing on the subject of Krause’s thoughts. Now the deadline he had once set himself for appealing for help was long past. He had been a fool not to think of that; even though it was only a nominal change and not an actual change--dawn was no nearer to them in actual minutes than it would have been if the time had not changed--the moral effect was profound. Besides, Krause was now reminded that the night was considerably shorter on an easterly course, heading for the sunrise. In any case, they were heading not only for the sunrise but towards a suspicious object, and at flank speed. He addressed himself to the voice-tube again.

“What do you make of that pip now?” he asked.

“It’s still there, sir.”

“Isit big, or little? Can’t you guess?”

“I’d say it was big, sir. Perhaps it’s two pips like I said, sir. And I think it’s moving, sir. Keeping on the same course as us.”

“But we’re overtaking it?”

“Near as I can tell, yes, sir.”

He would have to identify the thing before he took any further action; not so easy in the darkness. Ten to one it was only a straggler from the convoy. He tried to raise Dodge and James on the voice circuit, but had to abandon the attempt in exasperated disappointment. They were out of T.B.S. range, unless--unless--that was a horrible thought. He could put it aside in any case. They could not both have been sunk without the look-outs observing some kind of explosion reflected from the high cloud in the darkness of the night.

“Can you estimate the range of that pip now?” he asked.

“Well, no, sir. Can’t say that I can.”

Another voice came up the tube immediately after that unsatisfactory reply. It was Charlie Cole. Krause could not believe he had been asleep; probably he had been prowling round the ship inspecting.

“The bearing’s constant, sir,” said Cole. “And I’d say there are two pips for certain.”

“Thank you, Charlie.”

“And I’d say we’re overtaking them fast.”

“Very well.”

Two pips being rapidly overtaken could only mean stragglers. There was no urgent anxiety, then. Krause reached that comforting conclusion and a second afterwards caught himself from swaying forward unconscious. Sleep was waiting like some half-tamed beast of prey ready to spring the moment he relaxed his vigilance. He was nearing the end of his second day without any sleep at all; two days of almost constant tension and strain. Two days spent almost entirely on his feet, too; there was no possible chance of forgetting that. Krause was glad when the bell pinged again.

“I got it tuned for a second just then, sir. Two pips for certain. And range four miles--that might be pretty accurate. Bearing zero-eight-six.”

“Very well.”

Better not to close too fast. Better to have the sonar working. Wait five minutes.

“All engines ahead standard speed. Resume sonar search.”

“Engine-room answers ‘All engines ahead standard speed,’ sir.”

The abrupt diminution of vibration, the reduction in the sound of Keeling’s passage through the water, told their own story, as did the resumption in the steady pinging of the sonar.

“Sonar reports indications confused, sir.”

That would right itself as soon as Keeling’s speed fell to twelve knots.

“Forward look-out reports objects dead ahead, sir.”

“Very well.”

That would be three miles ahead, if Cole’s estimate of range had been accurate. The look-out was doing his work well to sight the objects at that distance on a night like this.

“Captain to forward look-out. ‘Continue to report what you see.’ “

 

 

Friday. Morning Watch--0400-0800

 

He himself was standing, staring forward. At present he could see nothing there in the darkness. Nystrom was beside him, also gazing forward, and Krause became aware out of the tail of his eye that another figure was standing beside Nystrom--young Harbutt. The watch was changing.

“Forward look-out reports objects appear to be two ships, sir.”

“Very well.”

“Ships for sure, sir,” said Harbutt.

Now Krause could see them, something more than solid nuclei in the darkness. They were just ships, stragglers from the convoy. He felt considerable exasperation at having been subjected to his recent tension merely on their account.

“Forward look-out reports two merchant ships dead ahead, about two miles, close together, sir.”

“Very well. Captain to forward look-out. ‘We have those ships in sight from the bridge.’ “

“Reporting having been relieved, sir,” said Nystrom, and went on through the time-honoured formula.

“Very well, Mr Nystrom.”

“Sir,” said Harbutt. “Have you any orders about general quarters this morning?”

Something else he had forgotten all about. In a hour, unless he countermanded his standing orders as he had done yesterday, general quarters would be sounded and the whole ship would be roused. The reasons that motivated his cancellation yesterday still held good. His men were doing four on and four off; they might as well have all the rest they could. He ought to have remembered it.

“No general quarters this morning unless it’s the real thing,” he said. “Put it on the loudspeaker.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

As they approached the dark ships he heard the announcement made.

“Now hear this. There’ll be no - - “

One of Uncle Sam’s ships had acquired the nickname a few years ago of “the beno ship,” because of the numerous announcements over her loudspeaker beginning that way; but those announcements had given warning that there would be no liberty that afternoon, and similar unpleasant news. This was different.

They were close up to the nearer ship now; he could see her churning wake.

“Left rudder. Meet her. Steady as you go.”

Now he could recognize her; a tanker with bridge and engines aft. That was Hendrikson. They were hailing already from her bridge by megaphone. Krause stepped out to the bull-horn; on his way he collided violently with a figure who had suddenly appeared at his elbow.

“Admiralty message, sir,” said the figure. It was Dawson’s voice.

“One minute,” said Krause, although the words brought a surge of life and excitement back into his numb body. He bellowed into the bull-horn. “Comescort. What are you doing back here?”

“Ve touched that bastard over dere,” said a voice in reply. “Buckled our bow plates. Yust saved ourselves. He will hear from my owners.”

“You don’t seem to be much hurt. What did you do to him?”

“Hope I did plenty.”

“Can you maintain course and speed?”

“Yes.”

Keeling was fast drawing past Hendrikson; they were almost out of hailing distance.

“Maintain your course with modified zig. Plan Number Seven. Look out for Cadena coming up astern.”

“O.K.”

“Mr Harbutt, take the conn. Hail that fellow over there and find out what his damage is. If he’s all right get him into column astern of the tanker and screen them both.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

“Now, Mr Dawson.”

Dawson had his clip-board; he had taken the dim red flashlight from the chart-table and shone it on the message. Krause took both clip-board and flashlight from him.

“Some of it’s badly scrambled, sir,” apologized Dawson. “I’ve done the best I can with it.”

Some of the words were only jumbles of letters. The others stood out with startling effect as Krause read them in the faint red light.

REINFORCEMENT DESPATCHED. A muddle of letters. ESCORT GROUP CAPTAIN EARL OF BANFF SNO. More muddles, EXPECT AIRCRAFT OP ORD 378-42 APPENDIX HYPO. More muddles.

“I’m sure of that, sir,” said Dawson, stabbing a finger at OP ORD. “Here it is.”

Attached to the clip-board in addition to the message was the reference--HIS CHALLENGE UW YOUR ANSWER BD.

“Just as well,” said Krause. “Messenger!”

“Yes, sir.”

“Ask the exec, to come to the bridge.” He had hesitated before speaking. The sentence he had framed in his mind --”My compliments to the executive officer and I would be glad if he were to come to the bridge”--had been ridiculously pompous, an echo of the old battleship days in peacetime, and he had had to reframe it to suit wartime conditions in a destroyer.

He studied the message again. It was nearly twelve hours old, having taken much longer to come through than the previous Admiralty message, which had been given priority. The channels were congested but the Admiralty must have worked out that this would reach him in time for him to take the necessary action. But it was wonderful news that reinforcements were on their way. SNO meant senior naval officer in accordance with British usage, not one of those odd collections of letters like DSO or MBE which merely meant a decoration. And the SNO was a captain, That meant that he would be superseded in the command. His responsibility for the convoy would be ended. Krause found himself madly regretting that--regret without any alloy of relief. He would have liked to finish the job himself. His woolly fatigue was stirred into a resentment.

“I didn’t dare guess at those scrambles, sir,” said Dawson. “There were some numerals - - “

“Very well, Mr Dawson.”

It was a little odd--strangely British--that the Admiralty should go to the trouble of informing him that Captain Earl, who was going to take over command, came from Banff. Krause thought of the Canadian Rockies and Lake Louise; but there might be a Banff in Britain, the same as there was a Boston and a Newport. But in that case why mention it? It could only be of importance if Earl was a Canadian. The explanation suddenly shot up in Krause’s mind, adding a trifle of amusement to temper his irritation and resentment. This must be one of those English lords--Captain the Earl of Banff. And with the British “aircraft” was the usual and not the unusual way of saying “plane.”

“Yes, Cap’n?” said Cole, arriving.

“Read this,” said Krause, handing over clip-board and flashlight.

Cole bent to read, the flashlight held within two inches of the paper. It was Krause’s bounden duty to inform his second in command of news as important as this.

“That’s fine, sir,” said Cole. “You’ll be able to take a rest.”

He could not in the darkness see the expression on Krause’s face, or he might have used other words. “Yes,” said Krause, harshly.

“Sent at eighteen hundred G.C.T.,” commented Cole. “And it says the relief has already been despatched. Won’t be long before we meet them. They’ll do a high-speed run without zigging. Well, they can’t arrive too early.”

“No,” said Krause.

“Do you know this Captain Earl, sir?” asked Cole.

“That’s not his name,” said Krause, and for the life of him he could not help feeling superior. “He’s a lord. The Earl of Banff.”

“An earl? But you haven’t ever spoken to him, sir?”

“No,” said Krause. “Not to remember. I mean I am sure I haven’t.”

The last sentence was jerked out of him by conscience to make up for the one before it. Krause had met many British naval officers, but he would certainly have remembered meeting the Earl of Banff, and it was dishonest to imply that he was capable of forgetting it.

“You can’t risk a guess about these cipher groups, Dawson?” asked Cole.

“No, sir. I was saying so to the captain. There are numerals in them, which makes it hard.”

“No doubt about the numerals,” commented Cole. “Time of meeting not stated. Position not stated. But that plane will be here within an hour of sunrise, sir. You can be sure of that.”

“I think so,” said Krause.

“I never heard better news in my life, sir,” said Cole. “Thank you for letting me in on it.”

It was quite obvious that Cole had not the least notion that Krause could feel any bitterness regarding his supersession.

“Cap’n, sir,” said Harbutt.

During this last conversation they had been aware of Harbutt carrying on a bellowed conversation through the loud-hailer, giving orders to the wheel, and occasionally swearing to himself.

“Yes, Mr Harbutt?”

“The other freighter’s Southland, sir. She’s pretty well caved in on the starboard quarter, they tell me. But most of the damage is above water-line and they can cope with the leaks. Hendrikson’s damage is all above water-line. I’ve got ‘em into column, Southland leading. She says she can make ten and a half knots, and Hendrikson’s good for eleven. And here’s Cadena coming up astern, sir.”

“How far ahead’s the convoy?”

“Four miles is what radar guesses, sir. Can’t see ‘em yet.”

“Very well, Mr Harbutt. Get Cadena into column as well and patrol ahead of them.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

Cole addressed himself to Dawson as Harbutt withdrew.

“You’re sure of this challenge and reply?” he asked.

“As sure as I am of anything, sir,” said Dawson.

It was necessary to size up Dawson’s capabilities and mentality. He had not spoken overboldly or pathetically.

“Just as well,” said Cole, repeating Krause’s very words. “We might have him here in two hours.”

“How do you make that out, Charlie?” asked Krause. In the nick of time he had repressed an exclamation of surprise.

“We’re on G.C.T. now, sir,” replied Cole. “Sunrise this morning here will be zero-six-thirty-five. It’s zero-five-twenty now. You can see it’s getting light already, sir.”

So it was. Undoubtedly it was. Cole’s and Dawson’s figures were not black shadows; a hint of their white faces was perceptible. Two hours! It was fantastically unbelievable.

“We’re well on schedule,” said Krause.

“Ahead of where they’ll expect us to be, sir,” supplemented Cole.

The Admiralty could have no certainty about the position of the convoy. In view of their recommendation of two days ago---two days? It seemed more like two weeks --of a radical change of course, and in view of the numerous D.F. bearings on U-boats that they must have had, they might guess that the convoy was far behind schedule. But it had ploughed steadily on with almost no delay.

“Dodge and James have to know about this,” said Krause, tapping the clip-board with his gloved hand. “I’ll tell ‘em. I couldn’t raise them last night. They were too far.”

“I’d better stand by, sir,” volunteered Dawson, with a queer hint of apology in his voice. “Perhaps - - “

What Dawson was saying trailed off into significant incoherence as Krause went to the T.B.S. Dawson knew something about the ways of communications officers, and about the ways of commanding officers, too; and so did Krause. The Admiralty message was addressed to Comescort, but Dodge and James were likely to have taken it in. And they were likely to have decoded it as well, even though to do so would be a mild infraction of orders. It would be hard for discipline to withstand the assaults of curiosity at this moment and in these circumstances.

When Krause began speaking to the two ships the replies he received echoed Dawson’s apologetic tone comically, despite the way that the T.B.S. took most of the expression out of the voices.

“Yes, sir,” said Dicky; and after a moment’s hesitation. “We took that signal in too.”

“I guessed so,” said Krause. “You have the challenge and reply?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Did you unscramble those numerals?”

“It wasn’t a numeral, sir,” answered Dicky. “It was ‘point T.’ We made that bit out to be ‘Anticipate point of contact point T.’ “

“We’re nearly up to point T now,” said Krause.

“Yes, sir.”

Help, then, was very close at hand. And he had not appealed for it.

“And we got another bit, sir,” said Harry. “ ‘Report position if north of fifty-seven.’ “

They were well to the south of fifty-seven degrees North Latitude.

“Thank you,” said Krause. He would not take official notice of the venial sin. And in any case if he had been killed in the night action they would have had to have decoded that message. They could not be sure. That started another train of thought. It was hard to keep everything in mind, even the unpleasant thing he was thinking about.

“Did you know,” he asked, “that Viktor was lost last night?”

“No! “ said a shocked voice over the T.B.S.

“Yes,” said Krause. “She was hit just at dusk and went down at midnight.”

“Anyone saved, sir?” asked the T.B.S., subdued.

“Everyone, I think, except those killed in the explosion.”

“Is old Tubby all right, sir?”

“The British liaison officer?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I think so.”

“I’m glad, sir,” said one voice, and the other said, “It would take more than that to drown old Tubby.”

Krause had imagined the owner of that lackadaisical voice to be tall and lean; apparently he was nothing of the sort.

“Well, you fellows,” said Krause; the tired mind had to pick its words carefully again, for a formal moment was approaching and he was dealing with allies. “It won’t be long now.”

“No, sir.”

“I won’t be in command much longer.” He had to say that steadily and with every appearance of indifference. The T.B.S. waited in sympathetic silence, and he went on, “I have to thank you both for everything you’ve done.”

“Thank you, sir,” said one voice.

“Yes,” said the other, “it’s us that have to thank you, sir.”

“You’re very welcome,” said Krause, banally and idiotically. “But that’s all I have to say. Except good-bye for now.”

“Good-bye, sir. Good-bye.”

He came away from the T.B.S. feeling sad.

“Now about you, sir,” said Cole. “When did you eat last?”

Krause was taken completely by surprise by the question. At some time or other he had eaten cold cuts and salad, but to pin-point the time in his memory was absolutely beyond him. Watch had succeeded watch with, in retrospect, a rapidity that left him bewildered.

“I had some coffee,” he said, lamely.

“Nothing else since I ordered dinner for you, sir?”

“No,” said Krause. And he had no intention whatever of allowing his private life to be supervised by his executive officer, even though that officer was his lifetime friend. “I’m not hungry.”

“Fourteen hours since you ate last, sir,” said Cole.

“What I want to do,” said Krause asserting his independence, “is to get down to the head. I don’t want to eat.”

He formed an irritating mental picture of himself as a fretful child and Charlie Cole as an imperturbable nurse. He had used a child’s excuse.

“That’s fine, sir. I’ll get breakfast ordered for you while you’re gone. I suppose there’s no chance of your taking a rest until that plane shows up, sir?”

“Of course not,” said Krause.

This was Krause’s first campaign; at least it would teach him the necessity of snatching every available minute later on in the war. But his indignant negative had salved his dignity.

“I was afraid not, sir,” said Cole. “Messenger!“

Cole applied himself to giving orders for finding a mess attendant and having bacon and eggs prepared for the captain. And Krause found himself in the position of a man whose casual remark turns out to be true. Now that he had announced that he wanted to go to the head he was in a state of overwhelming anxiety to do so. It was shockingly urgent. He could not wait another minute. He found it was very difficult, nevertheless, to drag himself over to the ladder and start the descent. With his foot on the rung he remembered the red spectacles, and with relief decided they would not be necessary now that the light was increasing topside. He went on painfully down the ladder, into the cold light and bleak silence of the ship. His head was swimming and his whole body ached. There was a dull but distressing pain in the back of his head, and it was agony to transfer his weight from one foot to the other. He shambled into the head; he had no eyes for anything about him, and he shambled out again. The bridge seemed unbearably far away, until his tired mind recalled that before long touch would be gained with the mainland. The thought of it brought a little life back into his body. He actually mounted the ladder with a certain amount of verve. Cole saluted him as he came into the pilot-house.

“I’m going to take a look at the gun crews and lookouts, sir,” he said.

“Very well, Charlie. Thank you.”

He had to sit down. He simply had to sit. He made his way over to his stool and sank down on it. The relief, what with sitting and what with having been to the head, was considerable. All but his feet. They seemed to be red-hot with agony. A wicked thought came rising up into his mind; he had discarded it once, long before, but now it returned, repulsive and yet insistent, like an insufficiently weighted corpse rising with corruption from the depths. He could take off his shoes. He could defy convention. He could be bold. Important it might be for his crew always to see their captain correctly dressed, but it could not be at this moment more important than the misery of his feet. Nothing could be more important. He was being tortured like an Indian captive. He had to--he simply must. It might be the first step down the slippery path of complete moral disintegration, yet even so he could not hold back. He reached painfully down and undid a shoe-string. He loosened it in its eyelets. He took the mental plunge, and, hand on heel, tried to thrust off the shoe. It resisted stubbornly for a moment and then--and then--the blend of agony and paradise as it came off was something indescribable; only just for a moment did it remind him of Evelyn with whom he had experienced something similar. He forgot Evelyn at once as he worked his toes about, stretched out his foot, felt the returning life creeping back within the thick arctic sock. The necessary seconds to take off the other shoe were hardly bearable. Both feet were free now; all ten toes were squirming with joy. To put the freed soles down on the icy steel deck and feel the chill penetrate the thick socks was a sensuous pleasure so intense that Krause actually forgot to be suspicious of it. He stretched his legs and felt the relieved circulation welling through his muscles. He stretched luxuriously, and caught himself at that moment--or several moments later; he did not know how many--falling forward from the waist sound asleep. He would have been on his nose on the deck in another second.

It was the end of bliss. He was back in a world of war, a world of steel, swaying on a slate-grey sea; and this steel ship of his might at any moment be torn open in thunder and flame with that grey sea flooding in through the holes, exploding boilers and drowning the dazed survivors. There was the pinging of the sonar to remind him of the sleepless watch that was being maintained against the enemies deep below the surface. Far ahead of him he could see a row of dim shapes on the horizon which were the helpless ships he had to guard; he had only to turn on his stool to see behind him the three others he was trying to lead to safety.

“T.B.S., sir,” said Harbutt. “Harry.”

He had already forgotten about taking his shoes off; it was a surprise to find himself walking in his stockinged feet. But there was nothing he could do about that at present.

“George to Harry. Go ahead.”

The careful precise tones of Lieutenant-Commander Rode spoke into his ear.

“We have an aircraft approaching on our screen, sir. Range sixty miles, bearing oh-nine-oh.”

“Thank you, Captain. It may be the plane we have to look out for.”

“It may be, sir.” The tone suggested that Rode had been bombed so often from the air that he took nothing for granted, and the next words went on to confirm the impression. “I’ve seen Condors as far out as here, sir. But we’ll know soon enough.”

“I don’t doubt it.”

“I’ll report again as soon as I’m sure, sir.”

“Very well, Captain, thank you.”

Krause’s heart was beating perceptibly faster as he put down the hand-set. Friend or enemy, the report meant that he had achieved touch with the far side of the ocean.

“Cap’n, sir, yo’ breffus.”

There was the tray with its white napkin cover raised into peaks by what lay under it. He eyed it without interest. If the plane were sixty miles from James it would be seventy-five miles from Keeling. In a quarter of an hour it would be in sight; in half an hour it might be overhead. Commonsense dictated that he should eat while he had time, and while the food was hot. But between fatigue and excitement he had no appetite.

“Oh, very well. Put it on the chart-table.”

He had forgotten again about being in his stockinged feet. And there were his shoes, lying disgracefully on the deck. He paid ten times over in that minute for the ecstasy he had felt when he had taken them off.

“Messenger! Take those shoes of mine to my cabin and bring me the slippers you’ll find there.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

The messenger evinced no concern at being ordered on such a menial duty; it was Krause who felt the concern. He tasted all the bitterness of the pill he had to swallow; he was sensitive about the dignity of the men who served under him; and was quite unnecessarily worried about the messenger’s feelings. He could order the messenger into mortal danger more easily than he could order him to pick up his shoes. Already, forgetting the agony that had forced him into taking off his shoes, he was taking a mental vow never to indulge himself in that fashion again. It lessened his appetite for food even farther. But he plodded over to the desk and lifted the covers indifferently. Fried eggs, golden and white, looked up at him; from strips of bacon a pleasant odour rose to his nostrils. And coffee! Coffee! The scent of that as he poured it was utterly enticing. He drank; he began to eat.

“Your slippers, sir,” said the messenger, putting them on the deck beside him.

“Thank you,” replied Krause with his mouth full.

Charlie Cole was just entering the pilot-house when he was called again to the T.B.S.

“Catalina in sight, sir,” said Harry.

“Good,” answered Krause. It was only then that he knew he had been worrying in case it had been a Condor. “Is her challenge correct?”

“Yes, sir. And I have made reply.”

“Plane in sight! Plane dead ahead! “

Keeling’s look-outs were shouting wildly.

“Very well, thank you, Captain,” said Krause.

“PBY, sir,” said Cole, his binoculars to his eyes, looking at the bright eastern horizon, and then, loudly, “Very well, you men. It’s one of ours.”

The 20 mm. gun crews had already started training their weapons forward and upward. It was a black dot over the convoy, approaching fast. It was winking at him feverishly. Dot dot dash dot dash dash.

“Plane signals ‘UW,’ sir,” from the signal-bridge.

“Very well. Reply ‘BD.’ “

UW UW--that pilot had been shot at by so many friendly ships he wanted to make quite sure he was recognized. Now the plane was visible in detail, with all the clumsy comforting elephantine outlines of a PBY.

“One of ours, not British, sir,” commented Cole.

The stars were plain on the wings. It roared on overhead; at the 40 mm. guns the men raised a cheer and waved their arms. It passed on astern; Krause and Cole turned to watch it as it went nearly out of sight. Then they saw it swing leftwards, to the south.

“Checking up on how far we’re scattered,” said Krause.

“I guess so, sir. It looks like that. And he’ll scare down any sub within thirty miles, too, sir.”

So he would. In this clear daylight no sub would venture to remain on the surface with a plane circling overhead. And below the surface a sub would be half-blind and slow, no danger to the convoy unless fortunately right in the convoy’s path. The PBY swung on round, and settled on an easterly course back past the right flank of the convoy. They watched it steadily dwindling in size.

“Isn’t he going to cover us, sir?” asked Cole.

“I know what he’s doing,” said Krause. “He’s homing the escort group on us.”

A bird of the air shall carry the voice, and that which hath wings shall tell the matter. The Earl of Banff and his escort group were already far out at sea, and the PBY was going to inform them of the bearing of the convoy.

“His course is not much south of east, sir,” said Cole, binoculars to his eyes. “They must be nearly dead ahead of us.”

Nearly dead ahead, and probably making fourteen knots. Relief and convoy were heading towards each other at a combined speed of twenty-three knots at least. In an hour or two they would be in sight of each other. Less than that, perhaps. Krause looked forward; the rear line of the convoy was now hull-up; Keeling had brought the lost sheep back to the flock.

“Out of sight, sir,” said Cole taking the glasses from his eyes.

Now there was no knowing how much farther the PBY would be going.

“What about your breakfast, sir?” asked Cole.

Krause would not admit that he could not remember in what condition he had left his tray. He walked over to it. The large plate bore a cold egg and strips of congealed bacon.

“I’ll send for some more, sir,” said Cole.

“No, thank you,” replied Krause. “I’ve had all I want.”

“Surely you could use some coffee, sir. This is cold.”

“Well - - “

“Messenger! Bring the captain another pot of coffee.”

“Thank you,” said Krause.

“Watch is just going to change, sir. I’ll get down to the plot.”

“Very well, Charlie.”

When Cole had gone Krause looked down again at the tray. Automatically his hand went out and he picked up a piece of toast and started to eat it. It was cold and leathery, but it disappeared with remarkable rapidity. Krause spread the other piece thick with butter and jelly and ate that. Then he found himself picking up the strips of cold bacon and eating them too.

 

 

Friday. Forenoon Watch--0800-1200

 

Harbutt saluted and reported his relief. “Very well, Mr Harbutt. Mr Carling! I want a fuel report from the engine-room.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

Krause looked again at the convoy and back at the three ships aft. Was it sentimental to want to be at the head of his command when the reinforcements arrived?

“Pardon me, sir,” said the messenger, putting hot coffee on the tray in front of him.

“Get me a signal-pad and pencil,” said Krause.

He wrote out the message.

COMESCORT TO SHIPS ASTERN. RESUME STATIONS IN CONVOY.

“Signal bridge,” he ordered. “And tell them to send slowly.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

“The T.B.S., sir,” said Carling.

It was James.

“The Catalina’s crossing our course at thirty-five miles, sir. Looks as if the escort group isn’t far ahead. Thought you’d like to know, sir.”

“I sure would. Thanks a lot,” said Krause.

He was on the way back to his coffee when the messenger saluted him.

“Ships astern acknowledge message, sir.”

“Very well.”

Lieutenant-Commander Ipsen up from the engine-room with his written fuel report. Enough for fifty-seven hours’ steaming at economical speeds. Enough.

“Thank you, Chief. Very well.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Ahead of him the convoy was practically in good order. He could go ahead up a lane in safety. “I’ll take the conn, Mr Carling.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

Keeling drew away from the ships astern and entered the lane. Ships all round him. Battered ships and nearly new ships, with every colour of paintwork and every style of build. There had been thirty-seven ships when he had taken over escort duty. Now there were thirty; seven had been lost. Heavy losses, no doubt, but convoys had known even heavier than that. He had brought thirty ships through. Out of his escort force he had lost a destroyer; a very grave loss indeed. But he had sunk two probables and a possible. Thou art weighed in the balance--in the balance--he came to himself with a start. While having the conn, while actually in charge of the ship, he had gone to sleep on his feet, here in a convoy lane with danger all round. While I was musing the fire burned. He had never before known such fatigue.

Coffee might help. It was only then that he remembered the pot that had been brought him. It was nearly cold, but he drank it, draining the second cup as they emerged ahead of the convoy.

“Mr Carling! Take the conn.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

“Take station three miles ahead of the commodore.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

“Forward look-out reports plane dead ahead, sir.”

It was the PBY back again. Krause watched it alter course patrolling in long leisurely zig-zags far out on either side of the convoy’s course. Oh, that I had wings like a dove. Visibility was excellent, the sea moderate.

“Forward look-out reports object dead ahead, sir.”

Krause raised his binoculars. There was nothing in view. Nothing? Nothing? The tiniest speck on the distant horizon.

“Forward look-out reports object is a ship.”

This was the moment. Wink-wink. Wink-wink-wink. Already a light was flashing there. Overhead he heard the clank of Keeling’s lamp answering. Wink-wink-wink. He could not keep his heart from beating fast. He could not keep his hands from trembling a little.

“Well, we’ve made it, sir,” said Cole beside him.

“We have,” answered Krause. He was aware of a dryness of the throat that affected his voice.

The messenger came running.

SNO TO COMESCORT. WELCOME. KINDLY MAKE VERBAL REPORT TO DIAMOND.

There followed a wave frequency. Krause handed the message pad to Cole and walked over to the T.B.S. It was not easy to walk so far.

“George to Diamond. Do you hear me?”

“Diamond to George. I hear you.” Another of those English voices. “Afraid you’ve had a rough time.”

“Not so rough, sir. We’ve lost seven ships out of the convoy and two slightly damaged.” “Only seven?”

“Yes, sir. King’s Langley, Henrietta - - “

“It doesn’t matter about the names at present.” It was a relief to hear that; it was only with an effort that he could recollect them. “We’ve lost Eagle, too, sir.” “Eagle? That’s bad luck.”

“Yes, sir. She was hit in the engine-room last night.” Last night? It was almost impossible to believe it was only then. Krause steadied his Keeling mind. “And she sank at midnight. Everything was done to save her.”

“I don’t doubt it, Captain. And what is the condition of your command?”

“In this ship we have fuel for fifty-six hours’ steaming at economical speed, sir. We had one slight hit from a four-inch on our main-deck aft with unimportant damage. Three killed and two wounded, sir.”

“A four-inch?”

“A sub fought it out on the surface, sir. We got him. I think we got two more. The conduct of the other ships of the escort was excellent, sir.”

“Three subs.? Well done! I don’t expect you’ve a depth-charge left.”

“We have two, sir.”

“M’m.” It was a vague meditative remark over the T.B.S. “And your other two ships? What are their code names?”

“Harry and Dicky, sir.”

“I’ll ask them to report to me direct.”

Krause heard them reporting. Dodge with her gun out of action, with no depth-charges, serious damage forward, adequately patched, and fuel for thirty-seven hours.

James with three depth-charges and fuel for thirty-one hours.

“It’ll be a tight squeeze for you to make it to ‘Derry,” commented Diamond, who must be Captain the Earl of Banff.

“Might just do it, sir,” said James. “Not too sure,” said Diamond.

Krause heard him say it while a wave of sleep broke over him again; like the waves of a rising tide the need for sleep was reaching higher and higher and submerging his faculties longer on each occasion. He steadied himself. The new force was hull up over the horizon now, four ships in rigid column, Diamond’s destroyer in the lead, three escort vessels astern of her.

“I’m going to detach you three,” said Diamond. “You can make the best of your way to ‘Derry.”

“Sir,” said Krause, goading his mind to think of the right words. “This is George. Submit I stay with the convoy. I’ve fuel to spare.”

“No, I’m afraid not,” said Diamond. “I want you to see these two boys get home all right. They’re not fit to be out by themselves.”

It was said lightly, but there was a positive quality about the words; Krause felt it in the same way as, when his blade slipped along an opponent’s foil, his wrist would feel the transition from foible to forte.

“Aye aye, sir,” he said.

“Form on the left flank of the convoy,” said Diamond. “I’ll come in on the right.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

“You’ve done the hell of a good job, Captain,” said Diamond. “We were all worried about you.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Krause.

“Good-bye and good luck,” said Diamond.

“Thank you, sir,” said Krause. “Good-bye. George to Harry. George to Dicky. Form column astern of me. Speed thirteen knots. Course zero-eight-seven.”

Along with his fatigue the blackest depression was settling on him. Something was over, finished. Those last heartening words of Diamond’s might be very gratifying. It was obvious that by bringing his charge within touch of England, and handing it over to the relieving force, he had completed the duty entrusted to him. I have fought a good fight, I have finished my course. Could he say that? Perhaps. Yet this unutterable sadness possessed him, even while he mechanically gave the orders that carried him away from the ships he had guarded so long. He looked back at them. There was a long, long war ahead of him, he knew. He would fight, he would know agony and danger, but even if he lived he would be unlikely ever to set eyes on those ships again. He had a last duty to fulfil, a final step to take for the sake of international accord.

“Messenger! Signal-pad and pencil.” He hesitated over the first word. But he would use it once more during these last seconds, COMESCORT TO COMCONVOY. GOOD-BYE. MOST GRATEFUL THANKS FOR YOUR SPLENDID CO-OPERATION. GOD SPEED AND GOOD LUCK.

“Signal bridge,” he said. “Come right to course zero-eight-seven, Mr Carling.”

He heard the quartermaster repeat Carling’s order.

“Right rudder to course zero-eight-seven, sir. Steady on course zero-eight-seven.”

Overhead the shutters of the lamp were clattering as his message went out. James and Dodge were wheeling round to take station astern of him. The relieving force was moving into screening positions, the White Ensign flying. Terrible as an army with banners. He was swaying again on his feet. The Canadian Ensign and the White Ensign were following along behind the Stars and Stripes, but there was no Polish Ensign. The Commodore was winking back at him now. He fought back his fatigue again and waited.

The messenger brought the signal pad. COMCONVOY TO COMESCORT. IT IS FOR US TO THANK YOU FOR YOUR MAGNIFICENT WORK. DEEPEST GRATITUDE FROM US ALL. HEARTIEST GOOD WISHES.

That was all for now. It was finished. “Very well,” he said to the messenger. “Mr Carling, I’ll be in the sea-cabin if you want me.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

Charlie Cole was standing, eyeing him closely, but he had not the strength even to exchange a word with him. A little sleep, a little slumber, a little folding of the hands to sleep. Blindly he found his way to the cabin.