The Good Shepherd

by C.S. Forester

“Signal for you, sir,” called the signalman, stepping forward, pad in hand. “Read it.” “‘Comconvoy to Comescort. Will you please direct your corvette on the starboard side to assist in getting convoy into order question would be grateful.’” “Reply ‘Comescort to Comconvoy. Your last. Affirmative.’” “‘Comescort to Comconvoy. Your last. Affirmative.’ Aye aye, sir.” Comconvoy had to word his signal like that, presumably; he was making requests of an associate, not giving orders to a subordinate. Let thy words be few, said Ecclesiastes; the officer drafting an order had to bear that recommendation in mind, but a retread admiral addressing an escort commander had to remember the Psalms and make his words smoother than butter.

Calling the range in thousands of yards instead of in miles was the proof that the enemy was almost within range; eighteen thousand yards was the maximum for the five-inch.

The point where the U-boat had dived was known; she could be proceeding outwards from that point at two knots, four knots, eight knots. In the plot down below circles would be drawn spreading out from that point like ripples round the spot where a stone drops into a pond. The U-boat would be known to be within the largest circle. In ten minutes she could travel a mile easily, and a circle with a radius of a mile would be over three square miles in area. To search three square miles thoroughly would take an hour, and in an hour the maximum circle would expand to enclose a hundred square miles. It was most unlikely that the U-boat would linger near the point where she dived. She would head somewhere, in some direction, along one of the three hundred and sixty degrees radiating out from her center. Yet it seemed the most reasonable assumption that below the surface she would continue the course she had been following on the surface. Even a German submarine, cruising in the North Atlantic in search of prey, did not wander about entirely aimlessly. She would make a wide sweep in one direction and then a wide sweep in another. If she had dived for some trivial reason she would probably maintain her course; if she had dived to attack the convoy she would probably maintain her course, too, seeing that was the course that would bring her square into its path. If she was on any other course it would be hopeless to seek her with a single ship; hopeless, that was the right word, not d...

A depth charge dropped within twenty yards of its target meant a probable victory; a depth charge dropped thirty yards away meant a certain failure. The difference between twenty and thirty yards could be accounted for by the difference between the prompt reactions of a practiced operator and the tardy reactions of an unpracticed one. And that still left out of consideration the question of nerve; there was no way of knowing as yet whether Ellis was nervous or cool, which was not the same thing as being cowardly or brave. A man could grow flustered merely at the thought of failure, without even thinking as far as the possible censure of his division officer or his captain. Fingers became thumbs, quick wits became slow in certain men merely because much depended on accurate manipulation or rapid thinking. Ellis down there could hardly fail to be aware that success or failure hinged upon his sole efforts, upon the delicacy with which he turned his dial, the deductions he had to make from a variation in the quality of the echo. That could make him stupid or clumsy or both. The fact that failure might mean a torpedo into Keeling’s side which would blow Ellis and his instruments into fragments was not so important, Krause knew. Plain cowardice was far rarer than idiocy, just as plain courage was more common than nerve.

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

A childish stratagem indeed, simplicity itself, like most of the stratagems of war; but, like most of the stratagems of war, more easily thought of than executed. Not only quickness of thought was necessary for the execution, but resolution, determination. It was necessary to make up one’s mind and carry the plan through, to balance risk against gain and to be neither deterred by the one nor dazzled by the other.

He was not staking a certainty against a possibility, but one possibility against another.

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

The sudden alteration of bearing of the contact could mean nothing else than that the U-boat captain, finding himself headed off once more, finding the two vessels rushing together, had put his helm hard over again, turning straight for his antagonist, aiming to surprise him by passing on opposite courses and making the danger moment as brief as possible. That “Range close” meant three hundred yards or so—the smallest range at which sonar could function. The U-boat might at this very time be passing right under the destroyer, right under Krause’s very feet. The depth charges rumbling down off the racks, sinking ponderously through the opaque sea, might then be too late, would explode harmlessly astern of the U-boat. But the U-boat might still be just forward of Keeling, heading aft, and in that case the depth charges would burst all about her if the depth setting were anything like correct, and would smash her fragile hull. Yet she might not be passing directly below; she might be a hundred yards to port or to starboard. The double bark of the K guns at that moment told how further depth charges were being flung out on either side of the ship in anticipation of this possibility. They might catch her. One of the four depth charges dropped might burst close enough. It was like firing a sawed-off shot-gun into a pitch-dark room to try to hit a dodging man inside. It was as brutal.

“Messenger! Write this. ‘Comescort to Cadena. C—A—D—E—N—A. Rejoin convoy at best speed. Modified zigzag.’ Take that to the signal bridge. And tell them not to send too fast.” “Signal bridge. Aye aye, sir.” It was in the blood of all signalmen to send messages as rapidly as they could, and it was always a source of gratification to them if they could burn up the recipient. In this case the recipient was a merchant seaman, unpracticed in reading messages; and it was important.

It was fantastic how two minutes could alter one’s whole outlook for the better—or for the worse.

“I don’t think I got the sub I chased through the convoy,” he went on. “Maybe I gave him a fright, though.” The British officer who had lectured on antisubmarine warfare at Casco Bay had been fond of quoting an army story of the previous war in which two infantry privates put their clothes through a newly invented machine for delousing them. “Why,” said one, bitterly, after inspecting results, “they’re all alive still.” “Yes,” said the other, “but I expect they’ve had a hell of a fright.”

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.

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 lookouts 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 lighthearted 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.”

“Compton-Clowes speaking.” The Canadian captain was one of the rare examples of a Canadian with a hyphenated name.

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.