The Good Shepherd

by C.S. Forester

“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-by for now.” “Good-by, sir. Good-by.”

“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.”

“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 twenty-millimeter 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 U-W, sir,” from the signal bridge. “Very well. Reply B-D.” U-W-U-W—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.

“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.

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.

“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?”

“We’ve lost Eagle too, sir.” “Eagle? That’s bad luck.”

“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.”

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.

“You’ve done the hell of a good job, Captain,” said Diamond. “We were all worried about you.” “Thank you, sir,” said Krause.

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 fulfill, 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. GOODBY. MOST GRATEFUL THANKS FOR YOUR SPLENDID CO-OPERATION. GODSPEED AND GOOD LUCK.

The relieving force was moving into screening positions, the White Ensigns 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 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.

“Mr. Carling, I’ll be in the cabin if you want me.” “Aye aye, sir.” Charlie Cole was standing eying 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.

In a second of returning consciousness he squirmed forward and upward onto the bunk, lying breast downward on it with his face turned to one side. He lay spreadeagled, the sprouting beard disfiguring his dirty face, his mouth a little open, as heavily asleep as if he were dead.

The sunshine ceased when his father died, leaving him an orphan just graduating from high school when America was entering into a war. The senator had nominated the much-loved pastor’s orphan son to Annapolis, a nomination strange for those days as it brought no political benefit, strengthened no political alliance, even though the nomination was old-fashioned enough in that no attempt was made to select the most academically suitable candidate.

What he knew as home was enclosed between four steel bulkheads; what he knew as family life went on in the wardroom and at captain’s mast. Promotion came, to lieutenant junior grade, to lieutenant, to lieutenant commander, responsibility expanding with his experience. For seventeen years, from eighteen to thirty-five, he lived for nothing but his duty; that was why those hateful words “fitted and retained” hit him so hard, even though he knew that in the service of which he was a part there could be only one commander for every ten lieutenant commanders.

Chance—the chance that elevated a paranoiac to supreme power in Germany and a military clique to power in Japan—dictated that when it was too late he should receive the coveted promotion to commander, if it can be called chance. Chance had made him an orphan; chance had brought about the senator’s nomination. Chance had put him in command of the convoy escort. Chance had made him the man he was and had given that man the duty he had to carry out.

Now he was asleep. He could be called happy now, lying spreadeagled and face downward on his bunk, utterly unconscious.