Free The Good Shepherd by C.S. Forester Page A

bridge as the “K” gun at the fantail went off. The ugly cylinder it had flung into the air hung in his sight for an instant before it dropped with a splash into the sea. And as it fell the sea far behind in Keeling’s wake opened up into a vast, creamy crater, from the centre of which rose a tower of white foam; as it rose Krause heard the enormous but muffled boom of the underwater explosion. And the tower of foam was still hanging, about to drop, when another crater opened, and another tower rose up out of the sea, and another on one side, and another on the other. He maketh the deep to boil like a pot, as Job said. It looked as if nothing could possibly live in the long ellipse of tortured water, but nothing showed at all. No dripping hull emerged, no huge bubbles, no oil. The odds were ten to one at least against a single depth-charge pattern scoring a hit. It would have been fortunate indeed if Keeling’s first pattern--if Krause’s first attempt to kill a man--had been successful.
    Indeed that was so; Krause felt a dreadful pang of conscience as he jumped into the pilot-house. He should not have been out here at all. It was five seconds since the last explosion, five seconds during which the U-boat could travel a full hundred yards towards safety. Buck-fever again; and simple neglect of duty.
    “Right full rudder,” he ordered as he entered.
    “Right full rudder.”
    The quartermaster repeated the order that Krause gave.
    “Get a course from the plot back to the firing point.”
    “Aye aye, sir.”
    “Steady on reverse of present heading,” ordered Krause.
    “Sonar reports apparatus temporarily not functioning, sir,” said the talker.
    “Very well.”
    Sonar, as delicate as a human ear, was deafened for a time by underwater explosions. Keeling was coming round in a tight circle, but not nearly fast enough for Krause’s impatience. It always took several minutes for her to come all the way round, with the U-boat--if she were uninjured--making off as fast as her propellers would drive her. She could well be a mile away--more-- by the time Keeling had her bows pointed at her again, so far away that sonar would not be able to tell him that she had achieved this state of affairs. And Dawson was thrusting the clip-board at him again. He had actually forgotten about Dawson’s arrival on the bridge with a message, three minutes ago. He took the board and read the central words of the message first.
    HUFF-DUFF INDICATES ENEMY CONCENTRATION -- here followed a latitude and a longitude -- SUGGEST RADICAL CHANGE OF COURSE SOUTHWARD.
    Those figures for latitude and longitude had a suspiciously familiar appearance, and it was the work of only a moment to confirm those suspicions. Within a mile or two either way that was exactly where Keeling found herself at this moment. They were right in among the U-boat wolf-pack. It was an Admiralty message, addressed to him as Comescort, and it was two hours old. That was the speediest transmission that could be expected; the Admiralty staff, with its charts and its plotting-board, must have hoped hopelessly for good fortune when it sent out that warning. Miraculously speedy transmission, and the convoy steaming an hour or two late, and there would have been time to wheel the convoy away from the wolf-pack. As it was? Quite impossible. The convoy, well closed up by now, he hoped, was lumbering forward with its dead-weight momentum. It would only take a few seconds to transmit orders to the Commodore, but it would take minutes to convey those orders to every ship in the convoy, and to make sure they were understood. And the wheel round would lead to a repetition of the previous disorder and straggling--worse, probably, seeing that it was quite unscheduled.
    “Back on reverse course, sir,” reported Watson.
    “Very well. Start pinging.”
    And even if the convoy should execute the wheel round perfectly, it would be of no avail in the midst of a wolf-pack which would be fully