The Good Shepherd by C.S. Forester Page B

Ipsen’s salute. It was Dodge’s noon fuel report. That had to be studied to, with some care; Dodge was fortunate in having a considerable reserve in hand. There were two more messages waiting for him by the time he had completed his study of it. Here was Viktor’s fuel report, and then James’s. Krause pulled a long face as he studied the James report. A minimum of fast steaming for James in future. He dictated a carefully worded reply.
    “Comescort to James. ‘Use utmost efforts to conserve fuel.’ “
    Now it was Charlie Cole, up from the chartroom, with a smile on his face and words of congratulation about the sinking of the U-boat. It was pleasant to exchange those few sentences with Charlie. But then Charlie came a little closer, and dropped his voice to a confidential tone, so as not to be heard by the others on the bridge.
    “There’s Flusser to be dealt with, sir,” said Charlie.
    “Hell,” said Krause. His use of that word was proof of his irritation at the delay.
    Yesterday, Flusser had punched a petty officer on the nose and was under arrest for this gravest of crimes. In a ship of war with general quarters being repeatedly sounded the presence of a criminal in a cell is a continual nuisance. And Navy Regs, demanded that his case be considered as promptly as possible.
    “It’s more than twenty-four hours, sir,” prompted Charlie.

“Hell,” said Krause again. “Oh, all right. I’ve got to get down to the head. I’ve got to have a sandwich. Then - - “
    That was the moment when a talker suddenly made his announcement.
    “After look-out reports two white rockets from the convoy, sir.”
    It was a surprise, worse than that time when the French fencer’s riposte had gone clear past Krause’s foil during the Olympic Games at Antwerp and he had felt the touch of the button on his breast just when he himself had been about to make the decisive lunge. It was two full seconds before Krause reacted, even though his brain had been instantly aware that two white rockets meant a torpedoing. For those two seconds he stared at the talker, but then he ran out on to the wing of the bridge, glasses to his eyes. It was hard to see anything; Keeling was three miles ahead of the leading ships and five miles ahead of the rearmost. He hailed the after look-out.
    “What do you see?”
    “Two white rockets, sir.”
    “Where?”
    “Back there, sir. ‘Bout the last ship in our line.”
    “Signal from the Commodore, sir.” This came from the signal bridge. “General alarm.”
    “Very well.”
    Keeling rose high on a wave; now he could see that the third ship in the second column was out of position; the ship following her was swerving to avoid her. If he sent back the Canadian corvette she would be left behind, and with her small excess of speed it would be long before she rejoined the convoy. A destroyer was needed; there was only the choice between Keeling and Viktor, and Keeling was the nearer. He went back into the pilot-house.
    “I’ll take the conn, Mr Nystrom.”
    “Aye aye, sir.”
    “Right full rudder. Steer course one-eight-zero.” The helmsman repeated the order as Krause went to the T.B.S.
    “George to Eagle. George to Dicky. I am going to the rear of the convoy. Close up to protect the van.” “Ave aye, sir.” “Wilco.”
    Keeling had turned as he spoke. She was on a collision course now towards Dodge.
    “Right standard rudder. Steer course two-seven-five.”
    “Right standard rudder. Course two-seven-five, sir.”
    Round she came again, turning on her heel into the gap between Dodge and the convoy.
    “All engines ahead full speed.”
    Keeling leaped forward as the man at the annunciator reported.
    “Engine-room answers all engines ahead full, sir.”
    “Steady on course two-seven-five, sir.”
    A glance was enough to make sure that they would just shave the starboard line of ships. On opposite courses they passed the leading ship at a hundred yards' distance. She was wallowing