Sea-Hounds Part 7

"Meanwhile the _Sherill_ was escorting to the best of her ability alone.

Or at least we thought we were alone. About half an hour after the _McSmall_ had laid those first 'cans,' however, one of the quartermasters reported sighting a periscope on the port quarter of the convoy, about five hundred yards distant, and headed away. We signalled its presence to the convoy, turned eight points to port, and drove at full speed for the point where the wake of the moving finger had pinched out.

"We had received a report that morning to the effect that two submarines were operating in these waters, and there is just the chance, therefore, that this was a joint attack. Everything considered, however, we have been inclined to believe that the Fritz we were now starting to make the acquaintance of was the same one which the _McSmall_ was still a.s.siduously hunting some miles off to the westward. It was a mighty smart piece of 'p.u.s.s.y-wants-a-corner' work, shifting his position like that under the circ.u.mstances; but it was quite possible if the Fritz only had the guts for it, and that I think you'll have to admit this particular one had.

"It's seconds that count in a destroyer attack on a U-boat, and the captain hadn't lost a tick in jumping into this one. The dissolving 'V'

which the ducked-in periscope had left behind it was still visible in the smooth water when the _Sherill's_ forefoot slashed into it, and it was only a few hundred yards beyond that a slow undulant upcoiling of currents marked, faintly but unmistakably, the under-water progress of the game we were after. There was no oil-slick, understand, because an uninjured submarine only leaves that behind--except through carelessness--when it dives after a spell on the surface running under engines. Then the exhausts cough up a lot of grease and oil, and a layer of this, sticking to the stern, leaves a trail that rises for some little time after submergence, and which almost any kind of a dub who has been told what to look for can follow.

"The spotting of the surface wake of a deep-down submarine, and the holding of it after it almost disappears with the slowing down of the screws that make it, is quite another thing. _That_ takes a man with more than a keen eye--it takes instinct, mixed with a lot of common sense. It's a common thing to say of a successful look-out that he has a 'quick nose for submarines.' The expression is used more or less figuratively, of course; and yet the nose--the sense smell--is by no means a negligible factor in detecting the presence, and even the bearing, of a hunted U-boat. I will tell you shortly how it figured in this particular instance.

"That wake was swirling up so strong when we struck it that it was plain the submarine was still only on the way down, and it was no surprise when, a few seconds later, the distinct form of it was visible, close aboard under the starboard side of the bridge.

"I don't mean that it was distinct in the sense that you could see details such as the bow or stern rudders, or even the conning-tower, but only that a moving cigar-shaped blob of darker green could be plainly made out. The for'ard end was rather more sharply defined than the after, probably because the swirl from the propellers made uneven refraction about the tail. It was doubtless a good deal deeper than it looked, and the fact that it could be seen at all must have been almost entirely due to the fact that the absence of wind left the surface quite unrippled.

"The appearance of the submarine abreast the bridge was our cue to get busy, and I won't need to tell you that we went to it good and plenty.

We were primed for just that kind of an emergency, and we slapped down a barrage in a way that looked more like chucking coppers for kids to scramble after than the really scientific planting of high explosives that it was. For a minute or two the little old _Sherill_, dancing down the up-tossed peaks of the explosions, jolted along like the canoe you are dragging over a 'corduroyed' portage. Then the going grew smooth again, and under a hard-over right rudder we turned back rejoicing to gather in the sheaves. Yes, it looked quite as simple as harvesting on the old home farm, and it didn't seem that there could be anything left to do but to go back and pick up with the rake what the mower had brought low. And so it would have been on an ordinary occasion, which, unluckily, this was not. From the first to last, indeed, it was quite the contrary.

"The whole map of that little opening brush was spread out before us as we came back, and almost as clearly, for the moment, as though modelled in coloured clay. The _Sherill's_ wake, though it had obliterated that of the submarine, coincided with the tell-tale swirl of the latter we had followed, while the round patches of spreading foam made the dizzily dancing buoys temporarily superfluous as markers of the spots where the depth-charges had exploded. Like every other story that is writ in water, this one was rapidly dissolving; but, from all that we needed to learn from it, the record was as complete as a bronze relief.

"That there was to be another chapter to the story became evident before we had doubled back half the length of that part of the wake we had sprinkled with 'cans.' At about the point where two-thirds of that sheaf of depth-charges had been expended a clearly defined wake of oil and bubbles turned sharply off to the left. The presence of that little trail cleared up several important points right then and there without following it any farther, though I will hardly need to tell you that we didn't drop anchor to hold a court of inquiry over it. The vital thing it told us was that--strange as it seemed--our under-water bombardment had not sent the U-boat to the bottom, nor even injured it sufficiently to compel it to come to the surface. But that it was injured, and probably fairly badly, was proved by the wake of oil and bubbles. Don't ever let any one delude you with that yarn about the way Fritz sends up oil and bubbles to baffle pursuit. There may be circ.u.mstances under which he could work that particular brand of foxiness with profit, but if there is one place where you could be sure he would _not_ try anything of that kind on, it is when a destroyer has got his nose on his trail, with her eye and ears a-c.o.c.k for just that kind of little first-aid to 'can-dropping.' For a submarine voluntarily to release air or oil when a destroyer is ramping round overhead would be just about like a burglar scattering a trail of confetti to baffle the pursuit of the police. Fritz is as full of ways that are dark and of tricks that are vain as Ah Sin, but--with the hounds at his heels--nothing so foolish as that oil and bubble stunt of popular fiction.

"The first few of the 'cans' had evidently burst near enough to this Fritz to buckle his sh.e.l.l and release the oil and air, but his sharp right-angled turn to the left had taken him quite clear of the last of the charges, which had only been thrown away. Wounded and winged as he appeared to be, the next thing in order was to polish him off. Slowing down slightly, the captain steadied the _Sherill_ on the wake.

"As we pa.s.sed the point where this was rising, the rate at which it was extended gave the approximate speed of the U-boat, and the fact that this was not above three knots seemed only another indication that all was not well with him. Holding on past the 'bubble fount,' we pa.s.sed over the point below which the U-boat must have been moving, but now he was so much more deeply submerged than before that no hint of his outline was visible on either side. We knew he was there, however, and when we hit the proper place shook loose another shower of 'cans' over him.

"There is nothing deeply mysterious about the calculations in dropping depth-charges, for in no sense of the term can it be called an instrument of precision. Indeed, it is of the bludgeon rather than the rapier type. If you have a wake to guide, you approximate his speed and course from that, guess at his depth, set the charge at the corresponding depth from which you judge its explosion will do most good, and then, allowing for your own speed and course, release it at a point which you reckon the target will have reached by the time the charge gets down on a level with it. It is something like bomb-dropping from an aeroplane, only rather less accurate, because you don't see your target as a rule.

"This is more than compensated for, however, by the greater vulnerability of its target and the fact that the force of an under-water explosion is felt over a wider area than that of an air-bomb. That's about all there is to it. Success in 'can-dropping'

depends about half on the skill and judgment of the man directing it, and about half on luck. Or perhaps I should say that fifty-fifty was about the way it stood when we started in at the game. Naturally, as we have acc.u.mulated experience, skill and judgment begin to count for more and luck for less, though we are a long way from reaching the point where the latter is eliminated entirely.

"Again we circled back to pick up the pieces, and again we found only a wake of oil and bubbles angling sharply off from where the 'cans' had been dropped. It was encouraging to note that both oil and bubbles were rising faster than before, but there was surprise and disappointment in the fact that they were now streaming along at a rate which indicated Fritz was. .h.i.tting an under-water speed of six or seven knots.

"By now it was plain what his method was, however. This was to steady on his course till his hydrophones, which all U-boats are fitted with, of course, told him we were bearing down on him, and then to start making 'woggly' zigzags. The captain was doing some deep thinking as we headed in for the next attack, and I noticed him following his stopwatch with more than usual care as he jiggled off the 'cans.'

"One of the detonations had a different kick from the others, and I was just speculating if it had been a hit, when up comes Fritz, rolling like a harpooned whale.

"We were just turning sharp under left rudder and, not wanting to take any chances, the captain gave orders for all guns fearing to open fire.

No. 1 and No. 2 of the port battery got off about five rounds apiece, and when the splashes from the exploding sh.e.l.ls had subsided Fritz had gone. It looked like a hundred to one that we had finished him--until we ran into another of those darn wakes of oil and bubbles reeling off at a good five or six knots.

"Again we 'canned' him, and again the thickening trail of grease gave promise that, if nothing else, we were at least bleeding him hard, perhaps to death. As there was no doubt that he was still a going concern, however, the captain decided on a change of tactics, to try attrition, so to speak, instead of direct a.s.sault.

"There is, of course, a limit to the number of 'cans' a destroyer can carry, and those which still remained he wanted to husband against a better chance to use them with effect. The several remaining hours of daylight would be enough, if the U-boat could be kept running at maximum speed, to exhaust its batteries in and force it to come to the surface for lack of power to keep going submerged. A submarine, you understand, unless it can lie on the bottom, which was impossible here on account of the depth, must keep under weigh to maintain its bouyancy, so it follows that the exhaustion of its batteries leaves no alternative but coming up. That was what we were now driving at with this one.

"About this time, hearing the radio of the _Cushman_ close aboard, the captain sent a signal requesting her help in clearing up the job in hand. She hove in sight presently, accompanied by the _f.a.n.n.y_, which was out with her on some special stunt of their own. They had an hour to spare for us, and in that time we played just about the merriest little game of hide-and-seek that any of our destroyers have had with a Fritz since the Yanks came over.

"He wasn't left time to sit and think for a single minute. Now a destroyer would come charging up his wake from astern and shy a 'can' at his tail; now one would ambush him from ahead and try and have one waiting where his nose was going to be.

"It was a good deal like when three or four of us kids used to spear catfish in a muddy pool. We were always grazing one, but never quite getting it. And, believe me, the wake of one of those catfish didn't have anything on the wake of that Fritz for sinuosity.

"He was zigzagging constantly, and just after charges had been dropped on him he twice broached surface. It was only for a few seconds though, and never long enough to offer a target for even a ranging shot. Once we tried to ram, but he turned as he submerged, and the forefoot cut into nothing more solid than his propeller swirl.

[Ill.u.s.tration: A LIMIT TO THE NUMBER OF "CANS" A DESTROYER CAN CARRY]

"After the _Cushman_ and _f.a.n.n.y_ left us to resume their own job the _Sherill_ took up the chase again on her own account. There were still about three hours to go till dark, and two of these we spent in keeping our quarry on the jump by every trick we knew. Then we stood away, and gave him a chance to come up and start charging on the surface. When it finally became evident that he was not going to take advantage of our consideration on this score, we closed in again, picked up his wake, sent down another 'can' or two to tell him what we thought of him.

"The last of these must have been near to a hit, for it brought up oil bubbles three feet in diameter, with smaller bubbles of air inside of them. The oil-slick left behind by his wake was so heavy that, even in the failing light, it was visible for several miles. He was now making about five knots. We followed that broad slick of oil for some time after darkness had fallen, and it was not till a little before midnight that we lost it.

"There wasn't much hope of regaining touch before daybreak, but on the off-chance the captain started circling in a way that would cover a lot of sea, and yet not take us too far from the centre of interest.

"It was a little after one in the morning that one of the look-outs--perhaps 'sniff-outs' would be a better term under the circ.u.mstances--reported an oil smell to windward. The captain promptly ordered her headed up into the wind, with sniffers stationed to port and starboard, fore and aft. Every man on watch was sniffing away on his own, of course, and you can bet it would have been a funny sight if there had only been enough light for us to see one another in. Nosing--I can use the term literally this time--slowly along, turning now to port, now to starboard, as the oil smell was strongest from this side or that, within ten minutes we picked up a slick which, even in the darkness, it was evident was trending to south'ard. For an hour and a half we zigzagged up along that wake, keeping touch by smell until just before three o'clock, when the new well-risen moon showed it up distinctly to the eye. No," answering my frivolous interruption, "I don't recall noticing at the time that it was a _blue_ moon.

"Ten minutes later we came up to where the wake turned to south-westward, and had a brief glimpse of Fritz trying to evade detection by running down the moon-path. He was plainly near the end of his juice, and taking every chance that offered to charge on the surface. He ducked under before there was time for a shot, but, knowing that he could hardly stay there for long, we continued following down his wake.

"It was broad daylight when, at half-past four, we sighted him again, running awash about five hundred yards ahead and slightly on the starboard bow. Ordering the bow gun to open fire, the captain put the _Sherill_ at full speed and headed in to ram. The shots fell very close, but no hit was observed.

"He turned sharply to port, preparing to dive. We tried to follow with full left rudder, but missed by twenty feet. His conning-tower and two periscopes showed not over thirty feet from the port side as we swept by. It was too close for a torpedo, nor was there a fair chance for a depth-charge. The port battery was opening on him as he submerged.

"The strengthening breeze began kicking up the surface about this time, making it difficult to follow the wake. It was six o'clock before we circled into it again, to find that Fritz was now trying to blind pursuit by steering his course so that the wake led away straight toward the low morning sun. It was probably by accident rather than design that his now reversed course also laid his wake across some of the zigzags of his old oil-slick. At any rate, between that and the sun, we got off the scent again, and did not get in touch till an hour later, when a thin blue-white vapour to the eastward revealed the blow-off of his exhaust where he had resumed charging on the surface.

"He was a good five miles away, but we turned loose at him with the bow gun and started closing at full speed. At almost the same time, the British sloop _Moonflower_--the same one we were talking about this evening--stood in from eastward, also firing at the enemy, who was about midway between us.

"Fritz disappeared under the foam-spouts thrown up by the fall of shot, and, although two more destroyers joined in the hunt, which was continued all that day and on to nightfall, no further trace of him was discovered. Even if he did not sink at once, the chances are all against his being in shape ever to get back to base. But just the same," he concluded, with a wistful smile, "it would have been comforting to have had something more tangible than the memory of an oil smell and thirty-six hours without sleep as souvenirs of that little brush."

It had been dark for an hour where the waters of the River Lee were streaming seaward with the ebbing tide, but the tree-tops along the crest of the eastward hills were silvering in the first rays of the rising moon. The signalman was looking at it when I bade him good night and started down the ladder to the main deck.

"I hope it isn't a blue one," he said with a grin; "we're expecting to go out again tomorrow."

CHAPTER VII

ADRIATIC PATROL

Boring into a North Sea blizzard in a destroyer off the coast of Norway is not exactly the kind of thing that one would think would turn a man's thoughts to sunny climes, with scented breezes blowing over flowery fields, and cobalt skies arching over sapphire waters, and all that sort of thing; but the human mind moves in a mysterious way, and that is just what Lieutenant K---- started talking about the night we were shepherding the northbound convoy together, after it had been temporarily scattered by what had proved to be an abortive German light cruiser raid.

Sea-booted, m.u.f.flered and goggled, and ponderous where his half-inflated "Gieve" bulged beneath his ample duffle-coat, he leaned over the starboard rail of the bridge for a s.p.a.ce to get the clear view ahead that the frost-layer on the wind-screen denied him from anywhere inboard. Then, just ducking a sea that rolled in tumultuously fluent ebony over the forecastle gun and smothered the bridge in flying spray, he nipped across and threw a half-Nelson around a convenient stanchion before the pitch, as she dived down the back of the retreating wave, threw him against the port rail.

"Got 'em all in line again," he said, pushing his face close to mine.

"That's something to be thankful for, anyhow. Didn't expect to round up half of 'em before we had to stand away to pick up the southbound. Piece of uncommon good luck. Now we can stand easy for a spell."

I was about to observe that "stand easy" didn't seem to me quite the appropriate term to apply to the act of keeping one's balance on a craft which was blending thirty-degree rolls with forty-degree pitches to form a corkscrew-like motion of an eccentricity comparable to nothing else in the gamut of human experience, when he continued with: "Not much like what I was enjoying a month ago, this," indicating the encompa.s.sing darkness with a rotary roll of his head. "I was in a destroyer at an Italian base then--Brindisi--with the smell of dust and donkeys and wine-shops in the air, and straight-backed, black-haired, black-eyed girls, with rings in their ears and baskets of fruit--soft red and yellow and blue fruit--on their heads. Now it's"--and she put her nose deep into a wave that dealt her a sledge-hammer blow and sent spray flying half-way to the foretop in a solid stream--"this, just this. Grey by day, black by night, and slap-bang all the time. No light, no colour, no atmosphere, no----"

"I quite understand," I cut in. "No straight-backed girls with rings in their ears and fruit-baskets on their heads. Of course, there's more light and colour down there than here; but wasn't there also a bit of slap-bang to it now and then?"

"Ay, there was a bit," he replied. "There was the time----" He started to tell me the already time-worn yarn of the Yarmouth trawler skipper and the Grimsby trawler skipper, each of whom, enamoured of the same Taranto maid, wooed her while the other was absent on patrol; of how one of them, looking through his gla.s.s as he stood in toward the entrance on one of his return trips, saw his rival walking on the beach with arm round the waist of the artful minx in question, and her red-and-yellow kerchief-bound head resting on his shoulder; of how the one on the trawler, consumed by a jealousy fairly Latin in its intensity, swung round his six-pounder, discharged it at the faithless pair, and--so crookedly did the rage-blind eyes see through the sights--hit a fisherman's hut half a mile away from his target!