Jim peered through the portholes into the darkness. Night was the most dangerous time. The submarines could attack on the surface unseen and undetectable by sonar. How would the storm change things? The heaving seas would make an attack more difficult, but would also make it harder for the convoy to spot the U-boats. And the Germans were aggressive, attacking in coordinated groups nicknamed “wolf-packs.”
Vince Banning leaned over the plotting table. “Where are we at, Captain?”
Durant tapped the navigational chart several hundred miles south of Greenland and briefed them on their current location and bearing and speed and weather, the planned zigzag course for the night, and how the Navy’s “Fox” long-range radio broadcast predicted no U-boats on their course based on direction-finding radio transmissions.
Jim paid careful attention. His duties included making routine entries in the log book, taking stadimeter and range-finder readings, and inspecting above and below decks if weather permitted.
“Any word on theSvend Foyn?” Banning asked.
Jim murmured his concern. The Norwegian ship had straggled behind the convoy four nights earlier in heavy weather. Not only did she carry a crucial load of twenty thousand tons of fuel oil, ten bombers, and two tanks—but she carried 220 passengers. Stragglers were easy pickings for U-boats.
“No word. But also no word of a sinking, so keep those souls in your prayers.” Durant relayed the last bits of information they’d need for their watch, then retired to his cabin behind the pilothouse, within shouting distance if needed.
Banning took his position behind the helmsman, and Jim at the log table. He made the change of watch notations in the log, keeping his handwriting as neat as he could with the ship rolling side to side and pitching bow to stern. Destroyers were lively ships, quick and easy to maneuver, but prone to violent motion in rough seas. Serving on a battleship had been less dramatic, but also less fun.
“Sir?” The talker turned from the telephone to Banning, eyebrows bunched together. “We had a sound contact.”
Jim’s stomach lurched, and not from nausea this time. In the sound room, deep in the lowest section of the bow, the sonar operators listened to the constant ping-ping-ping of the sonar emanating from a dome under the hull. Now something had pinged back.
Vince Banning’s expression remained impassive. “Hada contact?”
“Yes, sir. Norris says he heard what sounded like propeller noises for about thirty seconds, but they disappeared.”
Jim checked the time on his watch and made the proper notation in the log. Why was the executive officer so quiet? What decision would he make?
Banning gazed out the porthole, his arms crossed over his mackinaw. His fingers dug into the thick fabric, and he cussed. “I have no choice. We have to follow Cinclant procedure and stay within two thousand yards of the convoy.”
The Commander-in-Chief of the Atlantic Fleet had issued convoy escort protocols that cautioned against jumping on minor sound contacts and against leaving the convoy for more than an hour to chase U-boats.
“This is insane.” Banning strode to one end of the bridge, wheeled around, and strode back the other way. “What are we supposed to do? Wait for them to attack? We need to hunt them down and kill them before they kill us.”
Jim chuckled to lighten the mood. “That would violate the Neutrality Laws just a smidgen, don’t you think?”
Banning leveled a glare at him in the strange red light. “Our job is to protect this convoy.”
Jim had misjudged the situation. With no food in his stomach and a possible U-boat in the vicinity, Vince Banning didn’t want jokes. Jim gave the XO a solemn nod. “And we can’t protect if we can’t fight. Cinclant makes us fight with our hands tied behind our back.”
With one eyebrow lifted, Banning signaled the resumption of his respect for Jim. “As an officer, I must obey the commander of this task unit and of the Atlantic Fleet, but as a man, I tell you, this procedure stinks.”
“Let’s hope this procedure doesn’t sink.” Jim held his breath. So much for not making jokes.
However, Banning chuckled. “Yes. Let’s hope.” He turned to the talker. “Anything else?”
“No, sir. No further sound contacts.”
Jim registered the information in the log book. Most likely, they’d heard a whale—a whale that should be thankful he hadn’t lost a fin to theAtwood’s depth charges. Or it could have been a U-boat, zipping in on reconnaissance, then zipping out to call in his buddies for the slaughter.
Without a doubt, someday soon Jim would be tested in battle. He tugged off his gloves and blew on his hands. His fingers tingled with renewed warmth, and his mind tingled with the determination to be bold, strong, and decisive.
If only that sound contact had come nearer. Jim was ready to prove himself.
26
Boston
Thursday, October 9, 1941
Quintessa set a New England pot roast on the kitchen table between Mary and Yvette. “I feel so Bostonian. It smells heavenly, if I do say so myself.”
