“Beyond the circle, in every direction, the sea extended for a thousand miles, and beneath it the water was two miles deep; neither figure was easily to be grasped by the imagination, although acceptable as an academic fact. Two long miles below lay the sea bottom, darker than the center of the longest and darkest tunnel ever built by man, under pressures greater than any ever built up in factory or laboratory, a world unknown and unexplored, to be visited not by men but perhaps by their dead bodies encased in and made part of the iron coffins of their crushed-in ships. And the big ships, to insignificant man so huge and so solid, sank to that sea bottom, to the immemorial ooze in the darkness and cold, with no more ado or stir than would be caused comparatively by specks of dust falling on a ballroom floor…”
- C.S. Forester, The Good Shepherd: A Novel
C.S. Forester’s The Good Shepherd is an excellent example of a book that knows exactly what it is trying to do, and executes it to perfection. Unlike the massively ambitious, sprawling Second World War epics by authors such as Herman Wouk, James Jones, and Vasily Grossman, Forester’s tale of a convoy crossing the Atlantic is intensely focused and self-contained. Its scope is narrowed to the vision of one man; the enormity of the war condensed into a few tense days.
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The plot is simplicity itself.
Commander George Krause, captain of the Mahan class destroyer USS Keeling, is charged with protecting a convoy sailing from the United States to Great Britain. While in the middle of the Atlantic – outside the range of sub-hunting airplanes – Krause engages in a high-stakes game of hide-and-seek with a wolfpack of German submarines. The winner gets to go home; the loser ends up on the seabed.
The battle between subs and destroyers, destroyers and subs, has created its very own literary and cinematic subgenre. There is no shortage of novels and movies that follow the exact outlines sketched by Forester in The Good Shepherd.
The twist here – and it’s a clever one – is that almost all the action takes place within Krause’s head, as he is forced to make hundreds of time-sensitive decisions while battling fatigue, hunger, and an aching bladder.
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When The Good Shepherd opens, Commander Krause’s convoy is already well underway, and just about to enter the danger zone. Within the first handful of pages, the Keeling makes contact with a German submarine, initiating a three-day period – from Wednesday to Friday – of relentless tension punctuated by brief moments of combat.
Forester writes in the third-person limited, so that we see everything through Commander Krause’s eyes alone. The fidelity he maintains to his self-imposed parameters is impressive. There is no cheating, no cutaways, no switching to another character in a different part of the ship. Certainly we never meet the Germans in their lethal undersea boats.
Almost the entirety of The Good Shepherd takes place on the Keeling’s bridge, because that is where Commander Krause stations himself. The only officers and sailors we meet are the ones that come into personal contact with the captain. The only things that we see are the things that Krause himself can see.
As someone who prefers wide-angled novels, I expected to be mildly irritated by this narrow, through-the-keyhole mode of storytelling. Here, though, it works smashingly. Forester uses the claustrophobic setting to add another layer of tautness to the already-white-knuckled proceedings. We cannot get comfortable because Commander Krause cannot get comfortable; we cannot be sure what’s happening, because he is not entirely sure what’s happening either.
The downside, of course, is that my connection to The Good Shepherd was more intellectual than emotional. Additionally, while Forester has a knack for describing the sea, the limited viewpoint means that this volume lacks the vivid, unforgettable images found in the similarly-themed The Cruel Sea.
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Compressing the narrative runs the risk of exhausting the reader. After all, Forester packs a lot of incident into just 257 pages. With that said, the pacing is marvelous, as Forester skillfully modulates the rhythms of the story, breaking up the action with some really-detailed scenes of Commander Krause eating and drinking coffee. There are also a lot of visits to the toilet, which are thankfully far less detailed.
Forester also does a really good job of breaking up the various submarine confrontations, so that they all unfold in unique ways. Along the way, you learn a lot about antisubmarine warfare in the 1940s.
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Cecil Scott Forester delivered quite a few enduring successes in his career, including The African Queen. He is probably most famous for his Horatio Hornblower series, eleven novels and five short stories filled to the brim with derring-do. The Good Shepherd is a very different kind of high-seas adventure, amounting to a process-oriented examination of a professional doing an extremely dangerous job.
That professional – Commander Krause – is a fascinating protagonist for unexpected reasons. He is not dashing, inspiring, or charismatic. Indeed, he is quite the opposite. He is a forty-two-year-old square with a head full of Bible verses and a stick so far up his own ass it would require careful surgery to remove it. Forester hints at a backstory – an ex-wife, a beloved father – but smartly avoids going down the road of psychological study.
What interests Forester – and what makes The Good Shepherd so interesting – is the burden of decision. Much of the book is Commander Krause doing calculations in his head, judging the intent of his enemy, and issuing confident orders based on fragmentary information. He dwells at length on quotidian details – fuel consumption, sailing speeds, the number of depth charges – that represent the difference between reaching port and having your waterlogged corpse devoured by sea creatures.
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The Good Shepherd was used as the basis for Tom Hank’s CGI extravaganza Greyhound. While entertaining, the movie is simply over-the-top in its depiction of German U-boats slugging it out on the surface with an American destroyer in broad daylight.
The source material is much more subtle.
While there are a lot of torpedoes, depth charges, and gunfire, we are never certain that it is effective. There is no cathartic moment when Commander Krause charts a collision-course with a U-boat, and then blows it to smithereens. While there are probable kills, he is never quite certain, because certainty cannot be obtained on the basis of such incomplete evidence. Forester, through Commander Krause, meditates on the limits of human perception during traumatic encounters.
Most of the time, the Keeling is hurling depth charges into empty water, hoping to see an oil slick after they go off. Rather than presenting war as a visual spectacle – as Hollywood has done, over and over – Forester describes it as a theoretical problem of distance, speed, and triangulation. Most war novels lean into its visceral elements. Forester treats it as a particularly daunting problem of trigonometry.