The Black Forest Gateau we asked you to deliver is poisoned. On no account give it to our friends. Ditch it without delay.
Ahab copied the signal, read it again, tore it into small pieces as usual, and dropped these, one by one, into his garbage box. He now understood why Limbach and the others had not returned. The compromise, if not total, was serious enough to require evasive action at the first hint of trouble. In thirty-six hours’ time they were due to meet the supply ship, a tanker flying the Spanish ensign, to collect fuel, food, and drinking water. Limbach would have known about that in general terms but, thankfully, not the precise coordinates for this mid-ocean rendezvous. Even though the coxswain was one of the navigators, his information was restricted to need-to-know.
Ahab decided to keep the crew on high alert while fudging the exact reason. That was easy enough. They had left Zanzibar in a crisis. The pretext that this was the only problem was a therapeutic untruth, necessary for morale. The skipper’s logic was impeccable. It was to founder on one missing element: the state of mind of Radio Officer Bremen.
In the brig, the boy had regular visitors: so many that some had to wait their turn for an audience with him. Encouraged by Bremen, a consensus was building among the lower deck, the nonofficers in the crew—some forty-five out of fifty men—that young Otto had been right to protest about the desertion of Limbach and the others, even if, due to his inexperience, the manner of his protest lacked discretion. Bohm, tipped off by Bremen, traced the key to the handcuffs. Ironically, they were on the hook above the bunk used, part of the time, by the missing Limbach.
“Do you like chocolate?” Bohm asked.
The boy nodded.
“Here. Eat. You are one of us now, Kamerad.”
Ahab increased the watch on the bridge when they ran on the surface, which was most of the time. They were behind schedule and could travel at no more than eight knots submerged. Lookout duty was, by custom, a pleasure. Each watchman had binoculars and each kept an arc of 180 degrees under surveillance. That was the normal drill. Smoking was permitted and so was conversation, conducted, of necessity, back-to-back. There was also the easy relaxation, during a long trick, of leaning against the periscope support: a small thing in itself, to be sure, but good for morale. A few of those not on duty could sling a hammock on the Wintergarten, the metal structure aft of the bridge that underpinned the antiaircraft guns, and read or sleep in hammocks in the sun.
Suddenly this regime, a process of live and let live, changed. There was no snoozing on the Wintergarten. Ahab also increased the duty watch to one officer of the watch plus three lookouts checking the sea for hostile craft and another two watching the sky. Even worse, they were to stand to attention, forbidden to speak—except when duty required—and not permitted food or smokes. The irony of this was not lost on those crewmen who had started smoking specifically to qualify for the customary cigarette break aloft, so as to see sky and breathe fresh air occasionally.
The rendezvous with their supply ship went strictly according to plan, without frills. Usually, unless there was reason for a high-alert state, such mid-ocean meetings were a welcome chance to see new faces, hear fresh gossip, exchange banter, and even, occasionally, collect mail from home. Though this resupply contained fifty festival dinners for Christmas—every one individually marked, including one each for the missing Limbach and his companions—Ahab, now as obsessive as his fictional ancestor, eaten from within by the worm of a poisonous secret, kept the meeting buttoned down to a dour, minimal contact, a mere errand. Then, in spite of the fact that there was no hint of a threat, on a fine afternoon and in a softly rolling swell, he detached his craft from the tanker with a cursory nod to its deck and took his boat down.
The first, anonymous lampoon was posted next day. It was a drawing, stuck to the side of the gyrocompass in the central control room. The only person who overlooked it was the target himself. It depicted Ahab, riding a whale and frowning and wondering, “Where is that damned fish? One day I will find it!” The message—that this was a man whose personal gyro was not entirely reliable—spread among the crew like a happy infection. Soon, the standard greeting from one to another was not “Good morning!” but “Where is that damned fish?” When Ahab ordered a general cleanup of the boat, U-181 echoed from bow to stem with the same question, followed by mocking laughter.
“Schultze . . . what is this fish business?”
Ahab had ceased to address his fellow officers by their first names.
“Herr Kapittin, an obscure joke among the men. I do not understand it either.”
“This is not good for discipline, Schultze. You understand? We are fighting a war, Schultze.”
Ahab, Schultze observed, was rocking back and forth compulsively on his revolving captain’s chair, like a baby on its potty. “I shall remind them,” he said.
“You may go.”
Schultze was at the door of Ahab’s cabin when the skipper stopped him. “Oh, and one other thing. Send Limbach in to see me, will you?”
Schultze paused. “Excuse me?”
“I said, send Limbach here.”
“Sir, you know Limbach is no longer with us.” Ahab’s expression was that of a hurt child. “Really! Yes. Of course. Carry on, please!”
Bremen, in his radio room a few feet away, had assembled most of the fragments of the secret message. He had “Black Forest Gateau” and “poisoned.” He had “on no account” and “without delay.” Though he guessed that it related in some way to the agent, it was insufficient for him to understand it fully.
With full fuel tanks, traveling at a leisurely ten knots surfaced, U-181 should now have had enough in reserve to sail halfway round the globe without replenishment. In the days that had passed since Schultze first noticed his commander’s deteriorating condition—and he had logged it as diplomatically as he could—they had passed through the crowded Malacca Strait, between the Johore Peninsula and the island of Sumatra. It was friendly territory, held by their Japanese ally, yet Ahab, in his more lucid moments, still insisted that they remain effectively at action stations and keep radio silence. They still moved on the surface by night, submerged by day, and passed up the chance to sink a British aircraft carrier. Some of the crew had speculated that they would turn north, to get some shore leave in Penang as one other U-boat crew had done some months earlier.
When that did not happen there was a rash of cartoons, posted on every bulkhead onboard. They depicted Ahab again, leaning down from his perch on the back of the great white whale to ask it: “What is our mission? Where are we going?” The crew took up the questions, chanted them as a mantra, as a protest.
Schultze, aware of the crew’s declining morale, took action.
“Herrkapitän, will you be the guest of honor tomorrow?”
“Guest of honor? What for, Schultze?”
“Sir, as you know, it is Christmas Day tomorrow. The alert state is good. The weather is fine and warm above. We will enjoy a Christmas lunch on deck. Your loyal crew wish you to honour us with your presence.”
“Christmas? Tomorrow? Why was I not told?”
Ahab carefully scrutinized his wall calendar. By his reckoning, the following day was October 31. The calendar was, as it happened, correct.
“How time flies on an operation such as this,” Schultze said blandly.
“You are right, Schultze. Everyone on deck, in his number-one uniform, by twelve noon. Get that boy Otto Zurn out of the brig and put him to work with the cook. One bottle of beer for each man, no more, with the food. You understand?”
When Bremen heard the news, he buttonholed Schultze.
“It is clear that our captain has gone mad, no?”
“He has been under strain, naturally,” Schultze replied guardedly. “Don’t forget, he has been on operations without leave, without rest, for two years.”
“Will you take command?”
“That would be a very grave decision. For an officer to remove his commander and take contr
ol . . . In Kiel that would look like mutiny. Look, if I have to do that I shall consult all the officers first, including you. Understood? Let us not push a man under when he is struggling to swim.”
“What if he takes us down with him?”
“What do you mean, Bremen?”
“Something tells me that he is the only one among us who knows our destination, our mission. Is that right?” Schultze drew breath, fiddled with the ring on his left hand. “Yes, that is so,” he said finally. “It is all in his head: the coordinates, everything. That is one very good reason to help him recover.”
“I think we might not have time for such . . . indulgence,” Bremen replied.
“How do you know?”
“There was a secret signal. Something about a Black Forest Gateau being poisoned. You knew about that?”
“No, I did not.”
“Something tells me that when we arrive at this unknown destination, wherever the hell it is, things will not turn out very well for us. Think about it, Herr Leutnant. Your life might depend on it. You want to get back home to your wife and family like the rest of us, don’t you?” U-181 lay motionless upon a flat calm sea veiled by light-gray mist. There was no horizon. It was as if they were suspended in some culture that was neither air nor water, like a human organ bottled on a laboratory shelf, preserved forever, with no past and no future. Every object that the crew could use as a surface upon which to rest plates, cutlery, and glass was brought on deck. Even the buckets used as temporary latrines were washed in seawater, inverted, and covered with blankets. Food and drink were consumed buffet style, standing or while sitting on the metal deck, feet dangled over the still water. “Gentlemen, your attention a moment please!” Schultze, unwontedly smart in officer’s reefer jacket, shirt, tie, Knight’s Cross at his throat, had shaved for the occasion. He even wore his ceremonial dagger.
“Our beloved captain has declared this day to be Christmas, regardless of what your calendar might say to the contrary.”
There was a ripple of amusement from the sailors. This was droll . . . Weihnachten at Halloween.
“He has done this to remind you that beyond this war, beyond the cares of this day, there is a future for you, the gallant sons of the Fatherland. Herr Kapitän, you will speak to your little family?”
Ahab, gaunt eyed, blinked at the crew as if they were strangers. It was the first time he had emerged into daylight since their brief rendezvous with the tanker, three weeks earlier. His turnout was bizarre: a joke, some believed, for this unexpected Christtag celebration. He wore overalls, on top of which, uninflated, was a Draeger lung with breathing apparatus attached. The purpose of this kit was to help its wearer escape from a sunken sub. Rarely, it was used on the surface as a life jacket. But in these conditions, who expected the captain to wear escape kit?
“We are on a mission,” he began. “Yes, a mission. But what is this mission? Who knows what is the destiny of a man? Is it best to live one day as a lion or a lifetime as a lamb? Our mission is . . . to identify our mission!”
He raised a forefinger toward heaven.
“Now must I go below and consider this grave question.”
With that, in total silence, he turned and climbed back into the conning tower. Before he disappeared within it, he raised his right arm in the Nazi salute.
“Heil Hitler!”
Only Bremen responded, “Heil Hitler!” The others, arms folded, just looked glum. Then, beer in hand, they began to sing “Stille Nacht, Heilige Nacht . . .” and even in English, “Silent Night, Holy Night,” just as their fathers had done on the Somme battlefield, almost thirty years earlier. The voices flowed out across the water, into the still air, to loved ones who were not there even in spirit at this disjointed time, who were doing something else, something mundane and workaday back in Germany at that moment, oblivious of the unlocked homesickness and desolation with which this macabre imitation of Christmas now swamped the singers.
At the stem, the officers gathered around Schultze.
“Willi, it is clear we are in trouble,” they said. “You must take over.”
“But I cannot seize command from my own appointed captain,” he protested. “This would be unlawful. I need the clearance of higher authority.”
He turned to the radio officer. “Bremen, I will authorize you to send a signal to Kiel and break our silence. I will draft it for you as soon as we have resumed work this afternoon.”
“You might have no choice, regardless of what Kiel says,” Erich Nitschke interjected. That surprised them not only for what Nitschke said, but because this usually reclusive, silent man had spoken at all. He was an archetypical blonde, a blue-eyed Aryan giant carved from German mythology. His main passion in life, apart from his diesel engines, was model making, using matchsticks. He particularly enjoyed creating miniature Hansel-and-Gretel, timber-framed cottages to remind him of his home in the Upper Weser Valley.
“What’s the problem, Erich?” Schultze asked.
“Fuel. We are very short of diesel.”
“But we replenished! We have enough to reach Japan if needed,” Schultze protested.
“No, Herr Kapitän!” His use of the phrase electrified the atmosphere around the little group. They looked up to ensure that none of the seamen were within earshot.
“Let me explain. When we met the tanker, Captain Ahab thought we were going to be attacked from the air at any moment. He was absolutely convinced. He wanted to get out of there and dive as soon as possible. I told him that we had only taken on board a fraction of the diesel we needed but he would not listen.”
“What do you mean, he would not listen?” asked Bremen.
“He only allowed me to load only about one tenth of the usual supply. He said the pumping operation was taking too long.”
“How much fuel do we have now? How many hours’ worth?” asked Schultze. He was now thinking as a commander, identifying routes, landfalls.
“At our existing speed of ten knots, surfaced, by 1500 hours tomorrow, the tanks will be dry,” said Nitschke bleakly. Then he added, miserably, “I have been very concerned. . . . I have tried to explain to Ahab but he was not interested. This is my fault. I am sorry.”
None of them needed to say out loud what this crisis implied. Without diesel there was no navigation, no battery power, no electricity, no light down below, no radio contact. U-181 would become an unsteerable tin can, ill-equipped to handle heavy seas. The worst case was that she would roll over and capsize in spite of her stabilizers.
“We could try to rig a sail?” Nitschke asked. Like others among them, he had served his time, as a cadet, aboard the sail-training ship Niobe, before she was sunk. But in this situation, they had no canvas. The others shrugged silently. At the other side of the conning tower, on the foredeck, the unwonted noise of men’s laughter—a sad sound—mocked them. Bremen, studying his watch, said: “They’ve had their fun. The party should be over by now.”
“No, not yet,” Schultze replied. “This might be their last time. We’ll give them a little longer. Then I will speak to them. They must be told the truth.”
The order to assemble on the afterdeck was given quietly, from officers to senior petty officers of both watches and on down to the boy, who was the last to be told. They were still in good spirits as Schultze, standing at the rails of the Wintergarten, explained their new facts of life: how their beloved captain, struck by a viral illness, was no longer capable of command; how he, Schultze, as deputy to Herr Korvettenkapitän Duchene, was taking over with the assent of the other officers. The fizz went out of the party. The jokes, the lampoons, had not meant to be any more than that. Ahab incapable? It was not possible.
“Any questions?” Schultze said.
Obermechaniker Bohm, his long hair streaming in the wind, said: “Ss-ss-sir!” They waited. Everyone knew Bohm would break free of his stutter if they gave him time. “Does this mean we are sss-ailing home?”
A stir of quiet hope moved through die l
ower deck like a first sense of spring on a cold day in Bavaria, where spring came late.
“I regret not, Heinrich,” Schultze replied. “I have more grave news for you. You are men among men. I expect you to behave like men when they are told a hard truth. . . . Our engineer officer, Leitender Ingenieur Nitschke will explain. Leutnant Nitschke!”
Nitschke was a man they believed because they knew, or thought they knew, him to be a simple fellow like themselves. Briefed by Schultze, he said that the gauges aboard the supply tanker had been at fault when they replenished with fuel. There was a catastrophic shortfall of diesel as a result. By the following day they would have no engine power.
One of the men whistled. Another murmured, “Mein Gott in Himmel . . .” But that, so far, was all.
Schultze again: “You will want to know what we are to do in this absurd situation. . . . A U-boat without fuel. I cannot believe it either, Kamaraden. Our navigation officer will speak to you.”
The NO, Leutnant Karl von Bulow, sported a confident, long, well-waxed moustache as worn by the kaiser in 1914 and by the kaiser’s cousins, the British royals, still. Turned up at the ends, it was a sort of surrogate smile that expressed a jaunty confidence. He was smiling now, a reassuring smile.
“Dear comrades, there is one instrument that does not depend upon diesel or electricity.” He reached down and produced from a worn leather case an old-fashioned sextant, a gift from his father, who had also taken it to sea. “With this, and the chart table, we are never lost. We will make a landfall somewhere near, somehow. Believe it!”
Schultze dismissed the men. In a desultory fashion they started to clear the party debris. They did not need to be told that U-181 could not dive without squandering the last of their precious diesel. Ahab, however, thought otherwise. He emerged briefly onto the conning-tower bridge, still wearing his life jacket, and shouted “Action stations!” The men stared blankly back at him. Ahab ducked back, hurried to the control room and hit the alarm button. The sound of its hooter started an adrenaline rush, a pulse-beating, sweating horror that only a submariner could understand. It conveyed the horror of a funeral bell during the plague, or for those exposed to blitzkreig, the crooning hymn of death that was an airraid siren. The alarm was also the ultimate, emergency order to dive regardless of every other consideration. Normally, it was a response to imminent air attack or ramming by a surface enemy. Dive tanks were being flooded and the boat sinking even before all air vents and the conning-tower hatch were closed. It was a maneuver of suicidal risk that did not always produce the right result. If an exhausted crew did not react quickly enough to close down, the sub was engulfed. One or two men lucky enough to be near the hatch—usually the skipper and first officer—might get out in time, but even that was rare.
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