The U-19's Last Kill

by Jack Finney

  Jerry eBooks

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  The Saturday Evening Post

  August 22-September 26, 1959

  Vol. 232, Issues 8-13

  Custom eBook created by

  Jerry eBooks

  April 2020

  In eighteen fathoms lay an ancient submarine, waiting for the crew that would take her on the most daring cruise ever conceived. Beginning a novel of twentieth-century piracy.

  From the lobby of the little resort hotel on Fire Island, New York, a man in blue swimming trunks walked out onto the big veranda. Under one arm he carried a large, cylindrical metal tank wrapped in a tangle of canvas webbing and rubber tubing; dangling from his fingers by their straps was a pair of green, froglike flippers. In his other hand, held by the heavy cord which bound it, was a bundle of rubber—a small, deflated one-man raft, wrapped around a short paddle. Strapped to a strong, hairless wrist, beside his watch, was a pressure gauge. For a moment he stood at the head of the brief flight of stairs leading down to the sand, looking out over the wide beach at the green-white Atlantic ahead; then he glanced up at the sun, narrowing his eyes. It was nearly noon, the sun almost overhead in a clear sky, and he welcomed the warmth of it on his untanned white skin. He was a short man in vigorous middle age, his straight brown hair thick and ungrayed; his body thin and paunchless; his calf muscles bulging strong but corded with varicose veins, his feet, on the sand-gritted wooden floor of the porch, were very flat.

  “Nice day for it, Mr. Lauffnauer.” Behind him the hotel clerk had appeared in the doorway, and as Frank Lauffnauer turned, the clerk nodded at the diving equipment under his arms.

  “Yes, very good visibility.” Lauffnauer smiled, and instantly the clerk’s polite friendliness became genuine, for Lauffnauer smiled with his eyes, pleasurably and responsively; all of his life people had liked him for it. Unlike his pale body, his face and neck were tanned, the skin rough and masculine. A forbidding man, people usually thought—until he smiled.

  Now he smiled again, his long white teeth flashing, then he walked down the steps and began to plod through the fine ankle-deep sand toward the beach ahead. The beach was almost deserted now; several hundred yards to Lauffnauer’s right a young woman in a yellow bathing suit sat reading, a small child in a sun suit digging in the sand beside her. There was no one else in sight; this was a Monday early in April, all weekend guests having gone late yesterday or early this morning.

  Reaching the water’s edge, he turned to look back, studying the shore through several long seconds. Then he walked on beside the water to the north, moving briskly now on the firm-packed sand. Back of the sparsely weeded dunes into which the beach rose stood an irregular line of summer cottages, all more or less alike and typical of Fire Island in their drab, gray-shingled, weathered exteriors. He was counting these as he passed them—all of them, that is, which seemed old. The newer ones, however, he omitted from his count.

  When he had counted twenty-six houses to the north of the hotel he stopped at the water’s edge, more than a mile from the hotel now, and lowered to the sand the things he had carried. The water was very placid today, waveless and undisturbed except for a slow, gentle swell which broke in less than foot-high waves into a thin froth running up to his feet. He had expected calm today.

  Kneeling in the sand now, he inflated the little raft from a tube of compressed gas which had been wrapped in it, and it quickly popped into shape; a sausage-sided, flat-bottomed, wedge-nosed little raft just big enough for one man. In addition to the short paddle and the gas bottle, there had been wrapped in it a weight belt, two coils of rope, one of them attached to a ten-pound concrete weight, and a square, white-striped red flag on a thin wooden standard. The flag he fitted into a socket at the nose of the raft; then he loaded in his other gear, dragged the raft out into the surf and began walking through the water, pushing it ahead of him.

  The bottom slanted very shallowly here, and he walked out into the ocean. For a considerable distance; several hundred yards out he was only waist-deep. From time to time he glanced over his shoulder at the shore behind him; sometimes, then, moving to the left or right, keeping the twenty-sixth house directly behind him. Finally, the water chest-high, he climbed carefully into the little raft and began to paddle, again glancing regularly back at the shore to the house which was his landmark. Then, finally, a mile out from shore, he lowered the concrete weight and began sounding the bottom.

  He sounded the first time at just over seventy feet—the line was knotted at ten-foot intervals—then snubbed the line to a ring at the prow and paddled ahead. He sounded again at over eighty feet, and the third time at ninety. Once again he glanced back over his shoulder, then shrugged and tied his line, tightly this time, with a double square knot. Anchored now, in just ninety feet of water, he began to put on his diving equipment, kneeling in the raft and working carefully, adjusting the straps to a nicety. He knew it would be cold in the water; it was only April and, not far below the sun-warmed surface, the ocean would retain its winter chill. He would like to have had a rubber suit, but he had rented this equipment, and the expense of this together with the cost of his room at the hotel was all he could afford.

  He was afraid of what he was about to do. He was an experienced diver, but he was going under in a hundred feet of water or more, in the ocean, and alone. His equipment on, the lead-weighted canvas belt around his waist, he lowered his mask over his eyes and gripped the rubber mouthpiece of the breathing apparatus in his teeth. Then he stood, his back to the water, and allowed himself to fall backward into the water, the tank on his back cushioning the fall. Face-down in the water, holding onto the anchor rope, the other coil of rope in his hand, he lay just under the surface and tested his diving lung. For half a dozen slow breaths the chains of bubbles purred smoothly from the valve at the back of his neck, bursting to the surface a few inches above.

  He raised his masked head for a last look at the far-off shore, orienting himself, then began to descend the anchor rope through the sunlit green water toward the blackness below, his hands moving slowly down the thin white line. Eight or ten feet below the surface the water suddenly lost its warmth, and as the chill enveloped him he was afraid again.

  Always, not far below him, was the blackness, but he never reached it; as he descended, his arms moving regularly like slow-moving pistons, clearing his head several times during the descent, the light seemed to move with him. Presently—he had counted the knots and was eighty feet down—the water’s color changed to a yellow-green; and then he saw the bottom, of clean sand, six or seven feet below the rubber-encased glass plate strapped to his face, and he grinned. He could see, he estimated, for eighty or a hundred feet in a circle around him, and now he tied the end of the rope coil in his hand to the anchor line. Then, paying out the rope as he moved, he swam just over the bottom until the rope was taut in his hand. Now, guided by the rope, he began to swim in a great circle around the anchor line of his little raft, searching with his eyes as far as he could see, glancing from time to time at his depth gauge.

  For ten minutes he swam, soaring dreamlike and effortlessly over the undersea landscape, the lifelong weight of his body gone. He had seen, so far, only fish of many sizes and kinds; crabs; shells; rotting logs; squat, black, kelplike plants or tall green ones; rusting cans; and he knew that presently he must ascend, taking minutes to do so, through the slowly decreasing pressures above him.

  But now or the opposite side of his circle he moved into deeper water. The circle of his vision had contracted with the greater depth into which h
e had moved, its edges a dead, black curtain. But still it was large, and the sand bottom just under his mask was still bright with green sun. Then, once again, he thrust out with his flippered feet, eyes never shifting from the far boundary of his vision, and almost instantly he stopped, braking himself hard with his arms. For this time, finally, on the ninth day of his search, a portion of the blackness ahead had failed to retreat with the rest.

  Hanging almost motionless just over the bottom, he stared at it—a narrow swatch of blackness protruding into the yellow-green circle of light of which he was the center. With a thrust of his feet he edged closer, and the section of blackness did not retreat. As always, the remainder of the formless darkness moved ahead as he did, but the narrow black strip remained behind, increasingly solid, taking shape, and protruding, now into the cone of light. And now he was certain; he was staring at a sunken ship.

  Suddenly, recklessly, he thrust himself powerfully forward, dropping his rope. As fast as he could move he flashed over the sand toward the sunken ship, then had to reach out quickly to fend himself off from the sharp prow that shot toward him through the sun-slashed green haze. His hand closed on slimed steel, and through the circle of his mask he saw the ship’s bowed side curving off into the blackness beyond. Then he released his hold and began to swim slowly and cautiously along the ship’s side, keeping a yard or more from it, following its bulge into the darkness ahead. Greenly, but clearly, in the cone of his vision, he saw the ship’s side—not rust-reddened, for no reds were visible at this depth, but evenly coated with slime and a whitish moss. He swum clear around the little ship—it was no longer than a hundred feet—inspecting its sides, his excitement and certainty growing. Then he shot his body vertically upward through the green water, his masked face lifted. And now, his mask rising level with the cable-railed deck, he saw it—the tiny moss-crusted conning tower of this sunken submarine.

  He knew he had to be careful. Both hands gripping the slimed deck-rail cable, his body parallel with the ocean floor, Frank Lauffnauer lay motionless in the water, staring at the ghostly conning tower before him.

  With the palm of one hand he began sweeping the tendriled moss from the side of the little tower. An edge of flaked white paint appeared under his hand and, continuing to sweep aside the furry slime, he worked on down, increasing the arc of his swing, until he could read a portion of what had once been painted there. It was a U, followed by a dash, then he cleared the numbers following it and stared at the whole legend. U-19, it read; this ancient ship was, or had been, a German submarine. Frank Lauffnauer closed his eyes, and there, a hundred and ten feet under the surface of the ocean, he had forgotten where he was in remembering the last time he had stood on this deck.

  He pictured it; he remembered it clearly, in a sense; but he could not really recapture it. He could not even picture the face of the boy—the smooth, unlined face of a fifteen-year-old Frank Lauffnauer—who had stepped off this deck more than forty years ago. He saw this ancient submarine, new then, floating on the surface a mile off the coast of America—off Fire Island, though he did not know that then. It was night, and on this deck stood two sailors—one of them himself, wearing a broad, flat cap with long ribbons dangling from its back. They could no longer sail or fight her; there were too few of them now; he and the other man on deck—Biehler, his name was—and a waiting third man in an inflated life raft were the only able-bodied crewmen left. He had climbed with Biehler into the raft, and they paddled a dozen yards off. Sea water gushed into the ballast tanks then, the air vents roaring—he remembered the sound of it—and they sat watching the deck come awash, the water creeping up the sides of the tower.

  The sea closed over it then, and they were paddling, so long ago now, toward the black and unknown coast of Amerika—Lauffnauer was thinking in German. He wondered what happened to Biehler and Strang—Strang. Willi Strang, the third man in the raft had been. Whatever had happened to them, they were probably dead now, for Biehler would be over eighty, Strang nearly ninety.

  He had to leave now, but he did not want to. His eyes widening behind the glass of his face mask, the past dismissed, he stood for some moments in the grip of a tremendous exultation. He had thought of the U-19 now and then through the years, wondering about her curiously. He had thought idly of searching for her, as he had today and for more than a week past, but the trouble and expense of doing so to no purpose but old curiosity had never been worth it. Now, forty years later, there was a purpose, a tremendous one, and he had finally found her, and he stood exulting. For the ancient submarine seemed in good condition—as far as he could tell. And if her valves had held—and they might have, they just might—her interior not flooded, it was at least possible, he told himself, that the little sub could be made operable again; no one could now say, If so, it was his submarine. No one else in the world, undoubtedly, even dreamed that the U-19 existed.

  He began to climb finally with regular, slow strokes of his flippered feet toward the surface far above. He rose slowly through the decreasing pressures toward the growing brightness overhead, occasionally slowing the speed of his ascent. Presently his masked head broke the surface of the water, and he shoved the mask back, glancing around him, and saw the red flag of his raft. But he did not immediately swim to it. Staring at the shore, he estimated its distance, and, by triangulation, using the big roof of the hotel to the south as one point and a shiny roof glinting in the sun to the north as another, he fixed his position as well as he could. Then, knowing he could find the U-19 again, this time more easily and quickly, he began to swim toward his raft.

  On the beach he lay face-down in the sand, head cradled on his forearms, resting. He was very tired, ravenously hungry and cold to his bones. But he allowed himself only fifteen minutes or so of rest, the spring sun—almost hot now, at midday—gradually warming his body. There was no more time to rest. Beginning immediately—he grinned at the thought, feeling alive again for the first time in years—Frank Lauffnauer had a crew to enlist.

  I suppose there are unrecognized moments in everyone’s life when enormous events begin with no least hint or indication of it. I thought I was doing no more than walking slowly through the end of one or the first days of last spring, toward Lexington Avenue in New York City, on 47th Street. A girl I’d met at work, Alice Muir, was with me; I’d been seeing her now for the past few months.

  We met in the building lobby at five-thirty; now, a few minutes later, we were on our way to have a drink and then dinner some place, we didn’t much care where, and we took our time—it was Friday night—enjoying the walk and the day. This was the last date I’d have with Alice, almost the last time I’d see her, but I didn’t know that, and, strolling toward Lexington just ahead. I kept glancing down at her, enjoying what I saw, I’m six feet one, and she’s five feet six at most; under the brim or her hat I could see her blond hair, and below, the slow swing of her striped skirt. She glanced up, saw me looking at her and smiled—a wonderful smile, her intelligent eyes softening affectionately.

  I said. “Look, you know the head of my department retired this week?”

  “Yes, I heard.”

  “Well, he’s sailing tomorrow on the Queen Mary. Most of the department’s going down to see him off. How about coming along?”

  But she shook her head. “No, I don’t know him, Hugh.”

  “That’s all right. Come along with me. Might be fun, if the weather holds. I’ve never seen a big ship like that, have you?”

  “No, but—I don’t think so.”

  I shrugged. “O.K., but why not?”

  “Well——” She hesitated a moment, then said it. “Hugh, I’m not going out with you any more after tonight.”

  I didn’t reply for a few steps, then I said, “Why?”

  I waited, walking slowly along beside her toward Third Avenue ahead, and she glanced up at my face and said. “You’re the most interesting, attractive man I’ve ever gone out with; I’ve had a good time with you this winter, and
I’d like to continue. But I don’t think I can afford you any more, Hugh. I’m twenty-three years old, and I’ll be twenty-four soon; I want to be married and begin having children before too much longer. And you’ll never marry me; you won’t let yourself fall in love with me or anyone else just now.”

  We reached Third Avenue and turned uptown toward a little French restaurant I knew. “Who can say when a man will fall in l——”

  “No.” She was shaking her head, and she smiled a little sadly. “Women are supposed to be more romantic than men on that subject; but they’re a lot more realistic too. And I know that a man doesn’t fall in love and get married until he’s ready for it. And you’re not. There’s something important still unresolved for you, Hugh; you live in a state of rebellion.”

  I shrugged. “You seem to know more about me than I do.”

  “Well, that’s not impossible. Tell me, how do you like your job?” I actually paused for a step, grinning down at her at this abrupt change of subject. But she wouldn’t smile back. “Go ahead,” she said. “Answer me.”

  “Why, fine,” I said walking on with her. “I like it fine; you know I do.” We both worked on the same floor, for one of the big broadcasting networks—Alice in the record library and I in the publicity department, writing publicity or various kinds and even being allowed to originate some of it during the past few months.

  “And when are you going to quit?”

  “Quit?” I said after a moment. “What do you m——”

  “Hugh, stop it!” She swung toward me angrily, stopping on the walk. “Answer me honestly, Hugh; think about it. Right now. And then tell me truthfully; how much longer, at the very most, do you think you’ll still be working at this job?” She stood staring up at me for a moment, her pert, good-looking little face angry and set, her eyes snapping; then she turned, and we walked on.