Night Sky

by Clare Francis

  ‘Pressure normal!’

  ‘Pressure hull?’

  ‘No leaks!’

  There was a pause, then, ‘Fire in afterends extinguished, Herr Kaleu!’

  ‘Any further damage?’

  An engineer appeared from aft. ‘Herr Kaleu! Starboard shaft buckled. Port shaft bent.’

  ‘How bent?’

  He was a young sailor, no more than nineteen. He didn’t have an answer. Then his face brightened and he said, ‘Well it’s still turning!’

  ‘I want a full report from the Chief at his convenience!’

  ‘Yes, Herr Kaleu!’

  Fischer absorbed the information. No rudder, no shafts.

  Christ, the bomb had blown the whole of the bloody back end off!

  But the pressure hull was intact: that was the important thing. They were still diving. There was no loss of diving control. He looked at the depth indicator. ‘Level off at twenty metres.’

  ‘Yes, Herr Kaleu!’

  What they lacked was steering. He looked at the compass bearing. It was veering round. They were turning slowly to port.

  ‘Trim?’

  ‘Stable.’

  The turn wasn’t too sharp then. Hope yet.

  The Chief hurried into the control room. ‘Starboard shaft unserviceable, Herr Kaleu. Port shaft just about serviceable. But I can’t give you more than – say, a knot submerged and two surfaced. Even then the engine might not like it.’

  Fischer nodded.

  It was decision time. He knew immediately that there was only one decision he could make.

  He turned to the First Watch Officer. ‘We’ll give it fifteen minutes, then we’ll go to periscope depth and send a signal to Brest, asking for assistance. I’ll dictate the message in just a moment. In the meantime …’ He looked round until he saw the figure of the man who’d been on watch, the Second Watch Officer, standing in his dripping oilskins, his face sheet-white. ‘I want an incident report. Now!’

  ‘There was no warning, Herr Kaleu. It even came from the north-east, downwind, so we didn’t hear it until it was almost on top of us. All of a sudden there it was, coming straight for us …’

  ‘This is very important,’ Fischer interrupted. ‘Are you sure it was coming straight for us?’

  ‘Yes! No doubt about that.’

  Fischer nodded. ‘Continue.’

  The Second Watch Officer gulped. ‘I could see that it was a big plane, a bomber, and that it was close, awfully close. I knew that by the time we got to the guns it would be on top of us, so I ordered diving stations straight away …’ He looked up anxiously.

  If Fischer had been there he would have ordered the men to the guns, to get in at least one burst. On the other hand there had been so little time … He said quietly, ‘I think there was nothing we could have done either way. At least the dive has protected us from a second attack.’

  The young man looked relieved and continued, ‘As I closed the hatch I reckon the plane was no more than, say, twenty metres away.’

  ‘Tell me, was it still overcast and the visibility low?’

  ‘Yes, Herr Kaleu. You were there, you saw what it was like …’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ Fischer said impatiently. ‘I just wanted to know if it had changed suddenly …’

  ‘Oh no. Just the same.’

  ‘Thank you. That’s all.’

  The young officer left. For a while Fischer sat motionless on the seat, then he walked slowly back into the control room. A chart of the Bay of Biscay lay open on the tiny chart table. Fischer stared at it blankly.

  Bad weather, overcast conditions, poor visibility … Perfect cover for a submarine.

  Like hell!

  The plane must have known they were there; it must have!

  He stared at the chart as if it might explain it all. But there was no simple answer, he knew that. Nothing that fitted any of the known facts.

  The plane had known! And U-319 had been just like a sitting duck. Intensely vulnerable. Unable to defend herself. It – changed everything.

  Fischer murmured wearily, ‘God in heaven!’ Then, reaching for a pad and pencil, he started to draft a wireless signal.

  Doenitz picked up the signal and read the last few lines again. ‘… ENEMY CAME STRAIGHT IN TO ATTACK IN POOR VISIBILITY. IMPOSSIBLE THAT ENEMY HAD ADVANCE VISUAL SIGHTING. REPEAT IMPOSSIBLE. CONCLUDE ENEMY PINPOINTED US BY NON-VISUAL MEANS …’

  Non-visual means …

  Doenitz laid down the signal. This was the third time in a month. On three occasions boats had reported sudden unexpected attacks, on three occasions they had been caught unawares on the surface. He could believe that the first two boats might have had sleepy lookouts, he could believe that their commanders might have underestimated the visibility …

  But U-319? Fischer? Impossible. Fischer would never conceal the facts. If Fischer said the visibility was poor, then it was.

  Doenitz called through to his staff officer, ‘Get me Herr Schmidt at the Reich Research Directorate in Berlin.’

  While he waited for the call to go through, Doenitz reflected on his previous conversations with Herr Schmidt. There had been several in the last six months. On each occasion Doenitz had asked if there was any information about new British antisubmarine devices. Three times he had come right out and asked the vital question itself: Was it possible that the British planes had search radar? Schmidt had hedged round the answer. His favourite expressions were ‘very unlikely’, ‘improbable’, and ‘our information suggests not’. The man always promised to look into the matter again, but Doenitz had the suspicion that nobody was looking into it at all.

  Well, this time there could be no doubt. This time Herr Schmidt would be forced to admit that the British not only possessed a search device, but that it was extremely effective. He wondered how Herr Schmidt would try to explain the phenomenon.

  And however he did explain it, he had better be able to suggest a countermeasure. Otherwise … Doenitz sighed grimly. Otherwise the effectiveness of the fleet would be severely curtailed. He would have to order the boats to submerge as they crossed the Bay. And if the British extended their air patrols further out into the Atlantic, then the boats would have to stay dived for even longer.

  That meant it would take them twice as long to reach their patrol area: most U-boats could travel at a top speed of only seven knots submerged, compared to seventeen on the surface. Worse, at some time during their submerged run across the Bay, the boats would have to surface – for air and to recharge their batteries. Then … then they would be desperately vulnerable.

  If too many boats were caught on the surface and lost, it would be disastrous. The U-boat Arm was still desperately short of operational craft: instead of the three hundred or so he’d hoped for, Doenitz still had only ninety, and that was after more than two years of war. As before, the building programme was disastrously short of target and now, as if to forestall any chance of improving the situation, the winter was so severe that the Baltic ports were iced up and trials of new boats and training of new personnel had come to a complete standstill.

  For Doenitz the shortage was doubly frustrating because, against his and Raeder’s advice, Hitler had personally ordered much of the fleet to be redeployed. There were twenty-three boats – far too many – in the Mediterranean, where the waters were shallow and dangerous. Now, in the latest madness, twenty-six boats had been ordered to defend Norway against a supposed Allied invasion which, from what Doenitz heard, was very far from certain. Using U-boats as sentries was a waste of time; they could achieve much more spectacular results by squeezing the supply lines dry. But OKW – the High Command – was unconvinced. Doenitz could only advise. What more could he do?

  And now this! A new threat, a new problem.

  The telephone rang. The staff officer announced Herr Schmidt and put him through. Doenitz kept the formalities to a minimum, then told Schmidt the facts. He continued, ‘I am having a meeting here in Paris with the Navy Technical Branch
tomorrow. It is essential that you or your representative be here, Herr Schmidt. This matter is of the gravest consequence.’

  The voice at the other end of the line was conciliatory. ‘Of course I will come myself, Herr Admiral. If I set off now I can be with you first thing in the morning. I will have one of my people with me. He will have all the available data …’

  Doenitz replaced the receiver, puzzled. Schmidt hadn’t sounded at all surprised. Far from it. It was as if he’d been expecting the call. And his tone had been odd, too: evasive yet positive, almost as if he had a solution ready to pull out of his hat …

  Doenitz rubbed his forehead. The politics of dealing with section chiefs in Berlin always gave him a headache. Doubtless he would find out what Schmidt had up his sleeve when the man chose to tell him. Hopefully tomorrow.

  In the meantime he must take the painful decision to protect his boats. Even though it would slow them down considerably, he must order his boats to cross the Bay submerged.

  He called for his staff officer. ‘Werner, take a directive to all flotillas, Operational Area West.’

  *

  ‘As it happens, we think we can tell you exactly what it is,’ Schmidt said calmly. ‘Although we will have to make further checks, of course.’

  Doenitz said sharply, ‘Yes?’

  ‘Well, it appears that the British bombers are being fitted with a type of radar …’

  Doenitz blinked. There was a deathly silence round the table. The technical staff stared at the Chief Scientist in horror.

  Schmidt licked his lips nervously. ‘… a compact search radar.’

  ‘Are you sure of this?’ Doenitz asked.

  ‘A detection station in Normandy picked up a signal from an airborne source. It was quite definitely an intermittent signal. That means it was rotating … A search radar.’

  Doenitz frowned and said slowly, ‘I always understood that radar could not be made small enough to fit into an aircraft.’

  There was an awkward silence. Schmidt looked cross.

  Doenitz sighed and asked quietly, ‘What about the wavelength? Is it one we understand?’

  ‘Oh yes!’ Schmidt replied immediately. ‘They are using a 1.5 metre wavelength similar to our own systems. It’s nothing new.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘We can manufacture a radar detector. This would pick up signals from approaching aircraft and give your vessels good warning.’

  ‘How good?’

  Schmidt shrugged. ‘Ten, maybe fifteen miles …’

  Ten miles … It was adequate – if Schmidt was right.

  Doenitz asked, ‘But how soon could these be manufactured?’

  ‘It would take a lot of development. The receiver itself wouldn’t be too complex … But the aerial—’ He shook his head. ‘That would have to survive submergence … It would take time to develop …’

  Doenitz leant forward in his chair. ‘But we don’t have time!’

  Schmidt looked uncomfortable. At length he said, ‘Well, perhaps a mobile aerial might be possible … But it would have to be assembled every time the U-boat surfaced and taken down again every time it dived. It wouldn’t be ideal—’

  ‘I don’t care!’ Doenitz interrupted. ‘If it works we must have it! We have absolutely no choice.’

  He gave the Chief Scientist a harsh look. ‘I don’t care what the thing looks like, Herr Schmidt, I don’t care if it’s made out of plywood – but I want that detector in sufficient quantity, and I want it now!’

  Chapter 16

  THEY CAME FOR David one cold February morning.

  There was no warning. Sergeant Klammer and a soldier just marched in and told David to pack his belongings and be ready in five minutes. Just David, no-one else.

  David stared, shocked. ‘Where am I going?’

  Klammer shrugged; he didn’t know.

  When the two guards had gone David looked at Meyer in horror. The old man patted his arm and said, ‘Remember, they’re allowing you some belongings. That’s a good sign!’ The faces of the other scientists were apologetic, guilty even, because they were being allowed to stay. David didn’t blame them; he would have felt the same himself.

  Meyer helped him pack his belongings. It didn’t take long – they fitted into a small bundle. Then the two men sat down to wait.

  When the soldiers came back David turned to Meyer, wanting to say many things. But he muttered only ‘Goodbye’, and, unable to say any more, followed Klammer quickly out of the hut into the bitter morning cold.

  There was thick snow on the ground and more was falling. The path was slippery underfoot and David had to walk carefully. Suddenly he stopped in utter panic. He’d forgotten the most important thing of all! He shouted at Klammer’s back, ‘Please! One moment!’ Then, before Klammer could say anything, he hurried back to the hut.

  Inside, Meyer looked round in surprise. David cried, ‘My medicine! I forgot my medicine!’ Meyer took his arm and together they searched for it. They found it on the windowsill above David’s bunk. David grasped the bottle and praised God. Shaking slightly, he placed it in his bundle, carefully wrapped in some overalls.

  ‘Nothing else you’ve forgotten?’ Meyer asked kindly.

  David tried to think, but his mind was in a jumble. Klammer arrived and barked, ‘Hurry!’ David whispered desperately to Meyer, ‘I don’t think so.’ Then, wringing Meyer’s hand once more, he stumbled out into the snow.

  Klammer led the way to the main gates, where a soldier was waiting to take over. The soldier marched David up the road towards the railway station. David approached it with foreboding. He hadn’t seen the place since his arrival all those months before and he’d forgotten how bleak it was. The solitary station building loomed dark against the stark whiteness of the snow, and the wind was howling across the desolate expanse of sidings.

  There was only one train, a train made up of cattle trucks.

  David’s mouth went dry. He remembered the horror of the journey from Sachsenhausen, the stench, the cries, the dying people. He couldn’t believe that he must go through it all over again.

  He stumbled and fell in the snow. As he picked himself up, his stomach stabbed with pain. He started off again but staggered, unsteady on his feet. The attacks often affected him that way. He thought: I’ll never survive another journey.

  The soldier led the way down the train. The trucks stank of excrement and, it seemed to David, of human suffering too. He struggled on, his head bowed against the driving snow.

  They approached the end of the train. Here there was a single carriage, painted dark grey with windows. The soldier indicated that David should get in. David’s heart lifted slightly.

  Inside the carriage there were compartments with plain wooden seats and overhead luggage racks. The soldier pushed him into one and closed and locked the door. It was very dark inside, but after a while David’s eyes became accustomed to the faint glimmers of light that seeped in through the drawn blinds.

  He couldn’t believe his luck. There must be a catch somewhere.

  After a couple of hours the train started. Almost immediately the door was flung open and the compartment flooded with light. David jumped slightly. It was the guard, coming to tell him that he had two minutes to go to the lavatory. Later they brought him a blanket, some food – sausage and dry bread – and a cup of water.

  David relaxed. He was going to be all right after all.

  Slowly he stretched out on the long wooden seat and pulled the blanket over him. He tried to think, to work out where they might be taking him. He remembered, too, everything he was leaving behind – his work, half-completed; the safe, comforting routine of his day; the warmth of companionship. He had got very fond of his colleagues; he would miss them dreadfully.

  Finally the steady rhythm of the clicking wheels lulled him into an almost dreamless sleep. Only when the train suddenly stopped did he wake. It stopped many times through the afternoon and early night, sometimes for hours at a time.


  Once David woke in the night and tried to guess what time it was. Probably about three or four. He rubbed his eyes and realised he was mistaken. It must be much later: a crack of thin grey light had appeared at the edge of the blind. It was dawn. He must have slept much longer than he’d thought.

  The train was going very slowly now; the sound of the wheels had fallen to a lazy rhythmic click. There was a loud squeal of brakes. Perhaps they were approaching a station. If they were going north, then they might be at Nuremberg by now, or Leipzig.

  He sat up from where he had been lying on the seat and put his eye to the crack in the blind. The blind was permanently drawn, the section of heavy black canvas fastened to the window frame with nails at three-inch intervals. But between two of the nails the fabric bagged slightly. By pulling at it with one’s finger and pressing one’s eye close to the gap, it was just possible to see out.

  He saw several railway lines, sheds, some sidings: a largish town then, maybe even a city. The brakes squealed again and the train juddered as it slowed still further. There was a loud clattering and the carriage suddenly jerked to one side: they were crossing onto another line. More sheds; a marshalling area. They came up alongside a stationary line of cattle trucks.

  Then they stopped.

  Suddenly there was a loud clanging and shouting. Soldiers were pulling back the doors of the cattle trucks. Men came pouring out, jumping on to the ground, standing blinking in the sudden light. The men were poorly dressed and foreign-looking, thin but not starving.

  The men were moving now, walking obediently across the tracks towards David’s train. There was more clanging and the sound of large metal doors sliding; they were getting into David’s train.

  After an hour there was more shouting and from far away at the head of the train David could hear the locomotive panting in long deep gasps as it pulled on its heavy load. The clank of couplings sounded down the train and the carriage jerked forward. From beneath there was the low rumble of the wheels on metal tracks.

  David sat up and returned to his vantage point. They were slipping through the sidings and crossing junctions again until he guessed they were back on the main line. A stationary goods train appeared on the next track. David peered at the words chalked on each truck, trying to read the destinations. He saw Mannheim, Frankfurt, Mannheim again … Cities in the west.