The U-30 slid below the surface—but not far below. The tube mounted atop the submarine let the diesels keep breathing even so. Lemp was not enamored of the gadget, which didn’t always work as advertised. The shipfitters back in Kiel wouldn’t have installed the Dutch-invented device on his boat if he’d been in good odor with the powers that be. After sinking an American liner while believing it to be a big freighter, he wasn’t. He was lucky they hadn’t beached him—maybe lucky they hadn’t shot him. No one who remembered the last war wanted to see the USA jump into this one.
Lemp turned to Gerhart Beilharz, the engineering officer who’d come with the Schnorkel. “Is the damned thing behaving?” he asked.
“Oh, yes, sir,” Beilharz said enthusiastically. He was all for his new toy. Of course he was—he wouldn’t have been messing with it if he weren’t. Normally, an extra engineering officer on a U-boat—especially one two meters tall, who wore an infantry helmet to keep from smashing his head open on the overhead pipes and valves—was about as useful as an extra tail on a cat, but, if they were going to have the Schnorkel along, having somebody aboard who knew all about it seemed worthwhile.
It did have its uses. With it in action, the U-boat could make eight knots just below the surface—better than twice her submerged speed on batteries. And she could keep going indefinitely, instead of running out of juice inside a day. Best of all, with the Schnorkel the U-30 could charge the batteries for deep dives without surfacing. That was good for everybody’s life expectancy … except the enemy’s.
Lemp could have gone twice as fast in approaching the ship or ships making that distant smoke plume had he stayed surfaced. Maybe it was a lone freighter: a fat, tasty target. Maybe, sure, but the odds were against it. Freighters in these waters commonly convoyed and zigzagged. They commonly had destroyers escorting them. And destroyers loved U-boats the way dogs loved cats—even cats with two tails.
Better to be a cat o’ nine tails, Lemp thought. With all the torpedoes the U-30 carried, he could flog England even worse than that. If he could keep England from flogging back, he’d bring the U-boat home so he could go out and try it again. So the English have the chance to kill me again. As he did every time that thought surfaced, he made it submerge once more.
He peered through the periscope. Nothing but smoke, not yet. Eight knots was a walk, even if it wasn’t a crawl.
He could come closer to the enemy with the Schnorkel than he could staying on the surface. He did have to give it that. An alert lookout who’d spot a light gray U-boat hull even against a gray sky wouldn’t notice the hollow pole that kept the diesels chugging. If he did spot it, he might think it was a piece of sea junk and keep his big mouth shut.
“What have we got, Skipper?” somebody asked. The first time he put the question, Lemp heard it without consciously noticing it. Whoever it was asked the same thing again.
This time, Lemp did notice. “Convoy. They’re zigzagging—away from us, at the moment.” Even tubby freighters could go as fast as the U-30 did on the Schnorkel.
“What kind of escorts?”
“Warships. Destroyers, corvettes, frigates … I can’t make that out at this distance. I see two—bound to be more on the far side of the convoy.” Lemp muttered to himself. If he was going to get close enough to fire at the enemy ships, either they’d have to swerve back toward him or he’d need to surface and close the gap before diving again. He didn’t much want to do that; if he could see the enemy, they’d be able to see him after he came up. Trouble was, you couldn’t fight a war doing only the things you wanted to do.
“Can we sneak up on them, sir?” That was Lieutenant Beilharz, both more formal and more optimistic than most of the submariners.
Unhappily, Lemp shook his head. “Afraid not,” he said, and then, “Prepare to surface.”
Beilharz grunted as if the skipper had elbowed him in the pit of the stomach. The youngster wanted his pet miracle-worker to solve every problem the sea presented. Well, no matter what he wanted, he wouldn’t get all of it. Lemp wanted to be taller and skinnier than he was. He wanted his hairline to quit receding, too—actually, he wanted it never to have started. He wasn’t going to get everything his heart desired, either.
Compressed air drove seawater out of the ballast tanks. Up came the U-30. Lemp scrambled up the ladder and opened the conning-tower hatch. As always, fresh air, air that didn’t stink, hit him like a slug of champagne.
He knew he would have to dive again soon no matter what. British binoculars weren’t as good as the ones Zeiss made, but even so And he had ratings scan the sky to make sure they spotted enemy airplanes before anyone aboard the planes saw them. How close could U-30 cut it? That was always the question.
Then one of the petty officers yelped. “Airplane!” he squawked, sounding as pained as a dog with a stepped-on paw.
“Scheisse!” Lemp said crisply. Well, that settled that. “Go below. We’ll dive.” He knew the U-30 had no other choice. Shooting it out on the surface was a fight the sub was bound to lose. And if machine-gun bullets holed the pressure hull, she couldn’t dive at all. In that case, it was auf wiedersehen, Vaterland.
The ratings tumbled down the hole one after another. Again, Lemp came last and closed the hatch behind him. The U-boat dove deep and fast. He hoped the plane hadn’t spotted it, but he wasn’t about to bet his life.
Sure as the devil, that splash was a depth charge going into the water. The damned Englishmen had a good notion of what a Type VII U-boat could do—the ash can burst at just about the right depth. But it was too far off to do more than rattle the submariners’ teeth.
“Well, we’re home free now,” Lieutenant Beilharz said gaily.
“Like hell we are.” Lemp had more experience. And, before very long, one of the warships from the convoy came over and started pinging with its underwater echo-locater. Sometimes that newfangled piece of machinery gave a surface ship a good fix on a submerged target. Sometimes it didn’t. You never could tell.
Splash! Splash! More depth charges started down. Unlike an airplane, a destroyer carried them by the dozen. One burst close enough to stagger Lemp. The light bulb above his head burst with a pop. Somebody shouted as he fell over. Someone else called, “We’ve got a little leak aft!”
Lemp didn’t need to give orders about that. The men would handle it. He waited tensely, wondering if the Englishmen up there would drop more explosives on his head. They were waiting, too: waiting to see what their first salvo had done. Only a little more than a hundred meters separated hunter and hunted. It might as well have been the distance from the earth to the moon.
Splash! Splash! Those sounded farther away. Lemp hoped he was hearing with his ears, not his pounding heart. The bursts rocked the U-30, but they were also farther off. Lemp let out a soft sigh of relief. They were probably going to make it.
And they did, even if they had to wait till after dark to surface. By then, of course, the convoy was long gone. The English had won the round, but the U-30 stayed in the game.
VACLAV JEZEK POINTED to a loaf of bread. The French baker in Laon pointed to the price above it. The Czech soldier gave him money. The baker handed over the torpedo-shaped loaf. Jezek knew only a handful of French words, most of them vile. Sometimes you could make do without.
Off in the distance, German artillery rumbled. Vaclav started to flinch, then caught himself. If the Nazis were hitting Laon again, he would have heard shells screaming down before the boom of the guns reached his ears. They had plenty of other targets in these parts: a truth that didn’t break his heart.
They hadn’t got into Laon. Along with French, African, and English troops, most of a regiment’s worth of Czech refugees helped keep them out. Vaclav had fought the Germans inside Czechoslovakia. He’d got interned in Poland, figuring that was a better bet than surrendering to the victorious Wehrmacht. And he’d gone to Romania and crossed the Mediterranean on the most rickety freighter ever built, just to get another chance to let the Germans
kill him.
They hadn’t managed that, either. He’d done some more damage to them, especially after he got his hands on an antitank rifle a Frenchman didn’t need any more. The damned thing was almost as tall as he was. It weighed a tonne. But the rounds it fired, each as thick as a man’s finger, really could pierce armor. Not all the time, but often enough. And what those rounds did to mere flesh and blood … Its bullets flew fast and flat, and they were accurate out past a kilometer and a half. Just the shock of impact could kill, even if the hit wasn’t in a spot that would have been mortal to an ordinary rifle round.
The Germans hadn’t got into Laon, but they’d knocked it about a good deal. Stukas had bombed the medieval cathedral to hell and gone. No using those towers as observation points, not any more. The Nazis had blasted the bejesus out of the ancient houses and winding streets up on the high ground, too. The lower, more modern, part of the city was in better shape—not that better meant good. Loaf under his arm, Vaclav trudged past a Citroën’s burnt-out carcass.
He wore new French trousers, of a khaki not quite so dark as Czech uniforms used. His boots were also French, and better than the Czech clodhoppers he’d worn out. But his tunic, with its corporal’s pips on his shoulder straps, remained Czech. And he liked his domed Czech helmet much better than the crested ones French troops wore: the steel seemed twice as thick.
He had the helmet strapped to his belt now. He didn’t want that weight on his head unless he was up at the front. He smiled at a pretty girl coming past with a load of washing slung over her back in a bedsheet. She nodded with a small smile of her own, but only a small one. Vaclav was a tall, solid, fair man. When the French saw him, half the time they feared he was a German even if he did wear khaki. That he couldn’t speak their language didn’t help.
From behind Vaclav, someone did speak in French to the girl with the laundry. She sniffed, stuck her nose in the air, and stalked away. “Oh, well,” the man said, this time in Czech, “they can’t shoot me for trying. She was cute.”
“She sure was, Sergeant,” Jezek agreed.
Sergeant Benjamin Halévy was a Frenchman with parents from Czechoslovakia. Fluent in both languages, he served as liaison between the French and their allies. Parents from Czechoslovakia didn’t exactly make him a Czech, though. His curly red hair and proud nose shouted his Jewishness to the world. Jew or not, he was a good soldier. Vaclav didn’t love Jews, but he couldn’t quarrel about that. And Halévy had even stronger reasons to hate the Nazis than he did himself.
Those German guns in the distance thundered again. Halévy frowned. “Wonder what the fuckers are up to,” he said.
“They aren’t shooting at me right now,” Vaclav said. “As long as they aren’t, they can do anything else they want.”
“There you go. You’re an old soldier, sure as shit,” the sergeant said. Other guns started barking: French 75s. Halévy listened to them with a curious twisted smile. “I wish we had more heavy guns around Laon. We could hit the Nazis hard. They’ve got this long southern flank just waiting for us to take a bite out of it.”
“That would be good,” Vaclav said. Hitting the Nazis hard always sounded good to him. If only he were doing it in Czechoslovakia.
“Of course, by the time the brass sees the obvious and moves part of what we need into place for a half-assed attack, the Germans will have seen the light, too, and they’ll hand us our heads,” Halévy said.
Vaclav wondered if the Jew had been that cynical before he became a noncom. Whether Halévy had or not, what he came out with sounded all too likely to the Czech. “Maybe we ought to move up without waiting for the brass,” Jezek said.
Halévy laid a hand on his forehead. “Are you feverish? No real, proper old soldier ever wants to move up. The bastards in Feldgrau have guns, you know.” The way he pronounced the German word said he could sprechen Deutsch, as Vaclav could.
“Best way I can see to throw the Germans out of Czechoslovakia is to start by throwing ’em out of France,” Vaclav said.
“Well, when you put it like that …” Sergeant Halévy rubbed the side of his jaw. “Tell you what. Talk to your Czechs—see what they think. I’ll go chin with a couple of French captains I know, find out if they’ll go with it.”
Jezek found his countrymen had as many opinions as soldiers. That didn’t faze him; as far as he was concerned, Germans were the ones who marched and thought in lockstep. But most of the Czechs were ready to give the enemy one in the slats as long as the odds seemed decent. “I don’t want to stick my arm in the meat grinder, that’s all,” one of them said.
“Ano, ano. Sure,” Vaclav said. “If there’s a chance, though … Let’s see what the Jew tells me.”
Halévy came over to the Czechs’ tents a couple of hours later. “The French officers say they want to wait two days,” he reported.
“How come?” Vaclav asked. “We’re ready now, dammit.”
“They say they really are bringing stuff up to Laon,” the sergeant replied.
“Yeah. And then you wake up,” Vaclav said.
Halévy spread his hands. “Do you want to attack without any French support?”
“Well … no,” Vaclav admitted. No artillery, no flank cover—sure as hell, that was sticking your arm in the grinder.
“There you are, then,” Halévy said.
“Uh-huh. Here I am. Here we are: stuck,” Vaclav said. “I’ll believe your captains when I see the stuff.”
“Between you, me, and the wall, that’s what I told ’em, too,” the Jew said.
But trains rolled into Laon after the sun went down. Rattles and rumbles and clanks declared that tanks were coming off of them. When morning rolled round again, some of the metal monsters sat under trees, while camouflage nets hid—Vaclav hoped—the rest from prying German eyes.
He asked, “Now that they’re here, why don’t we attack today instead of waiting till tomorrow?”
Benjamin Halévy shrugged a very French shrug. “If I knew, I would tell you. Even going tomorrow is better than retreating.”
“I suppose so,” Vaclav said darkly. “But if we attack today, maybe we’ll still be advancing tomorrow. If we don’t go till tomorrow, we’ve got a better chance of retreating the day after.”
“I’m a sergeant,” Halévy said. “What do you want me to do about it?”
Vaclav had no answer for that. A corporal himself, he knew how much depended on officers’ caprices. “Tomorrow, then.” If he didn’t sound enthusiastic, it was only because he wasn’t.
The French dignitaries with the power to bind and loose set the attack for 0430: sunup, more or less. The Germans would be silhouetted against a bright sky for a while. That would help—not much, but a little.
At 0400, big guns in back of Laon started bellowing: more big guns than Vaclav had thought the French had in the neighborhood. Maybe they’d moved those up the day before, too. If they had, maybe they’d had good reason to delay the attack till now. Maybe, maybe, maybe … Big, clumsy antitank rifle slung on his back, Vaclav marched north and east, into the rising sun.
* * *
WILLI DERNEN WAS SLEEPING the sleep of the just—or at least the sleep of the bloody tired—when the French barrage started. He’d dug a little cave (a bombproof, a veteran of the last war would have called it) into the forward wall of his foxhole. Now he scrambled into the shelter like a pair of ragged claws.
Shells kept raining down: 75s, 105s, 155s. He hadn’t known the damned Frenchmen had moved so much heavy stuff into Laon. Life was full of surprises. The big blond private from Breslau could have done without this one.
Somebody not far away started screaming. The other Landser didn’t sound hurt, just scared shitless. Willi wouldn’t have blamed the other poor bastard if he was. He’d had to chuck his own drawers a couple of times. And he hated artillery fire worse than anything else war brought. While those packages kept coming in, you had no control over whether you lived or died. If one of them burst in your hole, you we
re strawberry jam, and it didn’t matter one goddamn bit if you were the best soldier in your regiment. If you came up against a poilu with a rifle or even a bunch of poilus with rifles, well, hey, you had a rifle, too, and a chance. What kind of chance did you have against some arselick throwing hot brass at you from ten kilometers away? Damn all, that was what.
Poilus were coming. Willi was mournfully sure of that. The froggies wouldn’t lay on a bombardment like this without following it up. They might not have been eager when this war started. Eager or not, they were fighting hard now. The Germans had done their damnedest to take France out in a hurry. Their damnedest hadn’t been quite good enough. Now it looked like the Frenchies’ turn.
Another voice shouted purposefully through the din: “Stand by to repel boarders!”
That had to be Corporal Arno Baatz’s idea of a joke. Talk about arselicks … Awful Arno didn’t just qualify. He had to be in the running for the gold medal. Every soldier in Willi’s section hated Baatz’s guts. If the French were going to blow somebody sky-high, why couldn’t it be him?
The barrage kept up for what seemed like a hundred years. In fact, it was half an hour. That crazy kike scientist who’d fled the Reich one jump ahead of National Socialist justice had a point of sorts. Everything was relative.
As soon as the artillery let up, Dernen popped out of his hole in the ground like a jack-in-the-box. Awful Arno might be—was—an arselick, but he was bound to be right. The French would be coming.
Willi wouldn’t have been surprised if the drastically revised landscape in front of Laon slowed them down. He didn’t fancy crossing terrain full of shell holes, some as small as a washtub, others large enough to swallow a truck. You had to pick your way through and past the obstacles. That gave the fellows who’d lived through the barrage a better chance to punch your ticket for you.
“Panzers!” The cry rang out all up and down the German line. Willi’s mouth went dry just looking at the armored murder machines. He couldn’t remember so many French panzers in the same place at the same time. Sure as the devil, the French high command had finally learned something from the way the Germans handled their armor.
The War That Came Early: West and East Page 5