by Robert Ryan
The ignominy of returning empty-handed was offset by the tans they’d acquired sunbathing in the warmer climes. On their return Erich was given an intensive course in the attack computer, the rudders were repaired and they took delivery of the next generation of eels, the ones with the new magnetic primers, which, Prinz told them all proudly, were designed to detonate a few metres under a ship’s keel, a far more lethal blast than an impact explosion in the side.
Then, days into the second patrol, one of the propellers bent during an emergency dive drill. Another return, this time accompanied by withering sarcasm from Konteradmiral Dönitz, C-in-C of submarines, and with the added humiliation of having to stand to attention on the quayside as two other U-boats motored in with fresh flowers stuffed in their air vents and victory flags fluttering from their radio masts. After replacing the suspect props—Prinz insisted that both had to be changed, just to be sure—U-40 had skulked out from Kiel once more, round to their new base at Lorient, on the southern Brittany coast, from where they had struck out a third time, hoping for better luck.
With the e-motors fully charged and both diesels running, the grey North Atlantic spewed over U-40’s bow and flecked into their faces as they went in search of vindication. The sea was coming in at an angle, the rollers causing the boat to lurch. Erich gritted his teeth and rode with it, hardly noticing the constant shuffling of his cork-soled boots to adjust his balance. Wind north-east, veering to the right, visibility fair but falling, barometer one thousand and three. Summer warmth was scarce up here. They had left to the sound of a military band, travelling in sunshine, the blue sky merely speckled with thin cloud. By the time they had passed Newcastle somewhere off their port, the greyness had begun to wrap itself around them.
It wasn’t cold, exactly, more bone-chillingly damp. It was damp below deck, too, with every surface glistening with permanent condensation caused by the constant changes in air pressure, which meant everything that could rot did so. Very quickly the U-boat took on the signature smell of every other submarine in the German navy—a sodden concoction of mildew, stagnant bilge water and diesel fumes. Even the food tasted of it and by the end of the voyage every man would carry the stink ingrained in his skin.
The constant spray had soaked through the short jacket that Erich was wearing, part of the captured British Army kit redyed and issued to U-boat crews in the weeks after Dunkirk. As soon as he got the opportunity, he would switch back to the leathers and oilskins. They’d been promised a new spray-guard for the bridge while in dock, but it had never materialised. Next time. If there was a next time.
He went back to watching his quadrant, making sure that he could tell where the sea ended and the sky began. There were three others doing the same with their portion of the ocean around them, while Becker, the IWO—first watch officer—scanned the sky for British bombers. Like their fellow hunters, the submariners’ route took them north to Scotland, BdU fearing the mines rumoured to be blocking the passage around the south of Ireland.
They were through the Shetland-Faroes passage now and the sea would start running smoother soon, so the few old hands on board claimed. U-boat Command had them heading for Newfoundland, from where they would form part of a hunting Rudel, a pack, patrolling the eastern seaboard of Canada and the United States, the first in a series of choke-holds designed to starve the British into submission.
Erich scratched his scrawny beard—growing one was preferable to shaving in the dishwater from the galley—and thought of Uli. While on leave he had visited her house in Berlin but, as his father had warned him, she was no longer there. She had gone to Britain, the neighbours said, with a sense of shame that he was clearly meant to share. But he couldn’t. He wasn’t going to write off the years he’d spent waiting for her, simply because she had made a foolish decision, had been unable to see the larger picture, blinded by her devotion to her pig-headed father and his decadent music.
But Britain? It was the country they were sworn to throttle into surrendering. Would she starve too, now that she had thrown her lot in with them? He often daydreamed about going to fetch her and bringing her back to Germany. Would their love be the same? He had changed, after all. Now he was a U-boat man. One of a select band, Dönitz’s elite, the Bootwaffe, comrades under the sea, as familiar with high explosives as he was with the bars and whorehouses of Kiel and Bremen. Gone was any trace of the pimply boy who’d strutted around in the HJ uniform, spouting other people’s half-baked rhetoric as though it was freshly minted. That was some shadowy figure he no longer recognised. So why should he expect her to? It had been one of his reasons for breaking the engagement, because he had soon realised that in the Bootwaffe the old Erich would wither away and a new one emerge to take his place, one whom she might not like.
Maybe she herself no longer knew the girl who had fled Germany in its hour of need. Perhaps she regretted it. He wished he could write, but no letter would get through to the enemy. And anyway, postboxes were in short supply in the middle of the Atlantic.
‘Smoke.’ It was said quietly at first, then repeated. It was Petersen, one of the Lords, and now his voice was urgent. ‘Smoke on the port bow!’
Five pairs of binoculars swivelled to the south-west, the sea blurring in their users’ vision as they swung back and form until all focused on the same thin smudge hanging over the horizon. Erich felt jittery as Becker lowered his Zeiss field glasses and smiled. ‘Excellent. And this time, let’s get ourselves a pennant, boys.’
Ross had to walk well back from the coastline these days. The beach was shrouded in wire fences and studded with mines. There were also some radio masts being erected just inland from the shore, and the way past those was now barred by tight curls of barbed wire and surly sentries.
So he tramped through the heather and gorse, walking his five-mile circuit with Bess, nodding to the crews building the hastily thrown-together pillboxes and tank traps. They had been suspicious of him at first, as everyone was of a young civilian male these days, but now he was just part of the scenery. ‘Set my watch by you,’ one of the sappers said as he skirted the edge of the wood. At one time Ross would have gone into the trees, found the clearing and sat on the rough-hewn bench that overlooked the stream. But now steely bands of wire were draped across the perimeter and inside it he could just make out camouflage netting, with the hard outline of machinery underneath. Tanks, anti-aircraft guns, he couldn’t tell, and it didn’t do to stare for too long.
It was ten days since he had seen his father. He had thought long and hard about all that the Colonel had told him. He still felt there was something missing, that he wasn’t seeing the big picture, but he guessed that was all part of this lonely profession, the one he had joined by default.
Sometimes Ross became angry about that. He was a DI at Scotland Yard, for God’s sake, yet he’d been parked here like some glorified janitor. Was this really the best contribution that he could make to the war effort? He was turning this over in his mind for the thousandth time, walking down the lane to his house, and was almost there before he noticed the small Crossley truck. Sitting behind the wheel was a woman who climbed out when she spotted him. She had blonde hair tightly clipped up, steely blue eyes, and a clear, crisp voice that suggested healthy walks in the country, punting on rivers and gymkhanas. ‘Hello, you must be Inspector Ross.’
She saluted smartly, then held her hand out, as if to cover every possibility of etiquette. He took it, noting how small and delicate it felt. ‘I’m Ensign Blanchard. Emma Blanchard. I’m a FANY.’ The First Aid Nursing Yeomanry was a corps of volunteer women dating back to the Great War. ‘Your father sent me.’
‘Did he?’
‘Yes. I have some documents for you.’
‘Erm … aren’t the FANYs nurses?’
‘Oh, FANYs are very adaptable, you know.’ Ross avoided her gaze, just in case, and followed her to the rear of the truck. She rolled up a corner of the canvas flap. ‘Rather a lot, I’m afraid.’
‘
My God …’ There must have been a hundred files, of various shapes, sizes and colours. ‘Did he say what I was meant to do?’
‘Each one comes with its own instructions.’
She let the flap go and Ross stroked his chin. ‘Well, I suppose we had better unload them. How long have I got?’
‘Five days.’
‘Five … He’s joking.’
‘I don’t think your father is the joking kind,’ Emma Blanchard said solemnly and he laughed.
‘OK, let’s get them inside.’ Ross climbed onto the tailgate of the truck, rolled up the canvas and tied it, then stepped inside. The pile seemed even more daunting close up. He was beginning to wish he hadn’t mentioned his boredom.
‘Will you come back in five days for them?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘He wants your comments typed. I’m to do it. He said you’d be too slow. I’m booked in at the Dolphin.’ She pointed to indicate the local pub.
‘Right.’ He handed her the first stack. ‘Door’s open, just dump them on the floor.’ Then, in a condescending tone that he instantly regretted, he asked, ‘I don’t suppose you speak German, do you?’
She looked back at him and flashed a big smile. ‘As a matter of fact, I do.’
Erich took up his battle-station position at the torpedo attack computer and the torpedo control board in the small space between the periscopes immediately underneath the open hatch of the bridge. Icy droplets of sea water came splashing down his neck and he shifted his position while he waited for the dive signal to be given, for the Old Man and the Chief to come sliding down from topside as the valves were opened and the ballast tanks flooded, but it never came. They carried on yawing through the foaming waves. Becker, the IWO, who had executive responsibility for the storage and firing of torpedoes, explained. ‘We’ll lose her if we submerge. Something they’ve never solved on these boats. How to make them go fast under water.’
Erich forced himself to relax. You couldn’t stay wound up so tightly for hours, and the chases could easily stretch through a whole day and night.
‘She’s seen us.’ A yell from the radio room. It was Schnee, the Funker. ‘She’s signalling a mayday.’
Becker ducked down so that he could see Schnee through the open watertight door that pierced the bulkhead and yelled back. ‘Any name?’
Prinz, his face glistening with salt crystals, slid down past them into the control room and stood beside the two planesmen on the starboard side, the dive order on his lips. Lutz, the Chief Engineer, had a hand on each of the pair’s shoulders, poised to initiate the sequence. He, too, waited for confirmation of the target.
‘She’s the SS Cook Star.’
There was a frantic rush for the Lloyd’s Register. ‘Got her,’ said Becker. ‘Built at Cammell Laird, Birkenhead. 1929. Freighter. Four thousand BRT.’
The captain curled his lip. Four thousand tons. Not a big prize. He considered for a moment. ‘Surface attack.’ He pointed at Erich and the IWO. ‘Back on tower watch. I want to make sure she hasn’t got company.’
‘Yes, Herr Kaleunt,’ Erich snapped back, using the accepted abbreviation of the captain’s rank. Erich’s spirits sank. Prinz wanted to save his precious, and expensive, torpedoes for bigger fish across the Atlantic. A sub that wasted its eels on small fry early on patrol was no good to anyone. Erich ran down the corridor, bowling through others without an apology, and grabbed his oilskins, passing the bad news to his comrades in the torpedo room, before heading back for the tower.
Outside, the temperature had dropped alarmingly. An easterly wind was blowing, frothing the tops of the waves, and the sun was sinking somewhere behind its shield of clouds. A curtain of rain was shimmering on the southern horizon. This was why Prinz didn’t want to submerge. Soon it would be dismal and dark, and there was every chance that this kill would run without lights and slip away.
The Captain kept the binoculars to his eyes. ‘She’s zigzagging. But she’s slow,’ he said. ‘Becker.’
‘Herr Kaleunt?’
‘Is she under military direction?’
Prinz suspected a trap, easy prey to draw them in. The IWO shrugged. ‘I don’t think so.’ He indicated the ocean around them. ‘There’s nothing else here.’
They could see the darkening shape of the freighter quite clearly now. Prinz made a sudden decision. ‘Signal the captain that we intend to sink her. We suggest that the crew take to the lifeboats. Tell him we will wait until they are clear.’
Becker hesitated.
‘Which part don’t you understand?’
‘Sir.’
‘Tell the second watch officer to get the gun crew ready. How many shells have we got?’
‘One hundred and twenty.’
‘I want her sunk in six.’
U-40 rocked back as the 88 fired its fourth round, a direct hit on the stern of the Cook Star, which already had smoke pouring from its front deck. The shell casings were collected and passed down through the deck hatch. Every one had to be accounted for back at Lorient. The crew hastily reloaded under the direction of the Zweiter Wachoffizier, the second watch officer. There were two more shots left if they were to follow the captain’s orders to the letter.
Erich turned his binoculars on the three lifeboats pulling to get away from the ship. The mayday had been sent out. The survivors had every chance of being picked up by a friendly ship. The IWO voiced mixed feelings about this. True, Prinz was being chivalrous, playing by the old rules. On the other hand, the war was as much about men as machines, surely? Erich agreed, but didn’t want to contemplate the alternative.
The fifth shot penetrated the side of the Cook Star. There was a pause and then a sharp detonation. A column of smoke and flame spurted up through the deck hatches, sending debris spinning high into the night sky. There was a low rumble and the ship keeled slightly. The sea around the ship flared as spilled oil ignited. She was going down.
‘One more for luck,’ shouted Prinz.
Now he too sought out the hapless British sailors with his field glasses. He held his gaze on them for a moment, missing the impact of the final 88 shell, which was lost in the fresh wave of detonations racking the stricken freighter.
‘Take us alongside the English captain’s boat,’ said Prinz. ‘And break out the brandy from my quarters. The least we can do is give the poor man a drink.’
Ross decided to tackle the files according to colour. Green ones were POW transcripts, red were statements taken from downed Luftwaffe pilots and blue were interrogations of enemy aliens with a poor command of English. It was clearly, he realised as he read the first one, going to be more chaff than wheat.
He established a workstation on the kitchen table, positioning Emma on one side, himself on the other. It was gone eleven by the time they finally started. Ross had decided on a system of reports for each document. He would summarise the contents and then pass them to Emma for typing. It soon became apparent that she could type faster than he could summarise.
‘Ensign, you have signed the Official Secrets Act, I assume?’ he asked after an hour.
‘Signed it? Colonel Ross all but tattooed it on my backside.’
Ross didn’t ask for proof. ‘Well, do you see any problem in you doing the summaries as well? I’ve got an old typewriter, we can then type them up together.’
She shook her head. ‘Well, I’m not qualified—’
Ross laughed. ‘That makes two of us. The blind leading the blonde.’
Emma laughed. ‘How about I do some and you double-check, see if you approve?’
He nodded. ‘I’ll make some tea.’
He couldn’t fault her. He read while he sipped the scalding drink and admired her conciseness. Truth be told, she was better than him—he was finding it hard to shake the verbosity of police reports.
They carried on through the afternoon, until his eyes started to smart and he became aware of a new noise. Bess, whimpering.
‘Shall we go for a walk?’
Neither
of them needed asking twice.
The day smelt of early summer and the lanes were suffused with a soft yellow light. He looked up and studied the blurred white lines etched across the sky, the fading calligraphy of the day’s aerial combat. Over to the north he could see a ragged flight of Hurricanes passing back over the coast, one of them trailing thin smoke. He suddenly felt guilty, locked up in a cottage with a pretty girl for the last six or seven hours, while men younger than him risked and lost their lives.
‘What are you thinking?’
‘That I should be doing something more concrete than reading reports.’
As they passed the Signalman pub he slipped the lead back onto a panting Bess and asked: ‘Look, shall we have a drink and perhaps a sandwich before we get back to it? The landlord here usually manages to round up something half-reasonable. Cheese and,’ he whispered, as if speaking of contraband, ‘maybe even the odd pickled onion.’
She wrinkled her nose. ‘Not if we are going back to working in the same room, please.’
‘No. Fair enough.’
‘But the drink and the cheese. Yes, please.’
Twelve
‘DEPTH?’
‘Fifty metres … fifty-five … sixty.’
‘We have a leak in the pressure hull in the battery compartment.’
‘Bad?’
‘Bad enough.’
‘Get it plugged. Make sure the protective covers are over the batteries.’ If sea water mixed with acid in the electromagnetic cells then the hull would fill with chlorine gas. Lethal and corrosive, it would be the end of them. ‘Chief, break out the rebreathers, just in case. Depth?’
‘Sixty-five.’
‘How many ships?’
‘Three sets of screws. All closing.’
‘Keep taking her down. All hands to the bow.’ There was a stampede of feet. Altering the angle of descent using human ballast was a textbook way of accelerating the rate of dive. Erich sweated at his station, hanging on as the nose dipped further, listening to the exchanges between the Captain, Chief, IWO, navigator, the two planesmen and the hydrophone operator.