by F. R. Tallis
THE MOON HOVERED ABOVE A pyramid of clouds and shone with exceptional brilliance. A broad avenue of silver ridges fanned out from the horizon, and at its edges, glittering threads broke away and floated across the water. On either side, the sea darkened through shades of slate grey and charcoal to deepest black. The tanker was conspicuous, a silhouette enlarged by a smudge of smoke. Even without binoculars it was possible to discern a shadowy shape interrupting the continuity of the horizontal crests. U-330 was ideally positioned, approaching the tanker from behind, facing the moon and upwind of its target. Lorenz knew that under such conditions the low, narrow outline of a U-boat was virtually invisible. Falk had been down to the forward torpedo room, and when he emerged from the conning tower he could barely contain his excitement. ‘How big do you think she is?’
‘Ten thousand tons or thereabouts,’ Lorenz guessed. One of the seamen turned to take a look. ‘You’re supposed to be keeping watch, don’t forget,’ Lorenz admonished.
‘Apologies, Herr Kaleun.’ The man sounded meek and ashamed.
‘We don’t want any nasty surprises at this stage,’ Lorenz remarked to Falk.
U-330 circled into position sixty degrees forward of the tanker’s starboard beam. Juhl and Müller came up onto the bridge and stood next to the attack periscope housing like ceremonial guards. Sauer, the bosun, disappeared into the conning tower.
‘They still haven’t seen us,’ Falk observed with glee and disbelief.
‘All right,’ said Lorenz. ‘Let’s see if we can get as close as possible.’
Falk expanded his chest and, affecting a somewhat studied, martial pose, readied the crew. ‘Stand by for surface firing.’
A voice in the bow compartment reported through the communications pipe: ‘Tubes one to four ready.’
Falk looked through the aiming device which was mounted on a pedestal and connected to the firing system. He started reciting figures that were acknowledged by Sauer. The bosun was at his station in the tower, entering relevant data into the computer which would, with superhuman efficiency, calculate the gyro angles for each individual torpedo.
‘Their helmsman must be blind,’ Müller laughed. It was a dry, humorless laugh that suggested astonishment rather than satisfaction.
Falk recited a list of figures that described the position, speed, and distance of the tanker. He then specified the operational parameters of the torpedoes. ‘Thirty knots: depth ten meters.’ The target was perfectly quartered in the crosshairs of the viewfinder. Falk licked his lips and called out, ‘Tubes one and two, fire!’
There was no recoil, tremor, or loss of momentum, U-330 simply continued slicing through the waves. ‘Hard a-port,’ Lorenz hollered. He gave a new heading and added: ‘Ahead full.’ The deck inclined steeply as the boat changed course. It was essential to get out of the tanker’s way. The U-boat was no longer invisible. If the torpedoes missed and the U-boat was discovered then the tanker would soon try to ram them.
Stopwatches were ticking.
‘Fifteen seconds,’ said Falk.
Lorenz imagined the torpedoes running silently toward their destination. As they passed beneath the tanker’s keel a pistol fuse set off by the hull’s magnetic field would detonate over a thousand pounds of explosives. Most of the men on board were probably asleep. A few might be reading or playing cards. Some, perhaps, were lying on bunks and making plans.
‘Come on . . .’ Falk crossed his fingers and growled. ‘Come on.’ Two roaring explosions followed, the first separated from the second by a heartbeat. The tanker was raised by the double blast and when it sank back down again there was a mighty splash and an ear-rending metallic crack. The spectacle resembled a toy being subjected to playful violence in a child’s bath. It was as though the brain, unaccustomed to witnessing the release of such colossal energies, demanded a reduction of scale to facilitate comprehension. ‘Got you,’ Falk punched his fist in the air. ‘Did you see that? Fantastic! We actually blew it out of the water!’ Orange flames leaped out of the buckled superstructure, and columns of smoke climbed high enough to discolor the moon.
Falk was looking at Lorenz, his eyebrows raised, expectant. ‘Shouldn’t we finish her off?’
‘She isn’t going to recover from that,’ said Lorenz. ‘Believe me.’
‘We mustn’t waste our torpedoes.’ Juhl ventured his opinion in a subdued monotone. ‘We haven’t got many left.’
‘Yes,’ Lorenz agreed. ‘There’s no need to deliver a coup de grâce. We’ve snapped her in half—she’ll go down in no time.’
Lorenz gave orders for the boat to turn and reduce speed. The tanker was burning with such fierce intensity that the clouds beneath the moon were reflecting red light. The wind carried with it an acrid smell that left a bitter taste at the back of the throat. Brandt’s head appeared through the hatch and the radio operator handed Lorenz a slip of paper. On it was the British code signifying that the tanker had been attacked by a submarine, the tanker’s name—Excelsior—some position coordinates and a three-word communication: Torpedoed. Sinking fast. Lorenz read the message out aloud, translating the English into German.
‘He used the international frequencies,’ said Brandt.
‘Is he still signaling?’
‘No.’
‘Good.’
Someone gave Brandt the Lloyd’s register, and the radio operator passed it up to Lorenz. Juhl shone a flashlight over the text as the commander flicked through the pages. On finding the tanker’s entry Lorenz declared, ‘Eleven thousand, three hundred and nine tons.’ He then gave the register back to Brandt who dropped from view. There was a cheer and some applause from below.
Most of the tanker was hidden by billowing smoke. Occasionally, a fountain of sparks would ascend to a great height and volcanic showers made the water hiss and steam. When the holds exploded the noise was formidable, and Lorenz shielded his face from successive blasts of hot air. Metal twisted and groaned and a blazing oil slick made the swell incandesce. The scene seemed too sensational, too terrifying to be real. It resembled the brimstone daubing of some melancholy nineteenth-century painter irresistibly attracted to the theme of Biblical catastrophe. Lorenz had seen canvases of this type in art museums, always immense nightscapes the size of a gallery wall, enlivened by forked lightning and ruinous eruptions.
U-330 was slowly getting closer to the conflagration. The faces of the men on the bridge had become florid as they stared over the bulwark with oxblood eyes. It was like being exposed to an open furnace. The only visible part of the tanker, the stern, began to list.
‘It’s going,’ said Falk.
Against the constant crackling and popping of the burning sea the sound of screams and cries could now be heard. Lorenz looked through his binoculars. Men were vaulting over the safety rails. Some of the figures were surrounded by glowing coronas and trailed fiery tails like meteors as they plummeted into the water.
Juhl produced a handkerchief and coughed into it. The air was barely breathable. ‘We’re getting rather close, don’t you think?’
Lorenz, roused from awful fascination, leaned over the hatch. ‘Reverse diesels. Back one-quarter.’ The smoke was still thickening. More detonations and flashes made the clouds transparent. There was something biological about their appearance, a hint of internal organs and vasculature. The screams were becoming intolerable. Why were they making such a racket, Lorenz wondered. It was physically impossible. The firestorm should be using up all of the available oxygen and the men should be suffocating in silence. If they opened their mouths the burning air would rush into their mouths. Why were they still screaming?
‘Poor bastards,’ said Müller. No one contradicted him. All were sharing the same thought.
Eventually, the smoke enveloped the tanker completely. Only the moon was visible: its argent purity soiled and dimmed to a dun haze.
Lorenz glanced at the phosphorescent dial of his watch. If a British destroyer operating in the area had picked up the distress call th
en it would now be speeding toward them. Yet Lorenz felt disinclined to leave. He found himself giving orders for U-330 to maneuver slowly around the stricken tanker. Its demise was compelling.
‘What’s that?’ Juhl pointed into the black fog. ‘I don’t believe it.’
Looking through his binoculars Lorenz saw a lifeboat coming toward them. The haze was layered and in constant motion. When veils of obfuscation overlapped the boat faded and all but disappeared. It maintained a steady course, becoming less spectral and more plainly material as it neared.
Falk was incredulous. ‘The sea is on fire . . .’
‘There must have been a way through,’ said Juhl.
The merest suggestion that something inexplicable had occurred made the men on the bridge uneasy. They displayed an alarming readiness to interpret the world in terms of portents and signs—bad omens.
Lorenz ordered the engines to be stopped. Falk looked at the commander askance and then turned his attention to the others. They seemed tense, fidgety—like a pen of domesticated animals sensing the proximity of an abattoir. When the diesel engines fell silent it was possible to hear the regular rhythm of rowing strokes and the creaking of oarlocks. The occupants of the lifeboat were coughing like a ward full of consumptive patients. This unequivocal declaration of human frailty caused the atmosphere on the bridge to change. The supernatural aura formerly surrounding the lifeboat was dispelled by the evident vulnerability of the men on board.
‘Brandt!’ Lorenz shouted into the hatch. ‘Someone get Brandt.’ A few seconds later the radio operator reappeared. ‘Survivors, Brandt. About twelve men, I’d say.’ The radio operator was also responsible for provisions. ‘Can we spare something?’
‘I’ll see what I can find.’
‘And a compass—see if you can dig out a compass—there’s one under the chart table. I have no idea what it’s doing there—a cheap toy—the sort of thing a schoolboy might own. Even so: better than nothing on the open sea.’
There were more detonations but the screaming had ceased.
Red and yellow flashes penetrated the sooty pall and the effect was horribly infernal. The approaching lifeboat might have been navigating through the waterways of hell.
Brandt returned with a bulging sack.
‘What’s inside?’ Lorenz asked.
‘Water, some cans of condensed milk: the cook wasn’t happy—but there we are.’ Brandt spread his fingers out. ‘Ten cans of boneless chicken meat and a piece of cheese.’
‘Good.’
‘And the compass, Kaleun.’
‘Thank you.’ Lorenz threw the sack over his shoulder and looked around at his companions. ‘Stay here.’ Falk exempted himself from the order and started to follow. ‘No,’ Lorenz added, ‘I’ll do this on my own.’ The first watch officer stepped back. Lorenz’s precise motivation was unclear, but he was aware of some scruple that demanded he accept full responsibility for his command. To do anything less would be cowardly. His rank obliged him to look directly into the eyes of these ‘poor bastards’ without flinching. He climbed down the conning tower ladder and walked along the deck, past the 8.8 cm gun, and toward the bow. As the lifeboat drew closer he noticed that the woodwork was striped with scorch marks. A coxswain was seated at the tiller and six oars rose and fell in rough synchrony. The wind cleared some of the smoke and the ruddy light of the burning tanker revealed a gang of filthy men who were either completely bald or possessed only patches of singed hair. None of them had eyebrows. They looked very similar, as if they all shared a common congenital abnormality. The coxswain issued some final directions and the lifeboat scraped to a halt against the iron bow. Some of the men were retching so hard it seemed that they meant to expel their innards through their mouths.
‘I’m sorry,’ Lorenz said in English. ‘I can’t take you on board; however, I can inform you that your radio operator succeeded in sending out a distress call, so someone may come to your assistance. Otherwise, you might consider maintaining a north-easterly course and there is a reasonable chance that by tomorrow afternoon you will be sighted by an airplane or encounter a fishing boat. Here, take this.’ Lorenz took the compass from his pocket and tossed it into the lifeboat. ‘Iceland isn’t far and the weather forecast is good. We aren’t expecting any more storms for the next few days at least.’ Lorenz became aware of a familiar smell, a whiff of grilled meat blending with the pungent, oily fumes. There was another detonation and the tanker flames flared. Some of the seated men had suffered terrible burns. Beetroot-colored flesh sagged and ran down their faces like melted candle wax. Lying in the lifeboat were other men with charred heads and smoldering clothes. They had obviously been pulled out of the water too late. Lorenz was thankful when the tanker flames died down again. ‘I have some provisions for you,’ he continued. ‘Food, water, milk: not much, I know, but it will be enough to ease your discomfort for a day or so—should that prove necessary.’ He lowered the sack and two men reached up to receive it. They were close enough for him to see the whites of their eyes. None of them said anything. It would have been easier had they shouted abuse. Their neutrality, their dignified silence, their refusal to judge, made him profoundly uncomfortable. ‘Good luck.’ Lorenz did not betray his feelings. His voice was firm and steady. ‘I hope that someone finds you soon.’ And with that, he turned and began walking back to the tower. He heard the lifeboat casting off, oars striking the hull and producing gong-like reverberations.
Another cloud of smoke, perhaps produced by the final detonation, rolled across the water. It was thick, and advanced in collapsing folds. Within seconds, Lorenz couldn’t breathe. Each inhalation seemed to excoriate his windpipe and fill his lungs with tar. The smoke was all around him and impenetrable. Ahead, the conning tower was no longer visible and the gun was fading. He found himself isolated and benighted, choking on foul, bitter smuts. He needed to escape asphyxiation but he quickly became disoriented and couldn’t decide which way to run. There seemed to be someone standing ahead of him, an outline in the obscurity. It was odd that Lorenz could see anything at all, because in all other respects he was blind. Somehow, a shaft of moonlight must have penetrated the murk because the figure was faintly luminous.
‘Falk?’ Lorenz spluttered into his hand. ‘Is that you, Falk?’ Even as he repeated the first watch officer’s name he did so without conviction. Falk hadn’t been wearing a long coat. A short delay—filled with mounting disquiet—was followed by the recognition of further peculiarities. Why hadn’t the man made any noise? And why was he seemingly immune to the effects of the polluted air? There was something challenging about his stance, as if he meant to hinder Lorenz’s progress.
‘Who’s there?’ Lorenz demanded. ‘Speak, damn you!’ But there was no reply. Smoke made Lorenz’s eyes sting and everything became distorted. The figure became a grey-blue smear against the roiling darkness. Another gust of wind pushed the smoke across the deck and out onto the water on the other side of the boat. The smear of luminosity seemed to become enfolded in the turbulence, and when Lorenz regained his focus the figure had disappeared. Lorenz supposed that the poisons he had inhaled had been the cause of some kind of hallucination. A scarcely perceptible breath of warning had passed through his ribcage. The sensation was subtle and it had vanished before he had had the opportunity to ascertain its significance.
Falk appeared from behind the gun and came forward.
‘Did you say something, Herr Kaleun?’
‘I told you to stay up there.’ Lorenz pointed at the bridge.
‘Kaleun: the smoke came over and we couldn’t see what was happening.’ Lorenz nodded, and their eyes locked. ‘I bet they were grateful,’ Falk added, smiling.
‘Grateful?’ Lorenz sighed. ‘For torpedoing their vessel and killing their comrades? I doubt it.’
‘I meant for the food,’ said Falk.
‘Ah yes, the food.’ Lorenz wiped some moisture from his eyes. ‘They were delighted. They couldn’t thank me enough. Indeed, they expr
essed particular satisfaction when they discovered the tinned chicken. It was as much as they could do to stop themselves from ripping the cans open and devouring the lot there and then.’ The first watch officer appeared dispirited. ‘How long have you been loitering there, Falk?’
‘I’ve only just gotten here, Kaleun.’
‘And you’re on your own?’
‘Yes.’
‘There’s no one else?’
Falk, puzzled, looked around. ‘No, sir—just me.’
There was a monstrous creaking sound followed by rusty screeches. The stern of the tanker rose out of the water, and for a moment the ship held an almost vertical position, as steep as a cliff. Then, with a great roar, it dropped beneath the waves, and the sea closed over it.
‘We’d better get going,’ said Lorenz.
On the bridge, Lorenz took one last look through his binoculars. The lifeboat was surrounded by flotsam, lots of objects—all roughly the same size—creating a regular pattern on the surface. It took him a few seconds to appreciate what he was looking at. Each element of the pattern was a dead body.
THE MIASMA IN THE BOW compartment was almost overwhelming: bilge water, moldering food, body odor, and the cloying smell of decomposing lemons. Two naked light bulbs seemed to intensify rather than relieve the gloom. Hammocks were suspended between the upper bunks requiring those passing through to stoop or crawl. Conditions were horribly cramped, and it was difficult to make even relatively small movements without hitting a rail, a locker, salted meat, or a slimy green cheese. Some of the berths were occupied by sleeping off-watch men, and one of them was snoring loudly. Occasionally, he would stop breathing, and a lengthy pause would be followed by a loud, protracted gasp. They were hemmed in like livestock and made nauseous by the perpetual roll of the boat. Belches, fetid exhalations, flatulence—there was no escaping the indignities of the body in the bow compartment.