The Passenger

by F. R. Tallis

  ‘Put this on,’ said Lorenz, handing Brandt a Benny Goodman record. The public-address system transmitted the thump of the connecting stylus, and the boat filled with lively syncopations. Lorenz retired to his nook, but left the green curtain open. Lying on his bed, he listened to Goodman’s agile clarinet, the irregular leaping intervals, the growling low notes, the sweet high notes. It was such paradoxical music, powerful and driving, yet at the same time fleet and fluidly inventive. How bizarre, thought Lorenz, to be traveling under the sea in an artificial air bubble, while listening to jazz! The vibrations would be transferred through the hull and out into the deep, providing a musical accompaniment for passing squid and porpoises. When the music came to an end, he called out: ‘And another.’

  Lorenz got up and walked to the officers’ mess where he found Graf, sitting alone, finishing a coffee. The chief engineer had exchanged his grey leathers for British standard-issue khakis. He had acquired the uniform from captured stocks abandoned by the British Expeditionary Force prior to their departure from the northern French ports. Such spoils were much sought after.

  ‘Repairs complete?’ Lorenz asked.

  ‘Almost,’ Graf replied.

  Lorenz sat down beneath a portrait of Vice Admiral Dönitz. ‘What about the hydroplanes?’

  ‘They seem to be working very well.’

  ‘So what happened? Why did we have to switch to manual operation during the attack?’

  ‘I checked the system.’ Graf’s sentence was irresolute.

  ‘And . . .’

  ‘Thoroughly, you understand.’ The chief engineer sipped his coffee. ‘I checked the system thoroughly and I couldn’t find a fault.’

  ‘But there must be an explanation, a cause?’

  ‘Not all causes are readily identifiable, Kaleun.’

  ‘Just one of those things, then, eh?’ Lorenz repeated Graf’s favorite maxim.

  ‘Yes,’ Graf shrugged, his voice flat. ‘Yes, Herr Kaleun.’

  A tin of vitamin-fortified chocolates caught Lorenz’s attention. He pried the lid off, selected one, and popped it into his mouth. As he chewed, his expression became contemplative. ‘There was a problem with the attack periscope.’

  ‘Was there?’ Graf leaned forward, concerned. ‘You didn’t say . . .’

  ‘It suddenly rotated and I hadn’t used the pedals.’

  ‘Do you want me to take a look?’

  ‘The machinery functioned well enough,’ he paused to scratch his beard, ‘in the end . . .’

  Benny Goodman’s clarinet soared above the chugging brass, and the drummer produced a striking beat that suggested a reversion to the primitive.

  ‘The boat’s been very temperamental lately.’ Graf’s expression was full of meaning. He began to nod his head slightly, encouraging Lorenz to speculate.

  ‘Everything was working when we left Brest.’

  ‘Still . . .’ Graf continued to nod.

  Rumors of sabotage had been circulating for some time. ‘Nothing has been tampered with,’ said Lorenz dismissively. Graf accepted Lorenz’s rebuff with Stoic calm. Only the fractional elevation of his right eyebrow betrayed his mild irritation.

  They sat in silence for a while, both listening to a bright, blaring trumpet solo. When the full orchestra returned, Lorenz addressed Graf in a low, confidential register. ‘The crew . . .’ He hesitated before continuing, ‘Is the crew all right? Do you think?’

  ‘I had a chat with Sauer. He thinks Richter may have unsettled them,’ Graf replied.

  Lorenz took another chocolate. ‘Do you remember that old story about Günter Leidland?’

  ‘What story?’

  ‘His boat was scheduled to leave Lorient on Friday the thirteenth. As the date approached his men were getting more and more on edge, so he cast off on the twelfth and sailed to the other side of the dock, where he and his crew waited for a whole day before continuing their patrol.’ Lorenz studied the second chocolate before putting it in his mouth. When he spoke again it was as though he was thinking aloud. ‘It’s possible to convince yourself of certain things . . .’

  ‘They’ll be all right,’ said Graf. Then, indicating the chocolates, he added, ‘Have you finished with these, Kaleun?’

  ‘Yes,’ Lorenz replied, standing up. Graf pressed the lid back onto the tin, and Lorenz walked off. He found Richter lying on a bunk in the bow compartment. The injured man was feverish and talking in his sleep. A bandage had been wrapped around his head and only one of his eyes was visible. Lorenz noticed the iris oscillating beneath the papery lid. He tried to make sense of what the mechanic was saying, bending down so that his ear was close to Richter’s lips. A single, clear phrase interrupted the stream of poorly articulated syllables. ‘Stay away from me, you devil!’

  Lorenz drew back.

  ‘What did he say?’ asked Voigt.

  ‘Nothing,’ Lorenz replied. ‘He’s delirious.’

  JUHL HANDED THE DECODED MESSAGE to Lorenz who accepted it with a curt nod. His expression gave away nothing. As always, after a message had been received, the men watched him closely. He fancied that he could feel their frustration when, albeit for only a few seconds, he disappeared behind the curtain of his nook. When he emerged his features were still uninterpretable and set hard, like plaster of Paris. He marched resolutely to the petty officers’ quarters where he found Hoffmann sitting on a bunk, reading a damp, disintegrating newspaper. Torn strips hung out loosely from the front page. The electrician sensed Lorenz looming over him and stood up. ‘Herr Kaleun?’

  ‘Well, Hoffmann.’ Lorenz steadied himself by reaching out to grip a rail. ‘How are you feeling today?’

  ‘As good as can be expected, sir.’

  ‘Yes, filthy weather.’ The electrician folded his newspaper. ‘We just got a message from headquarters,’ Lorenz added.

  Hoffmann looked bemused. He wasn’t accustomed to being taken into the commander’s confidence. His brow wrinkled as he tried to work out what was expected of him. Feeling obliged to respond, he made a guess: ‘Is it about the batteries, sir?’

  ‘No,’ said Lorenz. ‘However, it does concern you.’

  ‘Me, sir?’ Hoffmann looked over Lorenz’s shoulder at Juhl, who was as inscrutable as his superior.

  ‘A personal communication from Admiral Dönitz,’ said Lorenz.

  Hoffmann’s face showed confusion and incredulity. ‘Admiral Dönitz?’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘Are you sure there hasn’t been a mistake, sir?’

  ‘Quite sure.’

  ‘Admiral Dönitz?’ Hoffmann repeated the name in an uncomfortable, higher register.

  ‘The Lion himself!’ Lorenz produced a sheet of paper and held it up ceremoniously as if he were about to read from a scroll. ‘You are informed, Elektro-Obermaschinist Hoffmann, of the arrival of a submarine,’ Lorenz looked over the top of the paper, ‘without periscope.’

  ‘Without periscope . . .’ Hoffmann echoed.

  Lorenz handed Hoffmann the paper and pulled a bottle out of his pocket. ‘Congratulations.’ Suddenly, men began to crowd into the petty officers’ quarters. They extended their arms to shake Hoffman’s hand and reached in to slap him on the back. ‘I gather from Juhl here,’ Lorenz continued, ‘that you were hoping for a daughter.’

  ‘Yes, I was.’ Hoffmann looked at Juhl. ‘How did you know?’

  ‘You told me.’

  ‘Did I?’

  ‘Maybe not explicitly: on the bridge.’

  ‘I don’t remember that.’

  Lorenz filled two glasses and handed one to Hoffmann. ‘To your daughter, may she enjoy a long life of unprecedented health and spectacular happiness.’

  ‘Thank you, Herr Kaleun,’ said Hoffmann. His eyes glittered with emotion.

  After touching glasses they downed the rum.

  Werner emerged from the galley and made a lewd remark about Hoffman’s potency, which provoked laughter and quick exchanges of competitive vulgarity.

  ‘Have you thou
ght of a name?’ Lorenz asked.

  ‘My wife likes Dorothea,‘ said Hoffmann.

  ‘And so do I,’ said Lorenz. ‘Congratulations.’

  The men parted, giving him enough room to leave. On returning to his nook, Lorenz observed, with considerable attendant regret, that his bottle of rum was now almost empty.

  THE LIGHTS HAD BEEN DIMMED in all compartments. Lorenz stepped out of the forward torpedo room and made his way between the occupied bunks. He passed the officers’ mess, the sound room, the radio shack—climbed through the forward compartment hatchway—and arrived in the control room. Graf was standing by the periscope and Müller was studying charts. The crew looked at Lorenz but their expressions were curiously untenanted. Lorenz crossed the control room and ducked into the petty officers’ quarters where the bunks were also fully occupied with sleeping men. As he passed though the galley Lorenz saw Werner at his stove. The cook was beating a thick red mixture with a whisk. His skin shone with a porcelain glaze, and the ticking revolutions of his wrist made him resemble a clockwork dummy. Lorenz continued, along the narrow gangway between the motionless diesel engines, and then into the motor room. Because the motors were relatively small and mostly concealed beneath the deck, this part of the boat appeared spacious and uncluttered. The lights flickered into darkness, and when they came on again they emitted a weak glow: a slow luminescence that diffused through the air like an expanding ink blot. Beyond the panels of the motor room Lorenz could see the rim of the rear torpedo tube. He paused and found that he was reluctant to go forward. Why was this part of the boat empty? Where had everyone gone? The sound of Werner’s whisk suddenly stopped. Its abrupt termination created an odd impression, like stepping off a precipice. Everything seemed wrong, misaligned, disturbed by subtle discords. He tried to remember what he had been meaning to do, the purpose of his nocturnal wandering, but his memory was opaque—misted over with undefined anxieties. Unease made him turn on his heels, and the next instant he was looking into the eyes of the British commander. Sutherland’s hands came up quickly and closed around Lorenz’s neck. Weakness and terror made retaliation impossible. Lorenz tried to call for help but his windpipe was being crushed. Sutherland swung him around, pushed him against one of the electric motors, and tightened his grip. Their noses were almost touching.

  ‘Destruction is your purpose,’ said Sutherland, repeating the words that Lorenz had used during their brief parley. ‘Destruction is your purpose as much as it is mine.’ His voice was fortified by an echo, the final iterations of which survived the dissolution of the dream. Lorenz stared at the overhead. He was breathing heavily but he could still hear waves breaking against the conning tower.

  ‘Herr Kaleun?’ Brandt sounded anxious.

  Lorenz’s answer was poorly articulated. ‘Bran— . . . Brandt?’

  ‘Did you call for something, Kaleun?’

  ‘Yes,’ Lorenz improvised. ‘I’ve got a murderous headache. Go and get Ziegler for me, will you? I need some pills.’

  Lorenz sat up and swallowed with difficulty. He undid the top button of his shirt and pressed the flesh around his neck. It felt tender and sore. How could that be? Had he harmed himself in his sleep? Had the blanket twisted around his body as he tossed and turned?

  ‘Kaleun?’ It was Ziegler. Lorenz raised his collar before pulling the curtain aside. ‘You wanted some aspirin?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Lorenz hoarsely. ‘Thank you.’

  THE WIND HAD ABATED AND a dull, dejected light filtered through a ragged canopy of cloud. White lines spaced at regular intervals traveled across a malachite sea. Falk was looking through his binoculars, listening to Engel and Krausse’s conversation. He was about to remind them of the need for constant vigilance, when curiosity got the better of him and he chose to remain silent.

  ‘So,’ said Engel. ‘I was lying on a sofa in the Casino Bar, and Hauser—do you know him?—Commander of U-395—he asked Madam to show us one of her films. I’d heard about them but I’d never seen one. Hauser was very drunk and waving a bottle of champagne in the air. Madam said no and made some excuse or other; something about the girls not having had an opportunity to perform, I don’t know. Anyway, Hauser wasn’t put off. He kept on and on at her, begged and pleaded, said that his men had been at sea for so long they’d all forgotten how to fuck. “We need to be reminded,” he said. Eventually, she gave in, and when Hauser and his crew went upstairs I followed them, just tagged along. Madam set up the projector, the lights went out, and the film started. Well, how can I put this? It was a real education. Perhaps the women in this film were freaks, you know? Like you’d find in a circus? Because they got themselves into positions that I didn’t think were possible. And there was this incredible scene, set in what looked like a respectable drawing room, in which several large objects were laid out on the floor in front of this little brunette, she was tiny, no bigger than a child, and she . . .’ Engel stopped. ‘Are we turning?’

  ‘I believe so,’ said Falk.

  ‘Shit! I hope we’re not going back into that storm.’ Engel spat over the bulwark.

  ‘What’s that?’ said Sauer. ‘Starboard quarter forty-five degrees. In the water.’

  The watchmen turned so that they were all facing in the same direction.

  Falk raised his binoculars. ‘I can’t see anything, Number One.’

  ‘Nor me,’ Krausse agreed.

  ‘What did it look like?’ asked Falk.

  Sauer hesitated. ‘I thought I saw something . . .’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘But not a periscope,’ said Falk.

  ‘No,’ Sauer responded, ‘definitely not a periscope.’

  ‘All right,’ said Falk. ‘Probably just flotsam. Stay alert.’

  After a few minutes of silent observation had elapsed, Sauer heard the ladder thrumming—the sound of someone ascending. He stiffened and announced: ‘Captain on the bridge.’ Lorenz climbed out of the conning tower and stood next to Falk: ‘New instructions from headquarters.’

  Falk wiped the lenses of his binoculars. ‘A convoy?’

  ‘Over twenty ships. All U-boats: maximum speed. We’re likely to get there first.’

  ‘How long will it take us, sir?’

  ‘Fourteen hours. Twelve hours if we’re lucky. The weather forecast says the storm is moving north.’

  ‘Will you look at that,’ shouted Engel. ‘God in heaven! Look at the size of it!’

  Next to the boat the waves had been parted by something immense, rising up from below the surface—shiny, bluish-grey. It arched out of the sea and produced a waterspout that rose higher than the conning tower. A small dorsal fin preceded the appearance of broad, notched flukes. Within seconds the whale had disappeared, leaving only a transparent mist over a wide eddy.

  Falk called down the communications pipe. ‘Hard a-port!’ Lorenz nodded his approval and said, ‘A sensible precaution. We should give that monster a very wide berth. One swipe from that tail and our rudder will be off. Very good, Falk, I have the conn.’

  The boat veered away but the creature almost immediately closed the gap. It could be seen through the transparency of the waves, a long, aquamarine shadow almost thirty meters in length. Once again, it surfaced and forced air through its blowhole.

  ‘Shoo, shoo,’ said Engel, flicking his hands in the air as if he were trying to discourage a troublesome fly. They were all still laughing when Krausse hollered, ‘Aircraft, dead astern!’

  Lorenz was about to shout ‘Alarm!’ but the pilot had already commenced his attack run and it was far too late to dive. He grabbed the communications pipe: ‘Right, full rudder.’ Falk leapt to the rear platform and manned the 2 cm flack cannon. The plane was coming at them low.

  ‘Oh, fuck,’ hollered Falk. ‘The cannon’s jammed.’ He worked the charging mechanism to load the new round in the chamber. It still didn’t work. Sauer calmly detached the magazine, smacked it on the breach and reseated it in the well: Falk jacked
the action and swept the weapon around to track the fighter. With uncharacteristic agility, Sauer skipped out of the way and retrieved a spare magazine.

  ‘Evasive maneuvers,’ Lorenz shouted into the hatch. The boat turned sharply and crashed into a high wave as the useless cannon traced a silent arc. Through a curtain of shimmering spray they watched the unhurried descent of four bombs. Three of them exploded off the starboard saddle tank, creating a line of tall fountains. The effect was ornamental, like a water feature in an eighteenth-century landscaped garden. A loud splitting noise made Lorenz look down from the bulwark in horror. The fourth bomb had landed on the painted wooden grating and was now bouncing toward the bridge. A shower of splinters followed each impact, and the bomb’s progress was recorded by a trail of gouges in the deck. As the boat heeled and rolled, the lethal device slowed, swerved, and slid off the port side, its nose propeller still spinning madly. The pilot had flown so low that their faces had been momentarily warmed by hot exhaust fumes. So low, that the bomb hadn’t fused. Lorenz gazed at the receding plane in stunned silence. He had expected it to bank and return, but instead the pilot followed a straight course over the sea.

  ‘Why isn’t he coming back?’ asked Engel.

  ‘He’s used up all his bombs,’ Lorenz answered.

  ‘God, that was close.’ Engel took off his woolen hat and raked his hair.

  ‘It certainly was,’ Lorenz agreed.

  ‘That last one,’ said Sauer, ‘fancy it being a dud.’

  ‘A miracle,’ said Engel.

  ‘Well, I wouldn’t go that far,’ said Lorenz. ‘However I . . .’ As Lorenz looked up he was struck dumb by the appearance of another Martlet dropping out from beneath the cloud cover.