by F. R. Tallis
‘I’ve never known it to happen before,’ said Falk. He scratched at the bandage that covered his swollen forehead.
Graf grimaced as he swallowed. ‘It happens . . .’
‘But how?’ Falk communicated his bemusement by showing his empty palms.
‘The leather disintegrated.’ Graf loosened a sliver of meat that had become stuck to the plate with his thumbnail and lifted it to his mouth.
Falk paused, considered the chief engineer’s answer and said, ‘Someone would have noticed. Hoffmann would have noticed.’
‘There must have been a tear then. A small tear: small enough to be overlooked.’
‘Our safety belts are ten centimeters wide.’
‘That makes no difference.’
‘And reinforced with steel cable . . .’
‘Steel cables can break.’ Graf was getting tired of the persistence of Falk’s questioning. He glared at his inquisitor.
The first watch officer sighed. His gaze shifted from Graf to Lorenz and back again. ‘It’s just,’ his speech was hesitant, ‘we seem to have been getting more than our fair share of bad luck lately.’
Graf tightened the knot of the kerchief that he had tied around his throat. ‘Accidents happen.’
The boat heeled and the engineer’s plate slid down the table. Lorenz prevented it from hitting the rail. ‘Luck?’ he said, without looking up. ‘What about the fourth bomb—when we were distracted by the whale—the fourth bomb that hit us and didn’t explode? That was luck.’
Falk took a slice of sausage, studied it for a moment, and then put it back on the plate. ‘Well, Kaleun, that’s just about the only bit of luck we’ve had on this patrol.’
‘Yes,’ said Lorenz. ‘But it came at the right time. We wouldn’t be sitting here now if that bomb had gone off. You and I would have been blown to bits—and this boat,’ he struck a wooden panel with his fist before continuing, ‘this boat would have gone straight to the bottom.’
Falk grunted his assent.
Placing a finger on one of his front teeth, Graf investigated its stability. There was a distinct wobble. He tossed the bread onto the table and swore.
‘Could be worse,’ said Lorenz. ‘Some crews have had to eat their shoes.’
Juhl appeared and handed Lorenz a message from headquarters. It was a brief communication concerning three aircraft attacks on U-boats, none of which were close enough to merit action. The second watch officer withdrew discreetly, like the head waiter of a high-class restaurant.
Lorenz addressed Falk: ‘How’s your head?’
‘A lot better,’ Falk replied.
‘It doesn’t look a lot better,’ said Lorenz sceptically.
‘The pain is . . .’ Falk pressed his dressing and completed his sentence, ‘tolerable.’
‘You’re not going to end up like Richter then?’
‘Occasionally I see spots in front of my eyes,’ Falk smiled, ‘but nothing else, Kaleun.’
Graf put his elbows on the table and clasped his hands together. ‘Richter isn’t helping matters.’
‘No,’ said Lorenz.
‘Shame we couldn’t have transferred him to another boat.’
‘I agree.’
‘Do you think he’ll make it?’ asked Falk.
‘I don’t know,’ Lorenz replied.
‘What does Ziegler think?’
‘Ziegler is a radio operator. He attended a thirty-six-hour first-aid course. We can’t expect him to make that kind of prediction.’
‘They should provide us with a doctor next time.’
‘Doctors are more trouble than they’re worth. They get sick as soon as they’re on the open sea, they take up valuable space, and when they’re finally well enough to get to work they complain incessantly about the conditions.’
‘Won’t be long now: once we’re out of this storm . . .’ said Graf. His voice sounded distant and reflective, as though he were talking to himself.
‘Ten days without a fix,’ said Falk.
‘Müller’s dead reckoning is exceptional,’ said Lorenz.
‘Home . . .’ said Graf.
Their conversation became disconnected and degenerated into a series of non sequiturs that preceded a long hiatus. Eventually, Lorenz rose from his seat and said, ‘I’m going to get some sleep.’ His companions, momentarily roused, nodded before sinking back into their respective states of self-absorption. He left them staring blankly at the table top.
Lorenz retired to his nook and closed the green curtain. A gap remained through which he spied Brandt in the radio room. Another tug of the curtain created a comforting illusion of privacy. Someone opened and closed the door to the diesel compartment and there was a sudden blast of engine noise. Lorenz took off his cap, lay down on his mattress, and pulled a blanket that stank of oil over his body. He rested his head on the pillow, and when he closed his eyes he became acutely aware of the boat’s movements, the continuous rising and falling, the listing, sometimes sustained, that threatened to tip him out of bed. In the absence of any distractions he discovered that he wasn’t feeling very well. His mouth was dry and an odd shivery sensation seemed to have settled around his shoulders. Demonstrating a sailor’s faith in the restorative properties of rum, he propped himself up, retrieved the bottle from his bedside cabinet, and poured himself a generous final measure. He stared into the open drawer at the flat oval of Grimstad’s stone. Pressing his fingertips onto the marked surface, Lorenz registered heat. Once again, he judged that the stone was warmer than it should be. Perhaps it was something to do with the iron content? This hollow speculation did nothing to quell a host of liminal anxieties. He drank slowly, savoring the flavor of the fragrant liquid, and when he had finished he put the bottle and glass back in the drawer. Pulling the blanket up to his chin, he allowed the falling boat to carry his unraveling mind toward sleep.
Before long he was walking by the cathedral of Notre Dame in Paris with an attractive woman by his side. She was wearing a pillbox hat with a transparent veil that covered half her face. Her lips were sensual and as red as a cardinal’s cassock. They talked and laughed and held hands as they made their way around the Hôtel Dieu and along the Quai de la Corse. Presently, they were crossing the Pont Neuf and heading toward the Right Bank. The woman stopped, drew him into a bastion and pointed toward the setting sun. Above, the sky was the same color as the woman’s lips and divided by thin, horizontal slats of purple cloud. Between the Pont Neuf and the Passerelle des Arts the black back of an enormous whale arched out of the Seine. Its motion was unhurried, almost sluggish, and when the woman turned to face Lorenz they embraced. Her perfume was familiar. He knew her well, this woman. They were lovers, but at the very same time she seemed to be a total stranger. This jarring contradiction was comfortably accommodated by the errant logic of the dream world, and its resolution seemed as irrelevant as it was unnecessary. Paris melted away and they were no longer locked in a stationary embrace but dancing at a grand ball. There was a large orchestra on a raised stage, and it was being conducted from the podium by Vice Admiral Dönitz. The surrounding décor was palatial: gilt mirrors, classical busts, and a painted ceiling overpopulated with gods, shepherds, and cavorting nymphs. As Lorenz and the woman waltzed beneath glittering chandeliers, Lorenz spied his niece and nephew among the watching crowd. His niece waved as they passed. The tempo of the dance accelerated, and Lorenz and the beautiful woman revolved faster and faster until everything blurred. When they finally stopped and parted, they were standing in a dry dock surrounded by cranes. The woman raised her hat and removed the pins from her hair. ‘I’m going to need a complete overhaul,’ she said, shaking out her tresses. Her German was softened by a French accent. ‘It’s going to take months.’ The fact that she was naked seemed a perfectly natural development. The light changed and her pale skin began to darken. The process continued until she had turned the camouflage grey of a U-boat. When Lorenz reached out and touched her cheek he discovered it was hard and cold. She was
no longer human but an iron statue. The scene changed abruptly and all that had gone before seemed vague and inconsequential. Lorenz was now on the deck of U-330, looking out over black water. He circumvented the 8.8 cm gun and stepped over the loading hatch of the forward torpedo room. When he could go no further he paused and waited. He knew they were out there. He knew they were coming. As expected, the raft drifted out of the night, materializing only a few meters distant. Once again, the British commander was standing by the central post, and the old man was sitting at his feet; however, they had now been joined by a third person attired in oilskins and a sou’wester. This newcomer was standing behind the British commander, his head lowered and his posture suggesting dejection. The foul-weather gear was wet, and when he moved forward the rubberized material glistened. Halting at the raft’s edge the sailor removed his sou’wester. It was Hoffmann. He opened his mouth and water spilled out before he said, ‘Permission to board, sir?’
‘Permission denied, Hoffmann.’ Lorenz responded. ‘You’re dead.’
‘I know, sir.’
‘Then be reasonable. Surely you must understand that I can’t let the dead onto my ship.’
‘But sir, you already have.’
THE STORM HAD SUBSIDED AND all that remained was a squally wind that made the sea choppy and filled the air with twisting braids of spume. Juhl looked through his binoculars and tried to fight off the drowsiness that made his eyelids feel heavy. Endless rocking, somber light, and the unrelieved tedium of the flat horizon had already induced a temporary absence, but luckily this brief dereliction of duty had not attracted anyone’s notice. Juhl had remained standing even though he had effectively abandoned his post for a minute or perhaps even more. It was unacceptable behavior for a watch officer and he endeavored to make sure that there would be no further lapses by sinking his front teeth into his lower lip until the pain made him alert.
‘Aircraft dead astern,’ cried Voigt. Juhl wheeled around and saw the approaching silhouette, which was sizeable, and immediately screamed ‘Alarm!’ The bell rang and the watchmen leaped through the hatch. When Juhl landed in the control room the stampede to the foreward torpedo room was already underway. Graf was at his post behind the hydroplane operators, issuing orders. ‘Clear air-release vents.’
Lorenz found Juhl and asked, ‘What was it?’
‘A Sunderland.’ Juhl steadied himself by grabbing the halyard of the observation periscope.
Graf was hollering ‘Flood!’
‘Good,’ Lorenz grunted.
‘Good, Kaleun?’ Juhl queried.
‘Yes. Nothing to worry about—they’re very slow . . .’ But before he could continue his sentence there were several explosions and the hull was jolted by the shock waves. The pens and instruments on the chart table fell to the matting and a light bulb shattered. Lorenz stepped over Danzer, who had lost his balance, and positioned himself next to Graf. ‘Take her down to seventy meters.’ The manometer pointer revolved at a steady rate—forty, fifty, sixty, seventy—and when the boat leveled out Lorenz ordered two course changes. Two more explosions followed but they were distant and caused no damage. Müller picked up the items that had fallen from the chart table, and the control-room mate, now back on his feet, started clearing the broken glass.
They waited for the Sunderland to return, and more bombs to explode, but the silence continued.
‘Is that it?’ said Graf, puzzled, almost disappointed.
‘I believe so,’ said Lorenz. ‘They just wanted to annoy us. Even so, we’d better stay submerged for a short time at least.’ Perspiration prickled on his forehead. He still wasn’t feeling very well.
Thirty minutes passed, and Lorenz ordered Graf to take the boat up to periscope depth. He unfolded the handgrips, looked through the eyepiece, and saw only green water. The tube was vibrating too much. ‘Dead slow. Up scope . . .’ A moment later he could see an expanse of sea and sky. He changed the viewing angle and increased the magnification but the boat dropped again. ‘Watch your trim! Right so. Down—no, too much! Up-up-up . . . down, right so.’
His view consisted entirely of cloud, a pale grey canopy crossed by streaks of darker grey. When he had studied each quadrant and was satisfied that there were no aircraft he said, ‘All clear. Prepare to surface.’ He could hear the watch assembling, Juhl chivvying one of the ratings. Just as he was about to raise the handgrips, Lorenz noticed a tiny black speck flying low over the sea. It only took him a few seconds to determine that he was looking at a bird, most probably a seagull, and not a Sunderland in the distance.
‘Kaleun?’ Graf had noticed Lorenz’s hesitation.
‘It’s all right. Go ahead—surface.’
The buoyancy tanks hissed and the boat began to rise.
‘Bow planes up ten, stern planes up five.’ There was a great splashing sound and Graf added, ‘Conning tower free.’
Lorenz was about to raise the handgrips for the second time, when he experienced a troubling qualm. Was the black speck really a seagull? Had he been too hasty? He undertook a final, cursory sweep of the horizon, and it was only after the bow had flashed past that he paused and tried to make sense of what he had seen. His heart was expanding uncomfortably in his chest and his blood quickened. Even though he had received little more than a fleeting, blurred impression, there had been sufficient detail to permit interpretation; however, Lorenz concluded that he must be mistaken, because what he thought he had seen was clearly an impossibility. His intellect proffered a rational alternative: an illusion created by spray and perfidious light? But logical platitudes could not persuade his gut that there was nothing to fear. The periscope motor hummed as the objective rotated back so that he could view the bow once again. Waves slapped against both sides of the hull creating spires of foam. Lorenz could see the forward deck, receding, slightly raised above the horizon by the swell, and situated about halfway between the 8.8 cm gun and the prow was a man, dressed in a long coat, standing with his legs apart, facing away. He was wearing a cap and his hands were deep in his pockets. Lorenz closed his eyes, but when he opened them again the man was still there—a lone figure, inexplicably undisturbed by the boat’s motion, the swash and backwash of the dismal sea. A panicky sensation spread through Lorenz’s body, weakening his limbs and threatening to find expression in an involuntary cry. Words formed in his head, I must be losing my mind. He was suddenly seized by a desire to confront the phantom, regardless of its provenance.
Lorenz dashed to the ladder and brushed Juhl aside. Graf and the second watch officer exchanged confused glances. The agitated commander did not wait for the pressure to equalize, and when he opened the hatch he was almost lifted onto the bridge by the escaping air. The watch followed him, perplexed by his urgency. Lorenz launched himself at the bulwark, and leaning over the curved ridge, he stared at the empty forward half of the boat. The watch men gathered nervously behind him.
‘Did you see something, Kaleun?’ asked Juhl.
Lorenz took a deep breath. Spray hit his face and he licked the salt from his lips. It was strangely reassuring, the sharpness of the sensation, because it authenticated reality and seemed to impose a stricter limit on what was, and what wasn’t, possible. ‘I thought,’ Lorenz began, ‘I thought I saw a smudge on the horizon—see—over there—but it’s just cloud—just darker cloud.’
‘We haven’t got any torpedoes left,’ said Juhl. It was not a challenge. He was simply interested in what action his commanding officer would have taken had the ‘smudge’ turned out to be a steamer.
‘I intended to use the deck gun,’ Lorenz replied.
Juhl, seemingly content, nodded. The wind was freezing and cut straight through Lorenz’s sweater: he had forgotten to put on his jacket in his rush to get up on the bridge. The fast beating of his heart coincided with a throbbing pain behind his eyes. ‘Carry on,’ he said, before lowering himself down the hatch. ‘Carry on . . .’
WAR DIARY
20.10Minimal swell, mainly overcast, average
visibility, freshening. At a bearing of 90° true several plumes of smoke. 15–20 nm distant. Qu BE 2374.
20.35Flying boat at bearing 90° true, heading straight toward us. Alarm dive.
20.43Surfaced.
20.45Flying boat at bearing 90° true, heading straight toward us. Alarm dive. Two bombs. Minor damage.
21.15U-boat heard through hydrophones at bearing 260° true.
21.32Surfaced. To the south a fiery glow.
22.00Test dive and performed essential repairs to the diesel-reverse mechanism, exhaust pipe, and compressors.
2.35We surface. Moderate swell, clearing from west, intermittent moonlight, visibility 6–7 nm.
3.10Several shadows appear ahead. Battleships, range 6 nm. We alter course to 120° so as to avoid being seen by this group in the path of the moon.
3.35Dive. Course altered to 300°.
4.50We surface. Resound, then, foaming waves, And coil yourselves around me! Let misfortune rage loud around me, And let the cruel sea roar!
Siegfried Lorenz
The horizon was visible but indistinct. The inky perimeter of the sea and the hem of the night sky had fused together and it seemed to Lorenz that the boat had left the world behind, and they were now soaring through the vast immensity of the universe. Tilting his head back, he gazed upward at the constellations and the softly glowing arch of the Milky Way and he wondered if there were other planets orbiting stars similar to the sun, and if, at that precise moment, there might be another commander, standing on the bridge of another boat, crossing an equally benighted ocean, contemplating the existence of a counterpart elsewhere in the cosmos.
The sense of space, extending infinitely from the bridge in all directions, diminished the significance of human affairs. It imposed scale, a measure of such awesome magnitude, that nothing, not even the constant threat of annihilation, seemed to matter very much. Even a Reich that lasted a thousand years would be forgotten with the passage of time.