by F. R. Tallis
‘What is it?’ Lehmann repeated, confused.
‘Yes. Something is bothering you.’
Lehmann sighed. ‘I was listening after the torpedo detonated.’
‘And . . . ?’
‘I heard them.’
‘Who?’
‘The British. Their screams.’
‘That’s not possible.’
‘It wasn’t for very long, just a few seconds.’
‘No. You think you heard their screams.’
‘Perhaps.’
‘You have to remember, Lehmann, if the tables were turned . . .’
‘I know, sir. It’s just . . .’
‘Unpleasant. Indeed.’
Pullman had been working on some of the younger members of the crew. He had sensed the change of atmosphere, their need for reassurance, comforting certainties, and he had seized the opportunity to preach his gospel. In the forward compartment, he was seated on a lower bunk, reading to Berger and Wessel: ‘Everything on this earth is capable of improvement. Every defeat can become the father of a subsequent victory, every lost war the cause of a later resurgence, every hardship the fertilization of human energy, and from every oppression the forces for a new spiritual rebirth can come as long as the blood is preserved pure.’ Pullman gazed at his disciples and offered them his durable half-smile. ‘The lost purity of the blood alone destroys inner happiness forever, plunges man into the abyss for all time, and the consequences can nevermore be eliminated from body and spirit.’
Lorenz moved through the compartment and Pullman lowered his book. ‘The words of the Führer.’
‘I know,’ Lorenz replied.
‘They are uplifting, don’t you think, sir?’ Lorenz ignored the question, and Pullman added, ‘A corrective for . . .’ his smile widened, ‘defeatism.’
Lorenz detected a hint of criticism behind Pullman’s missionary zeal.
‘I’m sorry?’ He glared at Pullman who shifted nervously.
‘I was merely saying . . .’ The sentence trailed off and the photographer cleared his throat. ‘I was merely saying that there is solace in the Führer’s counsel—hope, encouragement.’
Lorenz put his hands together around his mouth and shouted, ‘Ziegler?’
The radio operator stepped through the doorway. ‘Herr Kaleun?’
‘Did any of the records survive?’
‘Only a few: Glenn Miller—Wagner Overtures.’
‘Put the Glenn Miller on, will you? And play it loud.’ Without looking at Pullman he carried on walking between the bunks to the torpedo room. Graf was standing with the torpedo men.
‘Don’t tell me. You can’t find anything wrong with Tube One.’
Graf shook his head. ‘There are no faults.’
‘The bow cap was being what then? Temperamental?’
‘Just one of those things,’ said Graf.
‘Why did I know you were going to say that?’
The sound of the Glenn Miller band started up, the slippery clarinets answered by muted brass, and beneath, the steady, strolling bass. Graf leaned toward Lorenz, tilted his head to one side to emphasize the music, and said, ‘Was that wise, Herr Kaleun?’
‘No,’ Lorenz replied with evident pride.
ZIEGLER WAS CHANGING THE DRESSING on Peters’s hand. A number of men had sustained injuries when the boat had been bombed, and it was fortunate that none of these had proven serious. Zeigler pulled at the bloodstained bandages and Peters swore.
‘Be careful, that hurt.’
Schmidt was also waiting to have a dressing changed. ‘Don’t be a girl, Peters.’
‘I’m telling you, it fucking hurt.’
Ziegler smeared some cod liver oil ointment over the exposed cut.
‘Hurt?’ said Schmidt. ‘You haven’t got a clue, have you? When I was a boy I ran away and went to sea on a merchant steamer. God, what a rust bucket! Leaked like a sieve. Anyway, we’d just left this stinking port on the west coast of Africa and the boiler exploded. The stokers flew out of the engine room like demons out of hell but someone was still down there, shouting and screaming—trapped. The Portuguese captain paid no attention. I asked him if we shouldn’t go down and help the man, but he brushed me aside and started to organize the lifeboats. The Chief Engineer was just the same. “It’s only a black,” he said. “We need to get off right now, without delay.” Cowards, I thought. Cowards! So, I climbed down to the engine room on my own, and there was this big black stoker with his foot stuck beneath a girder. Well, I tried to lift it, but I couldn’t. The thing weighed a ton. The ship was going down fast and the water was rising. What was I to do? I spotted a big iron coal shovel, held it over the stoker’s foot and nodded. “Do you want me to? Yes?” He nodded back, as if to say: Go on then, it’s my only chance. And with a downward strike I sliced his foot right off. Then I put him over my shoulder and carried him up onto the deck. I tell you, Peters, he didn’t make a sound.’
‘So what?’ said Peters. ‘What does that prove? He was a black. They don’t feel pain like us.’
‘Shut up, Peters,’ said Ziegler. ‘Is that true? He didn’t make a sound?’
‘Not a whimper,’ said Schmidt. ‘I often wonder where he is. I’d like to think he found a woman who wasn’t put off by his stump and that he went on to raise a family. Perhaps he’s sitting in some African village right now, bouncing children on his knee, telling them all about how he would have drowned that day, had it not been for a courageous German boy.’
‘A nice thought,’ said Lorenz from behind his green curtain.
‘Oh, I didn’t realize you were there, Kaleun,’ said Schmidt.
‘He’ll very probably get to know more Germans in the fullness of time,’ said Lorenz. ‘But I can’t help feeling he’ll be disappointed. You may have given him unrealistic expectations, Schmidt.’
LORENZ COULDN’T SLEEP. LOUD SNORING issued from the crew quarters: a horrible, liquid respiration that came in short bursts separated by crackling, pulmonary interludes. Something in the food had caused many of the men to complain of abdominal pain, and the heads had been in constant use throughout the previous day. A foul, cesspit smell hung in the air—rank, heavy, and strong. Lorenz felt hot and agitated. The curtain that separated his nook from the rest of the boat gave him no real privacy. He wanted to get away from the snoring and the stink, to be on his own, to still his mind and order his thoughts. Sitting up, he swung his legs off the mattress, rested his elbows on his knees, and lowered his head into his hands. Perspiration lacquered his forehead, and when he massaged his temples he could feel salty granules beneath his fingertips. He felt nauseous and wondered if he had also eaten food that was going to make his stomach cramp and loosen his bowels. Gradually, the queasiness subsided, and he stood up.
In the control room, a small number of men were at their posts keeping the boat on a steady course at a depth of thirty meters. Earlier, headquarters had sent an aircraft warning: Catalinas—probably out of Reykjavik. Lorenz examined the charts, exchanged a few words with the helmsman, and climbed up the ladder into the conning tower. He shut the hatch at his feet and experienced a sense of relief: quiet, stillness, solitude. His gaze took in the computer, the attack periscope, the narrowness of the space he occupied. Leaning against the ladder for support, he closed his eyes and an image formed in his mind—a miniature U-330, gliding through darkness. It was something he did routinely when the boat was being depth-charged, in order to visualize his position in relation to enemy destroyers. He dissolved the starboard armor plating, achieving a cut-away diagram effect that afforded him interior views of every compartment. Homunculi moved around the control room, and above them he saw a tiny silhouette, himself, in a bubble of yellow light.
The temperature was dropping and his breath produced white clouds in the air. Something was about to happen. He could sense inevitability, identical to the foreshadowing that had preceded the strange occurrences in Brest, when U-330 had been undergoing repairs. Lorenz felt dissociated, as
if he were sitting in a theatre, watching a play that he had already seen. The future was no longer free to deviate. A palpitation in his chest signaled danger. This impression of peril was incontestable, almost overwhelming, and he was certain that it did not represent a psychological threat—something fantastic that might untether the mind, but rather the drawing near of a real, existential threat. A simple phrase clarified his intuitions: death is coming.
An irregular rhythm captured his attention; stopping and starting again, a faint squealing like a rusty hinge. It was difficult to locate at first, but in due course Lorenz raised his eyes. Several seconds elapsed before his brain identified the source of the sound. His eyes focused on the phenomenon and the full horror of its significance delayed his reaction. He remained completely still, looking upward, in a state of frozen disbelief. Above Lorenz’s head, the wheel that locked the bridge hatch was slowly turning. The miniature U-330 came into his mind again. He did not consider its illuminated interior, but rather the surrounding darkness, the immense weight of water pressing down on the other side of the hatch. A glistening rivulet progressed around the seal and droplets began to fall on his face. Icy detonations made him spring into action, and he raced up the ladder and grabbed the wheel. He tried to reverse its rotation. After the first failed attempt, a second followed, and when he tried a third time his muscles weakened, and the wheel slipped beneath his fingers. He tightened his grip and found some further reserve of power, but he could not sustain the effort. The nausea he had experienced earlier returned, and he began to feel dizzy. Suddenly the wheel was receding, and the conning tower went black.
When he opened his eyes he was in his nook and Ziegler and Graf were bending over him. His head was throbbing. He tried to prop himself up, but Ziegler said, ‘No, Kaleun—lie down. You fainted in the conning tower.’
‘Chief, go and check the bridge hatch.’
‘For what?’
‘It was making water.’
‘Kaleun?’
‘Just go, will you?’
‘Please . . .’ Ziegler encouraged Lorenz to lie back again.
‘Very well,’ said Graf. When the engineer returned he spoke with respectful neutrality. ‘A little condensation, but everything’s in order.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes, Kaleun.’
Ziegler mopped Lorenz’s brow with a damp cloth. ‘I think your temperature’s running high, sir. You’ve probably got the stomach complaint.’
The radio operator was right. It took two days for Lorenz to recover.
LEANING OUT OF THE RADIO shack Brandt called, ‘Officer’s signal.’ Juhl excused himself from a card game and went to collect the decoding machine. He set it up in the officers’ mess and Lorenz handed him the code for that day. After adjusting the settings, Juhl exhibited his customary tendency to exploit the dramatic possibilities of his role by cracking his knuckles and wiggling his fingers over the keyboard. He started tapping the keys and each strike made a letter on the lamp board glow. Eventually, he laid his pencil aside and glanced back at Lorenz: ‘For the commander only.’
‘Ah.’ Lorenz responded. ‘I see.’ He went to his nook to collect his special instructions. On his return he made a brushing movement in the air indicating that Juhl should move aside, and after taking Juhl’s place he reset the machine. The whispering that traveled through the compartments was like the soughing of the wind through branches, words carried on a breeze. Letters flashed, and when the decryption was complete he stared long and hard at what he had written. U-330 was to rendezvous with U-807 as a matter of utmost urgency. No explanation was given and the coordinates (which Lorenz double-checked) were for a location above the 70th parallel. U-807 was a Type IXB, a heavier, larger submarine armed with twenty-two torpedoes. He wondered why such a rendezvous was necessary. The collection and transfer of prisoners seemed unlikely. If U-807 was carrying prisoners then it should proceed directly to its destination. A transfer would only cause additional delay. But what else could it be? And why so far north? At the end of the message were the code names assigned to U-807 and U-330. They were typically bombastic—‘Verdandi’ and ‘Skuld’—two of the three Personifications of fate from Nordic legend.
Lorenz stood and walked to the control room where the men seemed to withdraw, stepping away as he came through the hatchway as if he were surrounded by a repulsive energy. He stepped over to the chart table and, folding the piece of paper so that only the coordinates were visible, he showed them to Müller. The navigator’s eyebrows drew closer together. ‘Can they be serious?’ He pawed at his charts and when he had found the one he wanted he laid it out on the table. Dislodging some mold with his fingernail, Müller fussed with a torn edge. Lorenz lowered the lamp and both men leaned into its beam. The crew was listening intently. Müller pointed at a spot on the chart roughly between the north coast of Iceland and the east coast of Greenland. ‘Why in God’s name do they want us to go there?’
‘I’m sure you can make an educated guess.’ Müller was shaking his head. ‘Cheer up,’ Lorenz continued. ‘They could have sent us to the rose garden.’ He tapped the chart between Iceland and the Faroe islands. It was where British aircraft were in the habit of jettisoning unwanted bomb-loads. ‘And you’ll have no trouble seeing the stars. The nights are going to be very long where we’re going.’ Lorenz turned, ordered a change of course, and the boat veered north with diesel engines thumping at full speed.
STORMY WEATHER FORCED THEM TO dive. It was late, the lights were low, and Lorenz was sitting in the officers’ mess on his own. The door to the crew quarters was open and he could hear the men talking. As usual, they were discussing sex, and trying to outdo each other with outlandish stories. He had noticed that when the boat was submerged their conversation became more extreme, as if physical descent was correlated with moral descent. After a while, it didn’t matter who was talking. The voices became interchangeable.
‘Have you ever fucked a dwarf?’
‘Yes, I’ve fucked a dwarf. We were in this shitty brothel in Lübeck and all the whores were busy. They had this little midget woman there whose job it was to serve drinks. I got tired of waiting and asked the madam if I could hump her instead. It’ll cost you, she said, but I was beyond caring.’
‘Was she any good?’
‘Well, I wouldn’t say she was good—but she was very enthusiastic. When she was on top it was bit like being part of a circus act.’
‘Do you know Golo Blau? He fucked Siamese twins once when he was out in India. They were joined at the head and the hips.’
‘Imagine it . . .’
‘What about Kruger, though?’
‘What about him?’
‘He’s fucked a pig.’
‘Has he?’
‘Yes. Her name’s Helga and she works in a bar in Wilhelmshaven. Isn’t that so, Kruger?’
‘All right . . . she was a little overweight maybe.’
‘I’m surprised you could get anywhere near her.’
And so it went on, disembodied voices drifting through the open hatchway: a journey through the darkness of the ocean and the soul.
THE LIGHT CHANGED, THE TEMPERATURE dropped to minus fifteen, and ice began to accumulate: on the bulwark, the rails enclosing the rear of the bridge, the 2 cm flak cannon, the periscope housing, and the aiming-device pedestal. Within minutes of climbing out on to the bridge the lookouts were soaked and freezing, their foul-weather gear became stiff, restricting movement, and icicles ornamented their sou’westers. When they reentered the boat the ordeal continued. Instinct compelled them to huddle around the electric heater but the return of sensation was excruciatingly painful, a horrible burning thaw that left them speechless and exhausted. Boots, filled with seawater, stuck to their feet. Nothing dried, and they resigned themselves to sleeping in wet clothes beneath damp blankets. It got colder, and to survive on the bridge it became necessary to wear knitted underwear and thick sheepskins, clothing so bulky and cumbersome it became difficult
to squeeze through the hatch. Frequent dives were necessary to control the buildup of ice, but sometimes the mantle thickened so quickly that teams had to be sent out to smash it with hammers. The deck was slippery, and the men had to be roped together like mountain climbers.
Lorenz stood firm, his face encrusted with rime, staring at the bow slicing through the floes. The noise it made was satisfying, a steady whoosh punctuated by thuds and crunches. He turned just in time to see Pullman struggling to remove a glove. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’
‘I’m trying to get my glove off,’ said Pullman. ‘I can’t operate my camera.’
‘I’d advise you to keep it on. If you touch the bulwark with your bare hand the skin will stick to the steel. And if a plane appears we’ll have to tear you off and I don’t know how many fingers we’ll leave behind.’
Pullman accepted the advice with a curt nod. ‘How often are you ordered this far north, Herr Kaleun?’
‘It’s happened before—last time to provide a weather report.’
‘My teeth . . .’ Pullman winced. The cold was spleenful and malicious, nipping and biting, perversely inventive, almost inspired when it came to discovering novel pathways for the transmission of pain.
‘They can crack in these temperatures. Perhaps you should get back inside.’
‘I’ve never seen weather conditions like this. The other patrol I was assigned to went out into the middle of the Atlantic. Are we in very much danger?’
Lorenz laughed. ‘If we need to execute a rapid dive we might discover that the ventilation tubes and the ballast tank purges are blocked—or the diving planes won’t work. The ice makes us unstable. The cold can bend a propeller out of shape. Shall I go on? Yes, Pullman, we are in considerable danger and will continue to be for some time.’
When night came it delivered the spectacle of the Northern Lights. Luminous green veils traveled across the sky, folding and unfolding, brightening and dimming. Scintillating emerald cliffs collapsed, and shimmering silver spires rose up from the horizon. The boat’s foamy wake separated slabs of ice that appeared to be made from polished jade. Sparkling ribbons fluttered at the zenith, and the constellations shone with frigid brilliance through gauzy undulations.