by F. R. Tallis
Graf’s disembodied voice initiated the dive protocol. ‘Clear air-release vents.’ Lorenz felt a wave of relief when the reports followed.
‘One.’
‘Two clear.’
‘Three—both sides.’
‘Four.’
‘Five clear.’
‘All vents clear.’
Lorenz couldn’t see anything. He felt disoriented and then strangely isolated. The status reports and general commotion were growing fainter. His convulsive breathing swamped the other sounds, and the blackness became absolute.
A figure stepped out of the pitchy void; an apparition bathed in the flickering illumination of its own dim aurora. Its long open coat was garlanded with thick rubbery straps of sea weed and a squidlike creature had made a home in its exposed ribcage. A thin tentacle slithered out from beneath its sternum, which was encrusted with conical limpet shells. Its skull retained remnants of loose, swollen flesh around manically grinning teeth, but the orbital ridges and frontal bone were covered in barnacles. This massy, bulging extrusion suggested deformity or the projecting forehead of a Neanderthal. There were no eyes, only holes through which it was possible to see the interior of a blasted, incomplete cranium. Lorenz’s mouth opened involuntarily, and he expected his giddy terror to become a scream; however, as in a nightmare during which all cries for help are stifled, he produced only a long, wheezy exhalation. The horror that he experienced was extraordinarily physical and resembled a sustained electric shock. It passed through his body and welded his feet to the deck. The present moment, usually so fluid and motile, became fixed and obdurate. He feared that he might become trapped in this dark limbo, doomed to keep Sutherland’s rotting, skeletal remnant company for all eternity.
An instant later the noises of the submarine rushed into his ears, and it was Sauer who was standing in front of him, saying, ‘Kaleun, Kaleun—the breathing apparatus.’
‘Thank you,’ said Lorenz.
The boat tilted, and Graf called out, ‘Bow planes down fifteen, stern up ten.’
‘Keep going,’ said Lorenz. He couldn’t see the manometer, so he had to estimate the boat’s depth by listening to its creaks and groans. ‘Hard a-port.’ When they reached what he guessed was fifty or sixty meters, he added, ‘Level the boat, chief.’
‘Planes at zero,’ said Graf.
Lorenz bit on the mouthpiece of the breathing apparatus. The vision of Sutherland had left him feeling stunned and vacant. He felt as if he had just received a hard blow to the head. The smoke seemed to be clearing and the lights were like yellow orbs suspended in the gloom. There was a sense of a crisis having passed, but this was very short-lived. Within a few minutes Thomas had called out—‘Propellers, getting louder’—and soon they could all hear the thrashing of the destroyer’s approach.
After removing his mouthpiece Lorenz responded: ‘Ahead slow.’
Men were still spluttering, heaving, and retching. The more distant coughs were sharp and clear like the repetitive chipping of a stonemason’s chisel. Percussive sounds such as these would carry. Lorenz hissed, ‘Shut up! Control yourselves.’ Others repeated his command in hushed, anxious tones and the hacking was replaced by muffled grunts and whimpers. A desperate, childlike sob floated through one of the hatchways, but everyone was too focused on inner visions of detonations and surging water to be concerned about its source.
The thrashing was right above them and they tensed when the first icy pulse of the ship’s underwater detection system chilled their blood and invited them to contemplate oblivion. It sounded like a wetted finger moving around the rim of a wine glass and pausing after each revolution. The crew awaited the inevitable: splashes, the ticking descent of depth charges, bowel-loosening thunder. But the inevitable never came. Instead, both the thrashing propellers and the Asdic pulses faded. The smoke had cleared sufficiently for Lorenz to see across the control room. He climbed through the forward bulkhead, knelt beside Thomas, and looked up at him quizzically. Thomas shrugged and whispered, ‘They’ve gone right over us. And they’re not turning around.’ Stepping back into the control room Lorenz caught Graf’s attention, ‘Carry on, Chief. Steady on course.’
‘What happened?’ said Graf softly. ‘Why didn’t they hammer us?’
‘They must have been following the smoke we left behind. Perhaps the wind blew it away and they’re still chasing it.’
‘But the Asdic? They knew we were right beneath them!’
A depth charge exploded—then another—and another. The boat rolled a little; however, they were no longer in any danger. Charges continued to explode but the roaring diminished as they pulled away at two knots.
After forty-five minutes the air was hazy and foul-tasting but breathable. Every pipe and dial and valve wheel was covered in black soot. After consulting Thomas, Lorenz looked through the observation periscope and called out, ‘Prepare to surface.’ They ventilated the boat for twenty minutes and then, because the convoy was still in view, submerged again for another hour, during which cleaning materials were distributed, and the crew set about making the boat habitable once more.
An investigation followed and Neumann, one of the mechanics, offered an explanation for what had caused the fire. ‘I’d left some oily rags on the ledge over where the exhaust pipe bends. I do it all the time. Well, we all do—it’s not just me, Herr Kaleun.’ A note of defiant indignation hardened his voice. Lorenz gestured for him to proceed. ‘I can remember the exhaust was really hot,’ Neumann continued, ‘because we’d been going so fast for so long. In fact the bend in the exhaust pipe was glowing. Red hot, it was. I think the rags must have fallen onto the pipe, caught fire, and dropped into the bilges. There’s a lot of oil swilling around in the diesel room.’ He made a silent, wide-eyed appeal to Lorenz and Graf. ‘It can’t be helped.’
‘When we opened the outside ventilation valve,’ said Fischer, the chief mechanic, ‘and we flooded the bilges, the blaze went out immediately. In fact, the fire only lasted a few seconds but it produced a huge quantity of smoke.’
‘So why did the engines cut out?’ asked Lorenz.
‘They didn’t,’ said Fischer. ‘It was chaos back there,’ he jabbed his thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the diesel room, ‘so I switched everything off. It was unsafe to leave the engines running when we couldn’t see anything. Someone could have got trapped in the machinery—lost a limb—or worse, sir.’
‘And what Neumann just said,’ Lorenz frowned. ‘Is that true? Your men always leave dirty rags on the ledge above the exhaust pipe?’
‘Not always,’ said Fischer. ‘But it happens.’
‘Have you left rags there?’
‘Yes,’ said Fischer. ‘It was bad luck, Kaleun. The rags fell at just the wrong moment, just when the pipe was hot enough to cause a fire.’
‘It’s never happened before, Herr Kaleun,’ said Neumann.
The men looked at each other and something passed between them, an uneasy acknowledgement of the fact that Fischer had employed the words ‘bad’ and ‘luck.’ The uniqueness of the event suggested agency, intervention, forces at work that might possibly create ‘bad luck.’
‘It’s never happened before,’ Graf repeated, largely to end the tense, protracted silence. ‘And it probably won’t happen again, Kaleun.’
‘Even so,’ said Lorenz, addressing the two mechanics. ‘You’d better stop leaving rags on that shelf in future. Just in case.’ Fischer and Neumann nodded their heads in vigorous agreement.
‘Kaleun?’ Schmidt asked. ‘With respect, are you going to recommend any disciplinary action?’ The Master-at-Arms was holding a pencil over the page of an open notebook. His pained expression showed that it was his reluctant duty to raise such issues.
‘No,’ said Lorenz, shaking his head. ‘I don’t think that will be necessary.’
‘The Admiral might take a different view,’ said Pullman.
Lorenz hadn’t realized he was there. He turned slowly to face the photogr
apher. ‘I beg your pardon?’
‘The rags did cause the fire. And Neumann did leave them there.’
‘I don’t recall asking for your opinion on this matter, Pullman. Did I ask for your opinion?’
‘No, Herr Kaleun.’
‘Then would you kindly keep your mouth shut?’
‘I was only seeking to be of service, Kaleun. Others may see things differently.’
‘Pullman, I’m not interested in what you think.’
‘What I think is of no consequence, sir; however, I was merely pointing out that Admiral—’
Lorenz hit the hull with the side of his fist. ‘Enough!’ Those gathered around him all flinched at once. ‘God in heaven, Pullman, you test my patience!’
The photographer bowed his head and apologized.
Lorenz looked at each man in turn before speaking. ‘It wasn’t Neumann’s fault. It wasn’t anybody’s fault.’ Would Sutherland’s spirit ever give up? Or would it carry on troublemaking, denied rest, until it finally succeeded in sinking U-330?
Neumann sighed and wiped the perspiration from his brow with his cuff. ‘Thank you, Herr Kaleun.’
A MESSAGE FROM HEADQUARTERS REMINDED Lorenz that the Führer would be giving an important speech that evening in Berlin. At the appointed hour Lorenz stood outside the radio shack, even though there was little point in this, because the broadcast was going to be fed to every compartment of the boat through the public-address system. Pullman was also drawn to the same area, accompanied by his acolytes, Berger and Wessel. It was as though being close to the radio receiver was somehow the equivalent of sitting in the front row of a theatre. The sustained noise of an adoring multitude blasted out of the speakers. Lorenz pictured the scene: thousands of raised arms, flags waving, dramatic pillars of light rising into the night sky. He wondered if Monika had managed to get a seat in the stadium. For a moment he was distracted by a memory of her pale, naked body stretched out on red sheets.
The crowd fell silent, and the Führer began his address. ‘My fellow German countrymen and women, my comrades!’ Pullman clasped his hands together and pressed them against his heart. ‘At present everybody speaks before the forum which seems to them the most fitting. Some speak before a parliament. I believed that I should return again today from whence I came, namely to the people!’ The stadium erupted: rapturous applause and cries of ‘Sieg Heil.’ The Führer resumed with calm authority, but his delivery became increasingly agitated, his language more plosive, until he was railing against British hypocrisy, American lies, and the iniquities of Bolshevism. After each outburst of incontinent rage he paused and the jubilant crowd cheered. Pullman nodded slowly, his hooded eyes and half-smile resembling the expression of an ecstatic flagellant. The Führer praised Germany’s allies and concluded by paying tribute to the army. ‘Thus we feel the entire sacrifice which our soldiers are making. Who can understand that better than myself—who was once a soldier too? I look upon myself as the first infantryman of the Reich. I know without doubt that the infantryman fulfils his duty. I fulfil my own duties also, unmistakably, and I understand all the sorrow of my comrades and know all that goes on with them. I cannot therefore use any phrase which they will misunderstand. I can only say one thing to them, the home front knows what they have to go through. The home front can well imagine what it means to lie in the snow and the frost in the cold of thirty-five degrees below zero and defend our homes for us. But because the home front knows it, they will all do what they can to lighten your fate. They will work, and they will continue to work, and I will demand that the German patriots at home work and produce munitions, manufacture weapons, and make more munitions, and more. You remain at home, and many comrades lose their lives daily. Workers: work, manufacture, continue to work so that our means of communication, our transportation facilities, can take them to the front from behind the lines. The front will hold, they will fulfil their duty.’
When they heard the crowd erupting for the last time, Pullman gave the party salute and clicked his heels. Berger and Wessel copied him, although when Lorenz looked at them his scrutiny made them self-conscious and uncomfortable.
‘Well, Herr Kaleun?’ said Pullman, offering Lorenz an opportunity to demonstrate his confidence in the Führer.
‘Well . . .’ Lorenz repeated without emotion.
‘Inspiring,’ Pullman persisted. ‘Wasn’t it?’
Lorenz’s face was blank. He glanced at Graf, who was silently imploring him to say something positive.
‘I share the Führer’s pity and sympathy,’ said Lorenz, ‘for our countrymen who are serving on the Russian front.’ Then, before Pullman could say anything else, Lorenz stepped into his nook and yanked the curtain along its rail.
ENGINE VIBRATIONS CONDUCTED THROUGH THE boat and made the slip of paper that Lorenz held in his hands tremble. He had been instructed to intercept a convoy and participate in a coordinated attack with three other U-boats. The convoy, according to intelligence sources, was large but inadequately defended.
‘Have you noticed,’ said Lorenz to Juhl. ‘How communications from U-boat headquarters are becoming increasingly sanguine? They are inclined to conclude that British and American defenses are either light or inadequate even when the evidence available would strongly suggest the contrary.’
Juhl, standing next to Lorenz, reached out and drew an imaginary line under a phrase with his finger: ‘Only three destroyers.’
‘Exactly,’ said Lorenz. ‘Only three destroyers, they say—and some corvettes. Well, that’s all right then. I like that—some corvettes—hardly worth counting them.’ He walked off to the control room, muttering imprecations, and set about plotting the new course with Müller. After this, he switched the public-address system on and spoke into the microphone. ‘We’re on our way to intercept a convoy. Müller believes we can reach them before sunrise. U-329, U-474, and U-689 are also coming to the party. Diesel room: we’ll be racing through the night again. So please be careful where you put those dirty rags.’
As dawn was breaking, Müller requested Lorenz’s presence on the bridge. The entire western horizon was dark with smoke. ‘Well,’ said Lorenz, ‘headquarters did say the convoy was large . . .’
‘How many ships do you think are out there?’ asked Müller.
Lorenz scanned the horizon with his binoculars. ‘We must be looking at twenty-five merchants—or thereabouts.’
‘No, more than that,’ said Müller. ‘Nine columns and they’re moving very slowly—seven knots, perhaps—and producing that much smoke? Thirty or more, I’d say.’
‘At least intelligence got the size of the convoy right,’ Lorenz huffed.
‘How many destroyers are you expecting?’
‘Three . . . but I can see four.’
‘And the frigate?’
‘Yes. Plus two corvettes.’
‘No, three corvettes. Two points forward of the port beam.’
Lorenz rotated the thumbscrew. ‘Three then . . . and I wonder how many warships are still below the horizon?’ He let the binoculars hang down against his chest, and the barrels seemed to weigh heavily on his ribs. A bad feeling solidified in his stomach, a bolus of fear and premonitory misgivings.
The staff officers at headquarters had planned an attack in two stages. First, U-329 and U-474 were to advance and fire on the convoy, then—after a short interval—it would be the turn of U-330 and U-689. Lorenz gave the order to dive, and, maintaining ‘periscope depth,’ the boat sailed north to await further instruction. One hour later Thomas reported faint detonations and these were followed by a message from headquarters stating that U-329 had been disabled by aircraft and had had to be scuttled. After more detonations a subsequent message declared with pithy indifference: RADIO CONTACT WITH U-474 LOST. ‘A hundred men,’ said Ziegler softly.
‘I shall not complain,’ whispered Lorenz, ‘though I now founder and perish in watery depths! Nevermore shall my gaze be cheered by the sight of my love’s star. I am a lost man.’<
br />
Ziegler recognized the lines. ‘Kaleun?’
‘Yes?’ Lorenz stirred from his lyric meditation.
‘I haven’t been typing out the poetry. You usually put a note in the diary telling me not to. But lately you haven’t been doing that.’
‘Haven’t I?’
‘No, sir. So I’ve assumed that you don’t want me to type it out.’
‘Yes. That’s right. Thank you.’
‘Kaleun?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why are you doing it—quoting poetry?’
Lorenz didn’t feel obliged to supply Ziegler with an answer. He didn’t really have one.
WHEN NIGHT FELL, U-330 AND U-689 were ordered to take up battle positions. U-330 fired two torpedoes at a steamer and missed. While Falk was giving Sauer revised figures to enter into the computer they were spotted by a destroyer and a corvette. Lorenz shouted ‘alarm,’ and U-330 slid smoothly beneath the waves, but for the next three hours he was obliged to maneuver the boat through a corridor of violent explosions.
The following morning headquarters sent another message ordering Lorenz to attack once again, but this time he was to target only the escorts. Lorenz suspected that more U-boats were on the way and that it had been decided that the convoy’s heavy defenses should be weakened prior to their arrival. The moon coasted between patches of cloud and laminated the waves with silver. A clot of shadow was observed on the port bow and as U-330 drew nearer the ill-defined shape became increasingly recognizable as a Flower-class corvette. Falk was standing behind the aiming device, eager to repair his injured pride. The fact that he had missed the steamer the previous day had made him somewhat nervous and irritable. Lorenz caught his eye and said calmly, ‘We’re not in a hurry.’ Falk nodded before peering through the lenses.
A fitful breeze brought with it the smell of diesel fumes and a hint of bacon. Lorenz couldn’t help thinking, as he always did, of ordinary sailors sitting around a breakfast table, talking about nothing in particular and drinking tea. The corvette was over sixty meters long, sitting low in the water, with a blockish superstructure situated just in front of a conspicuously high central funnel.