‘What is happening, Thomas?’ Stravinsky dully asked the top of Thomas’s head.
‘They say it’s a German submarine. It’s going to torpedo us.’
‘But this is an American vessel.’
Thomas grimaced. ‘That will make little difference to them.’ He spoke from hard experience of Nazi measures. ‘They already see America as an enemy.’ Having laced Stravinsky’s shoes, he helped the older man to stand, and tried to fit the life jacket over his head.
Stravinsky pushed him away. ‘I don’t want that thing.’
‘You have to wear it,’ Thomas said briskly. ‘It will keep you afloat if you end up in the water.’
‘I don’t care to remain afloat,’ Stravinsky said petulantly. ‘I prefer to go down with the ship.’
‘We have to get to our lifeboat quickly. There isn’t any time.’
‘Let someone else have my place on the lifeboat. I’m staying here.’
Thomas stared at him for a moment. ‘Don’t be a stupid old fool.’
Had it been shouted as an insult, it might have angered Stravinsky, and determined him to remain in his cabin; but the matter-of-fact way it was spoken was somehow calming. Silently, he allowed the boy to pull the bulky yellow thing over his head and tie the straps in a secure knot.
Thomas took Stravinsky’s hand. ‘Hold tight. We have to hurry.’
He pulled Stravinsky out of the cabin and along the passageway. Almost all the passengers were on the open decks or in the boats now. Stravinsky was tired, and the ascent from the ship’s underworld was steep. His feet occasionally stumbled on the metal stairs. But the boy pulled him upright each time, and at last they reached the top deck.
The scene was to Stravinsky’s eyes like the Last Judgment. He stared, open-mouthed. Two thousand passengers had come up from below. In the harsh deck lights, the life preservers they wore gleamed like folded golden wings about to open and take flight. The figures had already all but filled the boats, and yet hundreds more queued at each one. Overhead, the sky arched pitch black.
Thomas did not allow him to pause. He dragged Stravinsky towards the senior steward, Mr Nightingale, who was directing passengers to their boat stations with a list in his hands.
‘It’s Monsieur Stravinsky,’ Thomas shouted. ‘He’s in boat twelve, but there are too many passengers trying to get on.’
‘We can’t leave Monsieur Stravinsky behind,’ Mr Nightingale said cheerfully. ‘The ballet-lovers of the world would be very annoyed with us.’
Deftly, he got the milling queue of passengers to make way, and ushered Stravinsky on to the lifeboat.
U-113
Todt had the cross hairs of the master sight set amidships on the target. The red lights on the calculator were glowing, indicating that the machine was making its final calculations. There was a breathless silence in the control room, broken only by the voices of the captain and the torpedo aimer.
‘Calculating.’
All eyes flicked to the calculator’s lights, which had turned white.
‘Calculations complete. Ready to fire.
Rudi Hufnagel came clattering down from the bridge. ‘I see the American flag painted on the side,’ he said tautly. ‘And the name of the ship. The captain was not lying. She’s the SS Manhattan. Do you hear me, Captain? She’s the Manhattan.’ He offered Todt the glasses. ‘Go up and take a look.’
‘It makes no difference,’ Todt replied, ignoring the proffered binoculars.
‘No difference? Are you mad? She is a neutral ship!’
‘She is filled with enemies of the Reich. That makes her a legitimate target.’
‘We know nothing about her passengers. And if we sink her, it will bring America into the war!’
‘That is inevitable, in any case. Hitler has spoken many times of Roosevelt’s weakness. America is a mongrel nation, weakened by the blood of the Jews and the Negroes. They will never have the fighting capacity of an Aryan race. They are not even armed, Hufnagel. It will take them years to rearm. We have nothing to fear from them.’
‘Are we really discussing these ridiculous issues here and now?’ Hufnagel asked incredulously.
‘You are right.’ Todt swung back to the aiming column. He put his eyes to the viewfinder and grasped the launch lever. ‘Prepare to launch torpedo one.’ On the panel before him, the red lights went out obediently and the white ‘ready’ light came on.
‘No.’ Hufnagel grasped the shoulder of Todt’s jacket and pulled the commander away from the column. ‘You can’t do this, Todt.’
Todt’s pale grey eyes were alight. ‘I expected this, Hufnagel. You are not going to cheat me of this prize.’ He pulled the Luger from his holster and cocked it. He pointed the pistol at Hufnagel’s face. ‘Stand back or I will shoot you in the head.’
‘You had better shoot, then,’ Hufnagel muttered, moving forward to grapple with his captain.
‘I knew that you would fail in the moment of crisis. Jew-lover.’ Todt pulled the trigger.
SS Manhattan
Stravinsky had found himself, whether through coincidence or plan, seated beside Arturo Toscanini, who had been helped aboard the lifeboat in a state of shattered nerves by his plump little wife. The two men said nothing to each other. There seemed to be nothing to say. But as they stared at each other, each man recognised in the other’s face the same state of exhaustion and despair, the same bitterness. Beside them sat Carla Toscanini and Katharine Wolff.
‘Getting there is half the fun!’ Mr Nightingale said gaily. He pulled the lever, and the lifeboat swung out over the sea. Jolted and finding themselves swaying seventy feet in the air, with nothing but a sheer drop between them and the icy water below, the passengers screamed and grabbed on to each other or the gunwales. The boats were now so full that almost half the passengers in each were having to stand.
Stravinsky and Toscanini both turned to look over the side of their lifeboat. Far below them, the sea was black, laced with chains of foam. Their boat dangled unsteadily, lurching as the Manhattan rolled in the swell. They stared into the abyss, each one recognising it for what it was, death staring back at them.
It came to each man quite suddenly that, for all the disillusionment of life that had passed, there was still life to be lived. Still music to be played, women to be loved. Still a little sunlight left on the mountainside.
They turned away, shuddering, from the darkness that yawned beneath them.
Naughty Nightie, who had behaved with exemplary calm and good humour from the start of the crisis, moved down the line, dispensing jokes to each group of passengers and yanking the release levers like a cheerful hangman. One by one, the lifeboats swung out on their davits, ready to be lowered on the Commodore’s command. Shrieking adults and wailing children clutched at each other.
The Commodore himself was showing little emotion as he stood at the window of his bridge, staring into the darkness. ‘Why don’t they say anything?’ he asked rhetorically. ‘They must see our funnels by now. They must see the Stars and Stripes.’
‘The ten minutes were up a long time ago,’ Symonds said, looking at his chronometer. He was very tense. ‘The lifeboats have all been swung out. Shall I give the order to lower them?’
‘No.’
‘But, Commodore—’
‘If we lower the lifeboats, he’ll torpedo us right away. It’s like admitting we’re a legitimate target.’
Randall saw the officers on the bridge glance at one another. Stress was written clear on every face. ‘So what do we do?’ Symonds demanded.
‘We keep signalling who we are, and wait for them to understand,’ Rescue Randall replied calmly. It was essential for him to maintain imperturbable control and not be swayed by his officers’ panic. ‘Is there any fresh coffee, gentlemen?’
U-113
The pistol fired in his face had half-blinded and deafened Hufnagel, but he was surprised to find himself alive. The bullet had struck him in the left shoulder. He did not know how badly he
had been injured, only that he could no longer use that arm. He didn’t flinch, however, as he grasped Todt’s pistol and wrenched it aside. For a moment the two men wrestled, their faces an inch apart. There was another shot. Hufnagel felt something sear his arm.
Then new hands were intervening, dragging them apart. Dimly, he saw the faces of the crewmen, among them Krupp, the medical officer.
‘You’ve been shot,’ Krupp said urgently. ‘Let me examine the wound.’
‘The captain is in an unfit mental state,’ Hufnagel gasped. He saw Krupp flinch and back away from him, and realised that he had somehow got possession of Todt’s Luger, and was waving it dangerously. Hufnagel lowered his arm. Blood immediately streamed down his hand and spattered on the floor plates. He had been shot a second time, the bullet tearing the flesh of his right forearm open. He could feel no pain. ‘That is an American liner,’ he said urgently. ‘The Manhattan. Attacking her would be a serious breach of our orders. I am relieving the captain of his command.’
‘Do you know what you’re doing, Rudi?’ Krupp asked quietly.
‘Come and see.’ Hufnagel dragged himself up to the conning tower again, followed by the others.
The sun was about to rise, and the sky was flushed with the first reddish light of dawn. Looking across the two miles that separated them from the other vessel, those with good eyesight could now see, even without the aid of binoculars, the huge American flag that was painted on her side. A man uttered a curse of dismay or surprise. Otherwise they were all silent. Todt seemed to be dazed by what he had done. He put his head in his hands and crouched down, making no attempt to resume his command.
Hufnagel noticed that the signalman was huddled in the corner of the conning tower next to his overturned lamp, terrified at the sight of the bloodstained second officer brandishing a Luger.
‘Get up,’ he commanded. ‘Prepare to send.’ The man scrambled to his feet, pulling on his cap, which had come off, and pushing the lamp back into place.
SS Manhattan
‘They’re signalling again,’ George Symonds said urgently.
They all watched the flickering light, brilliant against the glowing dawn sky, and read out the letters as they were transmitted, slower than before: ‘A-P-O-L-O-G-Y. M-I-S-T-A-K-E. P-L-E-A-S-E C-O-N-T-I-N-U-E.’
Randall showed little emotion. ‘Ask him to confirm his message.’
The cadet relayed the query. A few moments later, the reply came: ‘M-I-S-T-A-K-E. G-O A-H-E-A-D P-L-E-A-S-E. G-O-O-D-B-Y-E.’
‘Signal “Received”. Start engines.’ The deep rumble of Manhattan’s engines began to throb under their feet. ‘Ahead slow.’
The tension hadn’t left the bridge. If anything, it had increased. ‘Should we get the passengers out of the lifeboats?’ Symonds asked.
‘No hurry,’ Randall replied calmly. ‘Let’s get some distance between Mister Mistake and us first.’
‘Aye-aye, Sir.’
Commodore Randall had his binoculars trained on the U-boat. ‘I’d give a lot to overhear the conversation that’s taking place on her bridge at this moment,’ he muttered.
As the Manhattan moved forward slowly in the water, they all watched the U-boat intently. The rim of the sun emerged from the horizon, sending a shaft along the surface of the sea. The tips of the millions of waves turned translucent green. It had become a sea of jade.
A bellboy ran on to the bridge, a boy of fourteen, the brass buttons on his uniform still awry from the haste with which he had dressed that morning.
‘Sir! There’s another submarine on the port beam.’
The officers moved in a body to the port deck to look. Without doubt, several miles away, another submarine had surfaced, her shape gilded in the flat light of the rising sun. They could see her hull and the lump of her conning tower.
‘Has she seen us?’ Symonds asked.
‘I don’t care to find out,’ the Commodore retorted. ‘And I don’t want any more conversations with undersea boats. Swing us into the sun, helmsman. Full ahead all engines.’
The manoeuvre brought the second visitor to their stern. Manhattan’s one hundred and sixty-five thousand horses began to gallop, pushing her to her full speed of twenty knots and heading straight into the brilliance of the rising sun. The great liner settled her stern in the water and drove ahead. Either blinded or uninterested, the second submarine soon fell astern and vanished.
‘I believe I’ve aged ten years in the last hour,’ Commodore Randall remarked. ‘Shall we secure lifeboat stations, George?’
‘Aye-aye, Sir.’ Symonds went on rather shaky legs to let the passengers out of the boats.
U-113
None of the crew were quite sure what to do with Kapitän-leutnant Jürgen Todt. Since being relieved of his command, he had not spoken a word. He went straight to his quarters and remained there, which many of them thought was ominous; they imagined he would be writing furiously in his notorious log, preparing a report which would have them all shot on their return to Germany.
Rudi Hufnagel, however, was in need of immediate medical attention. He had been wounded twice and he was losing a lot of blood. The first of Todt’s bullets had glanced across his left shoulder, damaging bone and muscle. The other, ostensibly more superficial wound, was the one that Krupp found most hard to deal with. The bullet had torn open the veins of Hufnagel’s right forearm, and blood was pouring out as the First Watch Officer lay slumped on the floor, starting to lose consciousness.
Krupp bandaged the arm as tightly as he could, but the scarlet blossomed through the gauze instantly and spilled on to the metal deck-plates, making them slippery underfoot.
‘Tie a tourniquet above the elbow,’ someone advised. ‘That will stop it.’
‘I can’t cut off the circulation altogether,’ Krupp said helplessly. ‘By the time we get back to Kiel he’ll have lost the arm.’ With a seriously wounded man to care for now, and very little real experience, the twenty-three-year-old Krupp was overwhelmed, and on the edge of tears. There was a hubbub of conflicting advice from the men standing around him: to raise the wounded arm above Hufnagel’s head, to make Hufnagel lie down, to cauterise the wound with the electrician’s soldering-irons.
The sharp voice of the hydrophone operator cut through this babble.
‘Torpedo launched.’
They all turned to stare at the man, who was hunched over, with his hands clamped on to his headphones. ‘We haven’t launched a torpedo,’ Krupp said stupidly.
‘Enemy torpedo,’ the hydrophone operator said. ‘Starboard stern. One thousand metres. Closing at thirty knots.’
There was a moment of silence. In the confusion of the last few minutes, and with their two senior officers out of action, the inexperienced crew had neglected the primary rule of submarine warfare – to keep a watch at all times. They now had less than a minute to respond to the torpedo which had been launched at them.
‘Secure hatches!’ Krupp screamed. ‘Prepare to dive.’
Leaving Hufnagel bleeding on the floor, the men rushed to their posts, closing the watertight doors, gulping water into the ballast tanks, revving the motors. The seconds ticked by. The remainder of the crew rushed to the forward compartment to weigh U-113’s nose down. At his station, the hydrophone operator murmured, almost admiringly, ‘It’s a British submarine. They crept up behind us while we weren’t looking.’
U-113 was just starting her dive when the torpedo struck her stern. The explosion ripped through the compartments, bursting the watertight doors open, hurling men and machinery in all directions, plunging the U-boat into darkness and opening her like a sardine can to the plundering sea.
SS Manhattan
Rachel Morgenstern was reluctantly forced to admit that Thomas König had been helpful during the crisis. Without his assistance, the girls would have found the experience very difficult; and it was doubtful whether Stravinsky would have made it to the lifeboat at all.
‘Of course, you did it for Masha,’ Rachel sai
d to Thomas. ‘You prefer Masha to me, don’t you, Adolf?’
‘I like you both the same,’ Thomas replied awkwardly. Rachel made him very nervous.
‘Liar. You think I am an ugly, spiteful Jewess.’
‘You are not ugly,’ he replied, flushing, ‘and your religion is not important to me.’
‘Liar again. Nor have you denied that I am spiteful.’
‘You are not spiteful.’
‘Liar a third time.’ She considered him with her sharp blue eyes. ‘How did you know which was our lifeboat?’
‘I found it out.’
‘When?’
‘The first day I saw you.’
‘So you could impress my cousin?’
‘So that I could be useful.’
‘How lucky we Jews are to have a little Nazi looking out for us. You were useful, I suppose.’ Grudgingly, she leaned forward and touched her lips to his cheek. ‘There. You had better go and wash that off now, before the Führer finds out about it.’
Thomas would far rather the kiss had come from Masha, but he accepted it with good grace. Masha did not kiss him, but she took Thomas’s hand in her own and walked along the deck with him. ‘You have never told me about your mother,’ she said. When he made no reply, but just looked away, she went on, ‘I would like her to know what a good, brave young man she raised.’
Well-intentioned as this remark was, it had the effect of emptying the cup of Thomas’s happiness in an instant, leaving him bereft, taking him back to the moment he had last seen his mother. ‘It was nothing,’ he mumbled.
‘It was not nothing,’ Masha replied. ‘You looked after us.’
‘The submarine didn’t even fire a torpedo.’ Thomas felt almost disappointed, as if that eventuality would have enabled him to show true heroism, rescuing Masha from the waves.
The Ocean Liner Page 22