Das Boot

  “Perhaps we might close in a little more?”

  The Commander’s question is addressed to Kriechbaum.

  “Mm!” is all the navigator says, and keeps his binoculars fixed on the convoy. The Old Man takes this as sufficient assent. He gives the helmsman an order that brings our bow diagonally across the course of the convoy.

  Once more we stand stiff and silent, Excited? God forbid! Like landlubbers, runs through my mind. Lubbers? What are lubbers? But at once administer my own rebuke: The hell with it, better concentrate on keeping a proper lookout!

  “Man battle stations!” The Old Man’s voice sounds rusty. He has to cough to free his vocal cords. From below, one loud roar after another. “Chief Engineer: Engine room on battle stations!” The Chief to the bridge, “Below deck on battle stations!” But that’s not the end of it. “First Watch Officer: Torpedo crew on battle stations!” And now the unmistakable high voice of the First Watch Officer: “Torpedo crew on battle stations!”

  The direction finder is handed up. The First Watch Office places it carefully on its column as if it were a raw egg.

  As seen from the convoy, we are right in the path of the noon. I can’t understand why the Old Man stays on this side and not in the shadow. Probably he’s thinking the way they would: Sea as bright as silver paper in the moonlight, more brilliant than full nonday sun, so why should any German submarines be plowing around here?

  Clearly the Old Man is counting on the enemy’s defenses being weaker on the moonlit side. And he’s probably right, for if there weren’t any holes in the defense on this side, we would have been discovered long ago.

  I can picture the deployment of the ships and the escort vessels as clearly as in an aerial reconnaissance photograph: four columns in an extended rectangle; in the middle the most valuable ships, the tankers; two corvettes—the sweepers—as advance guards, racing in wide circles directly in front of the convoy, in order to prevent any U-boats from swinging back among the steamers from an advanced position. Guarding the flanks, destroyers or corvettes speeding up and down—in the lee of the moon, of course. Then, at a great distance from the herd, the rearguard defense, the killers: escort ships that are not specifically defending the convoy, because U-boats could hardly attack from a position astern. They are there to take on any U-boats that have been spotted by the convoy corvettes, work them over while the convoy moves on.

  20.00. It occurs to me that I should have a second night film ready. In my hasty descent I make a mess of things. I’ve hardly arrived in the control room when a confusion of cries reaches me from above. Abandoning my film I hastily climb up again. “Vessel approaching.” The Commander. “There—coming from outside—you can see her edging up!”

  I stop breathing. Ahead, four points to port, I catch sight of the mastheads of the steamers. But the Old Man is facing aft. I search in that direction. There it is: a narrow shadow pointing over the horizon.

  What do we do now? Dive? Make a getaway? Give up? Say the hell with it?

  “Both engines full ahead!” The Commander’s voice is a monotone. Will he try the old trick again and just keep on going?

  “One point to port!”

  So that’s not it.

  A minute passes, then the Old Man makes his intentions clear. “Closing in on the convoy!”

  As I direct my glasses toward the steamers again, the navigator announces “Mastheads getting bigger!” in a voice less than matter of fact.

  We must either dive to escape the approaching destroyer or run much too close to the convoy.

  Our wake whips back and forth like a huge tail. Over it spread the diesel fumes, screening us in mist; with luck it’ll work this time too. In any case, I can no longer see the shadow of the destroyer through the veil of gas.

  I swing the glasses back. The convoy is now directly in front of our bow.

  “Dammit to hell!” from the Commander.

  “Destroyer appears to be falling back,” reports the navigator. Long minutes of tense uncertainty before he breaks the spell: “Distance increasing!”

  The Commander hasn’t given another glance to the destroyer. All his attention is focused on the hummocks on the horizon—directly over our bow.

  “What’s our course?”

  “Bearing fifty degrees!”

  “Fifteen points to starboard, steer one hundred forty degrees.”

  I’m still paralyzed with fear.

  The Commander says, “They’re running in rather loose formation Only then does he come back to the destroyer. “Good thing we didn’t dive. Close thing this time.”

  Abruptly he asks the navigator, “Kriechbaum, what sort of feeling d’you have?”

  The navigator leaves his elbow propped in position, simply turns his head from behind the binoculars, and says, “It’s a sure thing, Herr Kaleun! Absolutely. Has to work!”

  “Perfectly straightforward.”

  Funny sort of conversation, I think. Are they reassuring each other?

  I sneak a look into the tower. Covers have been removed from the target-position calculator, the deflection calculator, and the torpedo-firing mechanism. Bluish light gleams from the dials.

  “Time!” the Commander asks below.

  “20.10 hours!”

  Unbelievable that we should be allowed to travel unchallenged beside the convoy as though we actually belong to it.

  “I don’t like the look of that shadow,” the Commander murmurs to the navigator.

  I turn in the same direction and pick up the thing in my glasses. Its angle to us is very sharp. Approaching or receding—we can’t tell. Thirty degrees or one hundred fifty! It’s certainly no steamer! But the Old Man is already turning away again.

  The First Watch Officer is fumbling nervously with the direction finder. He peers through the telescopic sight, then straightens up again momentarily and takes his bearing direct, over the bulwark in the direction of the convoy. The Old Man, sensing his restlessness, asks in a derisive undertone, “Visibility suit you, First Watch Officer?”

  Again and again the Old Man turns his face to the moon. Then he gives voice to his annoyance. “Wish we could use the thing for target practice…”

  I place my hopes in the clouds, which are lying in deep piles on the horizon and gradually rising—so slowly, admittedly, that it may take a good while before they reach the moon.

  “They’re tacking to starboard!” says the Old Man, and is seconded by the navigator: “Just what I was thinking.”

  The shadows have indeed grown flatter.

  The Old Man orders a ten-point turn to starboard.

  “They’re not going to try some new trick?”

  I’m standing so close to the TBT that I can hear the First Watch Officer every time he breathes out. I’m uneasy: the paler shadow is no longer to be seen.

  “Time?”

  “20.28 hours!”

  VIII SECOND ATTACK

  The moon has turned even whiter, icier. All around its sharply defined halo the sky is clear. But one of the clouds on the horizon is advancing on it, looking like the vanguard of a whole horde.

  I only have eyes for this particular one. It’s moving in the right direction, but after a while it slows down until it’s hardly rising at all; then it turns threadbare and starts to unravel. As we watch, it dissolves. All that’s left is a veil of vapor.

  “For chrissake!” hisses the navigator.

  But then another cloud prepares to free itself from the horizon, even heavier and fuller than the first.

  The wind pushes it a little sideways, exactly the way we want it to go. No one is cursing any longer, as if cursing might upset it.

  I abandon the cloud to concentrate on the horizon. In my glasses I can make out the bow, stern, and midship superstructures of the freighters.

  The Commander tells the First Watch Officer his plan. “Charge them and fire. After firing, turn instantly to port. If that cloud keeps rising, I’ll go in for the main attack!”

  The First W
atch Officer gives the instructions for the calculator, which is operated by one man in the tower and a second in the control room.

  “Tubes one to four stand by for surface firing!”

  All four torpedo tubes are flooded.

  The bow compartment reports over the speaking tube: “Tubes one to four clear for surface firing!”

  “Connect TBT and target position calculator. Firing will take place from bridge!” orders the First Watch Officer.

  The words come smoothly. So he can do it. He’s got that much by heart.

  The mate at the calculator in the tower acknowledges the orders.

  The Old Man behaves as though all this liturgical antiphony has nothing to do with him. Only the tension in his stance betrays his acute awareness of everything that’s going on.

  The First Watch Officer now reports to the mate in the tower: “Enemy position bow right—angle fifty—enemy speed ten knots—range ten thousand feet—torpedo speed thirty—depth ten—position changing.”

  The First Watch Officer doesn’t need to worry about the proper lead angle for the torpedoes. The position calculator computes that. The calculator is connected directly with the gyrocompass and the TBT column, along with the torpedoes, whose steering mechanism is thus continuously adjusted. Every change in the boat’s course is automatically translated for the torpedoes. All the First Watch Officer has to do is keep the target in the crosshairs of the glasses on the TBT column.

  He bends over the eyepiece. “Ready for comparison reading!… Variation… Zero!”

  “Must work,” the Commander murmurs. Once more he glances up at the moon. The second cloud has stopped, like a captive balloon that has reached its predetermined height. Three handbreadths below the moon: There it hangs, and doesn’t budge.

  “One good push!” The navigator shakes his clenched fist; an outburst of feeling from so quiet a man as Kriechbaum amazes me. But there’s no time to muse over the navigator; the Commander jerks his face sharply around and orders: “Full speed ahead! Hard a-port! Commence attack! Open torpedo doors!”

  From below come the shouted repetitions of the commands. The bow is already beginning to swing along the horizon—seeking the shadows.

  “Midships!—Steady as she goes! Hold ninety degrees!” The boat is racing straight at the dark shapes, which are growing larger by the second.

  The plowshare of the bow cuts into the shining sea, hurling aside great masses of sparkling water. The wave surges, glints with a thousand facets. The foreship rises. Immediately spray sweeps over us. The diesels are running at full speed. The bulwark quivers.

  “Find your target!” the Commander orders.

  The First Watch Officer remains bent over the sight.

  “There, those two overlapping ones, we’ll take them. Have you got them? To the left, beside the single freighter! The big one will need a double shot, the others singles. Fire a double, one at the forward edge of the bridge and one just ahead of the aftermast!”

  I’m standing close behind the Commander.

  “Tubes one to four clear!”

  My heart is hammering in my throat, and I can’t think straight. The roaring engines, the shadows, the silver sea, the moon, the final charge! We’re meant to be a U-boat—let’s pray everything goes right.

  The First Watch Officer keeps the target in his sights. His mouth is downturned, his voice matter of fact and dry. He’s constantly revising his figures. He already has his right hand on the firing lever.

  “Connect tubes one and two—angle sixty-five—follow changing angle!”

  “Request angle!”

  “Angle seventy… angle eighty!”

  Close beside me I hear the Commander say, “Tubes one and two, permission to fire!”

  Seconds later the First Watch Officer orders, “Tubes one and two fire!”

  I strain all my senses: no report—no jolt—nothing! The boat races on, even closer to the freighters.

  They’ve noticed nothing!—nothing!

  “Connect tube three!”

  “Tube three—fire!”

  “Port ten!” orders the Commander.

  Once more the bow moves, searching, along the chain of ships.

  “Connect tube four!” from the First Watch Officer. He waits until the new target is in position and orders, “Tube four—fire!”

  It’s at this moment, close beside the target steamer, that I discover a long, low ship—a shadow that’s not as dark as the others—probably painted gray.

  “Hard a-port! Connect stern tube!” That was the Commander. The boat heels heavily as she turns. The shadows move to starboard.

  The navigator calls, “Vessel veering this way!”

  I see that our stern is now aimed at the shadows. But I also see that the light-colored shape is narrowing. I can even see the thread of her bow wave.

  “Tube five—fire! Hard a-starboard!” shouts the Commander. The boat has barely swung toward the other side when orange-red lightning blazes up, followed in a fraction of a second by another flash. A mighty fist strikes me in the knees, and a sharp whistling goes through me like cold steel.

  “They’re firing, the bastards! ALARM!” roars the Old Man.

  With one jump I’m in the hatch and let myself fall through. Seaboots land on my shoulders. I leap away, jammed up against the chart table, doubled over with pain. Someone goes rolling across the floor in front of me.

  “Flood!” shouts the Commander, and immediately afterward, “Hard a-port!” There’s a dash of water from above. Our high speed is forcing the boat down at a steeper angle than usual, but the Commander still orders, “All hands forward!”

  “That was damned good!” he exclaims as he catches up with us.

  I have some difficulty realizing that this is praise for the enemy artillery. The cavalcade of men goes stumbling through the compartment. I catch terrified looks. Everything begins to slide. The leather jackets and the binoculars on their hooks to right and left of the hatch are standing out from the walls.

  The needle of the depth manometer sweeps over the scale, till the Chief finally orders the hydroplanes reversed. The jackets and binoculars sink slowly—very gradually—back toward the walls. The boat returns to an even keel.

  I can’t catch the Commander’s eye. “That was damned good”—anything better and we’d have been done for. I can think of only one thing: the torpedoes—what about the torpedoes?

  “Just as I thought—it was a destroyer,” says the Commander. He sounds short of breath. I can see his chest heaving. He looks us over as if to assure himself that everyone’s present, then mutters, “The return engagement is about to begin.”

  The destroyer! At such close range! The Old Man must have known for some time that the pale shadow was no freighter. The Tommies’ destroyers are light gray, just like ours.

  There’s a destroyer coming hell for leather straight at our diving point! “The return engagement!” It’s going to be a pretty explosive one.

  “Take her down to three hundred feet—slowly,” orders the Old Man.

  The Chief repeats the order in a low voice. He’s crouching behind the hydroplane operators, his eyes fixed on the manometer.

  A whisper: “Now we’re in for it!”

  Make yourself heavy, make yourself small, shrink!

  Our torpedoes! Did they all miss? Can that happen? Five of them? A double and two singles and the stern tube as well while we were turning. Admittedly the shot from tube five was hastily aimed, but the others! Why no explosion?

  The Chief brings his head even closer to the round eye of the manometer. On his forehead, sweat sparkles like pearls of dew. I see the single drops link up, making trails down his face like snail tracks. He wipes his forehead impatiently with the back of his hand.

  We’ve barely moved an inch.

  They’ll be above us any moment now.

  What went wrong? Why no explosions?

  Everyone stands silent, brooding. The needle of the depth manometer moves anothe
r ten divisions.

  I try to think clearly. How long since we dived?—How fast was that destroyer moving?—Misses!—All misses!—These shitty torpedoes!—The familiar suspicions—Sabotage! What else could it be? Faulty steering mechanisms, the bastards! And any minute now the Tommies will be ripping our asses up! The Old Man must have been out of his mind. What he did was a torpedo boat attack! On the surface! Straight up and at ‘em. They can’t have believed their eyes! How many yards’ range was it, anyway? How many seconds for a destroyer to reach us at top speed? Those garbled steering orders! The turn!—Crazy: The Old Man had ordered hard a-port just as we were diving. That’s something you never do. What can he have been up to? Then I get it: The Tommies saw us diving away to starboard. The Old Man was trying to fool them—let’s hope they’re not as crafty as we are!

  The Old Man rests one thigh on the chart chest. All I see of him is his bent back and the dim white of his cap over the upturned collar of his fur-lined vest.

  The navigator’s eyes are almost completely closed: slits carved in wood with a sharp chisel. He’s sucking his lips between his teeth. His right hand holding fast to the housing of the sky periscope. Six feet away, the control-room mate’s face is no more than a pale blob.

  A dull, smothered sound breaks the silence—like a stick hitting a slack drumhead.

  “That one got it!” whispers the Commander. He raises his head abruptly, and I can see his face. His eyes are squinting, his mouth stretched wide.

  Another dull concussion.

  “And that one too! Damned slow running time,” he adds dryly.

  What is he talking about? Torpedoes? Have two of them hit?

  The Second Watch Officer has straightened up. His fists are knotted and he’s baring his clenched teeth like an ape. It’s obvious he wants desperately to shout. But he only swallows and chokes. The grimace stays frozen on his face.

  The needle of the depth manometer keeps moving slowly over the dial.

  Another drumbeat.