Das Boot

  “Number three!” says someone.

  These dull detonations—is that all there is to it? I squeeze my eyes shut. All my nerves seem to be concentrated in my ear canals. Is that all there’s going to be?

  Then there’s a sound like a sheet being slowly torn in two, followed by a second sheet being rapidly ripped to shreds. After that, a violent rasping of metal, and now all around us nothing but tearing, grating, knocking, cracking.

  I’ve been holding my breath so long that I have to fight for air. Dammit. What’s happening now?

  The Old Man raises his head.

  “Two of them going down, navigator—there are two, wouldn’t you say?”

  The noise—is that the bulkheads bursting?

  “They’ve—had—it!” The Old Man drags the words out in long breaths.

  No one moves. No one gives a victory yell. The control-room mate is standing beside me, motionless, in his usual position, one hand on the ladder, head turned to face the depth manometer. The two hydroplane operators: stiff folds in rubber suits, sou’westers gleaming with moisture. The pale eye of the manometer: the pointer steady now. Then I register: The hydroplane operators are actually still wearing their sou’westers!

  “Damned slow running time. I’d already given up.” The Commander’s voice is back to its usual dark growl. The breaking and cracking, roaring and tearing show no sign of coming to an end.

  “Now there’s a couple of boats you can write off for good.”

  Then a shattering blow knocks me off my feet. In the nick of time I catch hold of a pipe to break my fall. There’s a crash of breaking glass.

  I pull myself upright, automatically stagger forward a couple of steps, jostle against someone, collide with a hard corner, and collapse into the hatch frame.

  This is it. The reckoning! Mustn’t let yourself go! I press my left shoulder hard against the metal frame of the hatch and make myself as heavy as I can. I use both hands to seize the pipe that runs under my thighs. My own special place. My hands touch the smooth enamel paint and feel the rust on the underside of the pipe. An iron grip. Like a vise. I stare intently at the back of my left hand, then my right, as though staring could make them grip all the harder.

  Where’s the next?

  I raise my hunched head very slowly, like a turtle, ready to retract it instantly when the expected blow comes. All I hear is someone sniffing violently.

  My eyes seem to be drawn magnetically to the Commander’s cap. He takes a step—and his cap and the red and white scales on either side of the water gauge become part of a single image: clowns’ striped whips. Or the oversized lollipops that stand like flowers in jars in the windows of Parisian confectioners. All-day suckers. Or the beacon lighthouse that we saw on the port bow as we left the harbor. That was painted red and white too.

  The hatch frame almost bucks me out. An enormous detonation tries to shatter my eardrums. Then blow after blow, as if the sea were a mass of huge powder kegs being set off in quick succession.

  A multiple drop.

  Christ, that was accurate! That was their second charge. They’re no fools, and they didn’t fall for our bluff.

  My guts contract.

  Outside, nothing but rearing, gurgling, rumbling! Undersea whirlpools seize the boat, tossing it violently this way and that. Luckily, I’m so firmly wedged I might as well be in a gyrowheel.

  Suddenly the gurgling of the water, pouring back on itself to fill the vacuum left by the explosions, ebbs away, but we can still hear the dull roaring, knocking, and breaking up of the other boats.

  The Commander laughs like a madman. “They’re certainly going down—well, that saves us a parting shot. Too bad we can’t watch the tubs go under, though.”

  I blink in exasperation. But already the Old Man’s voice is matter of fact again. “That was the second strike!”

  I become aware of the voice of the hydrophone operator. My powers of perception must have been partially suspended. The operator must have been giving continuous reports, but I haven’t heard a word.

  “Destroyer bearing thirty degrees to port. Getting louder fast!”

  The Commander’s eyes are fixed on the operator’s lips. “Any change?”

  The operator hesitates. Finally he reports, “Sound receding astern!”

  The Commander immediately orders an increase in speed. Now I can finally clear the fog from my brain, follow what is going on, and think with the others. The hope is that the destroyer will cross our course a good way astern, which is obviously what the Old Man’s after.

  We still don’t know which way the destroyer will turn in its renewed attempt to pass overhead—the Old Man must be guessing that it’ll be to port, for he has the helm put hard to starboard.

  The chief mechanic Franz comes into the room. His face is chalkwhite. Beads of sweat gleam like glycerin on his forehead. Although there are no waves to worry about, he hangs on first with his left hand, then with his right. “They’ve got us!” he blurts out. Then he shouts for safety cassettes for the gyrocompass.

  “Stop that racket!” the Commander rounds on him angrily.

  Four detonations in quick succession, almost a single blow. But the deep whirlpools don’t reach us.

  “Astern—way astern!” the Old Man jeers. “Not as easy as all that.”

  He props his left leg against the chart table, then undoes the buttons of his collar. He’s making himself comfortable. He pushes his hands into the pockets of his leather trousers and turns to the navigator.

  Another single detonation—not close, but the echo is remarkably long. The bubbling and roaring seem never-ending.

  Through the dull hubbub comes the Old Man’s voice. “They’re spitting in the wrong corner.”

  The destroyer certainly seems to have faulty bearings—another couple of distant detonations. But we’re still tormented by the acoustical aftermath of every bomb—even those that explode several thousand yards away. The enemy knows how demoralizing this can be, even if the bombs fall wide of the mark.

  “Take this down, navigator.”

  “Jawohl, Herr Kaleun.”

  “’22.40 hours proceed to attack’—22.40 hours is right, isn’t it, navigator?—’proceed to attack. Columns running in close formation—yes, close formation. How many columns we don’t need to say. ‘Destroyers clearly visible up ahead and on the moonlit side…’”

  How’s that? Clearly visible? Destroyers clearly visible up ahead… So there’s more than one? My mouth goes dry. The Old Man didn’t say a word about it. On the contrary, he was acting the whole time as if there were no escort on the side we were attacking.

  “’…clearly visible.’ Have you got that? ‘Attack on starboard side of second column’—got that too?”

  “Jawohl, Herr Kaleun.”

  “’Moon very bright…’”

  “You can say that again,” murmurs the Second Watch Officer, but so softly the Commander can’t hear him.

  “’… very bright—but not bright enough to necessitate underwater attack…’”

  I have to get up to make way for the men who ended up in the bow compartment when “All hands forward!” was ordered, and who now want to get back through the hatch. They tiptoe past like tightrope walkers to avoid making any noise.

  The Old Man orders the boat down farther and to hold depth and course for about five minutes. And when the hydrophone operator announces a new attack he takes us deeper still. He’s betting that the people in the destroyer won’t have caught this second maneuver and therefore that they’ll be setting their canisters to go off at the previous depth… the one we were holding just long enough to make sure their sound men got a good reading.

  New reports from the operator. No doubt about it: the destroyer is on our heels.

  Despite the urgency in the operator’s voice the Old Man gives no new orders to the helmsman. I know: he’s postponing any change in course until the last moment, so the destroyer that’s speeding after us won’t have time to cop
y our maneuver. Hare and hound! Only when the dog is about to snap—when he’s sure the hare is already in his jaws—does the hare swerve, hut the dog can’t make the turn: His own momentum is too great.

  The analogy doesn’t totally fit our case, I admit—we’re not as fast as the hare and our turning circle is too big. Indeed, it doesn’t fit at all: The destroyer an always turn faster than we can. But if it’s running full speed and wants to change course, it too is thrown off. A tin can like that simply has too little draft.

  “Not had shooting. Azimuth damned good. They just aimed a little too high Then the Old Man orders, “Hard a-starboard. Port motor full speed ahead!”

  All the auxiliary machines have long since been turned off: the radio transformer, the vei tilators, even the gyrocompass. I hardly dare breathe, Quiet as a mouse. Vbiat does that mean, “Quiet as a mouse”? The cat up there—we mice down here? Any way, don’t move!

  They really should have got us on the first attack—they were so close to our diving point. But the Old Man was too clever for them. First he turned our narrow silhouette toward theirs. And then the turn to starboard—and the dive, but with the rudder hard a-port. Like a player taking a goal kick who looks at one corner of the net and kicks at the other.

  The Old Man favors me with a nod. “We’re not through with them yet. Tough lot. They’re no beginners.”

  “Really,” is all I manage.

  “Though they must be getting a trifle annoyed by now,” he adds.

  He orders us down farther; five hundred feet. Going by the operator’s reports, the destroyer must be following us around on a leash. At any moment they can signal their engines full speed ahead and start attacking. What we need is a faster boat.

  The Old Man orders higher speed. This involves all sorts of risks, because the faster the motors run the more racket they make. The Tommies must be able to hear our E-motors just by using their ears. But the Commander’s prime concern is probably to get out of range of the enemy’s direction finder.

  “Destroyer getting louder!” the operator announces in a low voice.

  The Commander whispers an order for us to reduce speed again. So it didn’t work. We didn’t manage to break away. They’re still after us. They’re not going to let themselves be shaken off; they’d rather let their scows wallow along without protection. After all, positive location of a U-boat is no everyday occurrence.

  A gigantic sledgehammer hits the boat. At almost the same instant, the Old Man orders the bilge pumps turned on and the speed increased. As soon as the tumult outside ebbs away he has the pumps stopped and the motors reduced to slow. “Thirteen—fourteen,” the navigator counts, and makes two new marks on his slate. So that was two bombs. I count: first we had four. Then the second drop, the multiple ejection, was counted as six. Does that check? I recalculate.

  Another three, four blows—so violent that the floor plates clatter. I feel the detonations right down to my stomach. Cautiously I turn my head. The navigator’s chalking up four.

  The Old Man hasn’t budged an inch. He holds his head so that he has one eye on the depth manometer and his left ear turned toward the sound room.

  “They really don’t seem to like us.” That from the ensign. Unbelievable: He actually said something. Now he’s staring at the floor plates: The sentence must have escaped him involuntarily. Everyone heard. The navigator is grinning, and the Old Man turns his head. For an instant there’s a trace of amusement on his face.

  The pebbles. At first it sounds like no more than a handful of coarse sand thrown against our port side. But now it’s garden gravel, three, four scoops, one after the other. Their Asdic. It feels like being suddenly lit up from all sides, as if we were lying exposed on a huge stage in full view of the audience.

  “Swine!” mutters the control-room mate half to himself. For a moment I hate them too, but after all, who or what are “they”: the hard singing of the screws, the hornet buzz, the rattle of gravel against the boat’s side? That shadow, the narrow silhouette that was only a shade brighter than the freighters—that’s all I’ve been able to see of the enemy.

  The whites of their eyes! For us, that’s pure rubbish! We’ve lost our sight. No more seeing—only listening. Ear against the wall! So why no new report from our eavesdropper-in-chief? The Commander is blinking impatiently. Nothing?

  All ears harken unto Thee, O Lord, for Thou wilt bring great foy to those who trust in Thy word—or something like that. The Bible Scholar would have the exact quote; he’s hardly recognizable in the dusky light. The hydrophone operator raises his eyebrows. That’s another sign: won’t be long before everyone’s ears are busy again.

  They have ears, and hear not. One of the Psalms of David. I’m all ears. I am one gigantic ear, all my nerves a single listening knot; they’ve twined themselves like fine elfin hair around hammer, anvil, and stirrup.

  A box on the ears—we’ve had plenty of those—lend a willing ear—walls have ears—pull the wool over someone’s ears… Of course, that’s it: they want to skin us, pull our hide over our ears.

  How do things look on the surface now?

  There’s sure to be a murderous amount of illumination. All searchlights on, and the sky studded with parachute flares so that the archenemy can’t escape. All cannon barrels lowered and ready to be fired at once if they succeed in forcing us to the surface.

  The operator reports, “Destroyer bearing twenty degrees. Getting louder fast!” And after a short hesitation, “Commencing attack!”

  Two ax blows hit the boat broadside. More wild roaring and gurgling. Then two more blows in the midst of the raging tumult.

  I’ve opened my mouth the way artillery men do so that my eardrums won’t burst. After all, I was trained as a naval gunner. But now I’m not next to a cannon; I’m on the other end, in the midst of the bursting shells.

  There’s no getting away from here. No use throwing yourself flat. Digging in—that’s a laugh: what we have under our feet are iron floor plates covered with cunt patterns, as Zeitler calls the thousand little shapes. I exert all my self-control to suppress claustrophobia, the damnable urge to flee in any direction. Keep your feet nailed to the floor! I pray for lead in the soles of my shoes, like those bright, barrel-shaped toy figures that always bob up again however you knock them down. Thank god, I can remember what they’re called. Standup men… standup men, incense men, humming tops, fancy nutcrackers. Bright pretty toys.

  When you think about it, I’m well off. I can’t be knocked over either. The frame of the hatch in which I’m crouching is the best place to be at a time like this.

  I loosen my grip on the pipe. Apparently it’s safe to relax. Ease the muscle cramp, move the jawbone, rest the skeleton, relax the belly muscles, let the blood circulate. For the first time I realize how painful my contortions have been.

  Our every move is defined by our opponents. The Tommies can even decide what positions we must assume. We draw our heads in, huddle waiting for the impact of the detonation, and stretch and loosen up once the roaring begins outside. Even the Old Man is careful not to unleash his derisive laughter except during the gurgling that follows the explosions.

  The operator half opens his mouth. Immediately I catch my breath again. What now? If only I knew where the last series fell, just how far from the boat the bombs exploded or how far we are from our diving point! After our first unsuccessful attempt to break away, it seems as though the pursuit has gone around and around in circles—first to the right, then to the left, up and down, like a rollercoaster ride. We haven’t made any ground at all. Every attempt so far to break out sideways and find cover has been spotted by the enemy.

  The operator closes his mouth and opens it again. He looks like a carp in a tank at the fish st are. Open, shut, and then open again. He announces a new attack.

  And then immediately calls “Asdic!” hoarsely from the sound room. He could have saved himself the trouble. Everyone in the control room has heard the ping-ping. As have the men
in the bow compartment on top of the torpedoes, and aft in the motor room and diesel room.

  The enemy has got us trapped in the tentacles of the direction finder. Right now they’re turning steel hand wheels and searching through three dimensions with pulsing beams—zirp—zirp—ping—ping…

  The Asdic, I remind myself, is only effective up to a speed of about thirteen knots. During a fast attack the destroyer no longer has directional contact. At higher speeds the Asdic suffers major interference from the destroyer’s own noises and the commotion of its screws, which is an advantage for us, since it gives us a last-minute opportunity to make minor changes in our position. But the Commander up there is also capable of figuring out that we won’t stand still and wait for the attack. Only: which way we move is the one thing his directional boys can’t tell him. There he has to use his intuition.

  One break for us is that our enemy and his clever machine can’t tell exactly how deep we are. In this, nature is on our side: water is not simply water; right down through our present depth it forms layers like sedimentary rock. The salt content and the physical characteristics of the individual layers are never the same. And they scatter the Asdic. All we have to do is move suddenly from a layer of warm water into a cold one and the Asdic becomes inaccurate. A layer of dense plankton will influence it too. And the people up there with their apparatus can’t correct their plotting of our position with any confidence because they don’t know where these damn layers are.

  Herrmann is working away at his wheel.

  “Report!” says the Old Man in the direction of the sound room.

  “Sounds bearing three hundred fifty degrees.”

  In less than five minutes the screws are audible to the naked ear.

  Ritschipitschipitschipitschi—that’s no full-speed attack. The destroyer is moving just fast enough to be able to go on tracking us, and the Asdic echoes loud and clear.

  A fresh attack. Four, five detonations. Close. Against closed eyelids I project jets of flame, towering St. Elmo’s fire, the flickering gleam of chrysoprase, cascading sparks around dark-red central cores, dazzling white naphtha flames, whirling Chinese pinwheels, blinding surges, amethyst beams piercing the darkness, an enormous fiery holocaust loosed from rainbow-haloed fountains of bronze.