Das Boot

  A body lands against my knee and almost knocks me over. I feel someone hauling himself up, seizing me by the leg. But the first man, the one who fell against my knee, seems to be staying flat on the floor plates.

  The emergency light over the navigator’s table has not gone on again. The darkness provides a cover under which panic can secretly spread.

  More racking sobs. They come from someone crouching on the water distributor. I can’t see who he is. The control-room mate is suddenly there, giving him such a blow on the back that he cries out.

  The Old Man swings around as though bitten by a tarantula and snaps in the direction of the water distributor, “Report to me when this is over!”

  Who? The control-room mate? The man he hit?

  When the light improves I see the new control-room assistant is silently weeping.

  The Old Man orders half speed.

  “Half speed ahead both!” the helmsman acknowledges.

  This means that the boat’s buoyancy can no longer be maintained at slow speed. Too much water has seeped in astern.

  The propeller noises can be heard more clearly than ever. A roaring rhythmic beat. As counterpoint, the sound of a milk cooler, and over that a whirring egg beater and the buzz of a drill. Full speed!

  The needle of the depth manometer moves a few marks further. The boat is slowly sinking. The Chief can no longer stop it—blowing the tanks would make far too much noise and pumping is out of the question.

  “One hundred ninety degrees!” the operator reports. “One hundred seventy degrees!”

  “Steer sixty degrees!” orders the Commander and pushes home the tight-drawn steel cable of the sky periscope. “Let’s hope we’re not leaving an oil slick,” he remarks as if by accident. Oil slick! The words flash through the room, echo in my mind, and at once leave iridescent streaks on my closed eyelids. If oil is rising from the boat, the enemy has as good a target as he could possibly wish for.

  The Commander bites his lower lip.

  It’s dark up there, but oil smells even in the dark—for miles.

  There’s a whisper from the sound room. “Destroyer sounds very close!”

  The Commander whispers back, “Slow ahead both—minimum hydroplanes!”

  He takes off his cap and lays it beside him on the chart chest. A sign of resignation? Have we reached the end?

  The operator leans way out of his compartment as though about to make a report. But his mouth remains shut. His face is rigid with tension. Suddenly he takes his earphones off. I know what that means: noises everywhere, so there’s no longer any point in trying to determine where they’re coming from.

  Now I can hear them myself.

  A crashing, exploding roar, as though the sea itself were collapsing. Finished! Darkness!

  “Are there ever to be any proper reports?” I hear an unrecognizable voice say before I open my eyes again.

  The boat is becoming perceptibly stern heavy. In the beam of a flashlight the telephone cable and some oilskins swing out from the wall.

  A few more heartbeats, then a voice penetrates the stillness. “Motor room—shipping water!” Immediately followed by more reports: “Bow compartment flanges holding—diesel room flanges holding fast.” Finally the emergency light. The needle of the depth manometer moves with terrifying speed over the dial.

  “Full ahead both!” the Old Man orders, Despite the desperation implicit in this command, his voice is matter of fact and calm.

  The boat lunges forward: the batteries have connected up, one after the other.

  “Forward hydroplane full up! Aft full down!” the Chief orders the operators. But the indicator doesn’t move. It’s frozen.

  “Aft hydroplane out of action,” reports the control-room mate. Ashen-faced, he turns toward the Commander with a look of complete trust.

  “Recouple for manual,” the Chief orders, so calmly that we might as well be on maneuvers. The hydroplane operators rise and throw their entire weight against the hand wheels. The white needle of the indicator suddenly trembles—thank god, it’s moving! The mechanism isn’t damaged and the hydroplane isn’t jammed; only the electrical control has failed.

  The loud humming of the motors. Full speed—that’s insanity! But what else is left for us to try? Running silently, we can no longer hold our present level, The motor room is making water—an inrush of water at our most vulnerable point.

  “Both E-motors falling below full power!”

  The Old Man reflects no more than a second, then commands, “Examine both batteries! Test the accumulator bilges for acid!” No doubt about it: some of the battery cells must have cracked and run dry. What next? What more can happen?

  My heart almost stops as the First Watch Officer moves to one side, revealing the depth manometer. The needle is still moving slowly forward. The boat is sinking, even though the motors are running on all the power still available.

  It’s only seconds before there is a sharp hissing sound, The control-room mate has released the compressed air. Our buoyancy tanks are filling.

  “Blow them full!”

  The Chief has sprung to his feet. He’s breathing in short gasps. His voice vibrates. “Trim forward! Move, move!”

  I don’t dare stand up for fear my legs will fail me. My muscles are like jelly, my nerves are quivering. Let the final blow fall! Give up! Call it a day! This is unendurable!

  I realize that I’m slipping into dazed indifference. Nothing matters. Just get it over with—one way or another. I summon up all my strength to pull myself together.

  Damn it all, don’t let go.

  We have risen 175 feet. The indicator comes to a halt. The Commander orders, “Open exhaust three!”

  Terror wells up in me. I know what this order means. A surge of air is now rising toward the surface and forming a bubble that will betray our position. A torrent of fear. To ward it off, I murmur, “Immune! Immune!”

  My heart keeps pounding! My breath comes in gasps. I hear a muffled command: “Shut off the exhaust!”

  The navigator turns his head to the Old Man. I can see his full face: a wood carving. Pale, polished linden wood. He sees me and thrusts out his lower lip.

  “Hysterical women,” growls the Old Man.

  If the E-motors aft are swamped, if there should be a short circuit… how could the screws turn? Without propellers and hydroplanes both working, we’re done for.

  The Commander impatiently demands reports from the motor room.

  I catch only fragments: “…made watertight with wooden wedges—sole-plate broken—lots of water, cause unknown.”

  I hear a high whimpering sound. Seconds pass before I realize that it’s not coming from the enemy. It’s coming from somewhere forward. A high undulating wail.

  The Old Man turns a disgusted face in that direction. He looks as if he might explode with rage at any moment.

  “One hundred fifty degrees—getting louder!”

  “And the other—the first one?”

  “Ninety degrees; sixty degrees; holding steady!”

  Christ, now the fuckers have got together. They’re tossing the ball back and forth, and the ball is the Asdic bearing. Our original pursuer is no longer acting under any handicap. While he’s attacking at top speed—which puts his own Asdic out of action—his colleague can idle along, taking bearings for him. And then radio the figures to him.

  The Old Man’s face is contorted, as though he had taken too long to swallow an especially bitter pill. “This is a crime!”

  For the first time, the sound man shows signs of nervousness. Or does he have to turn his wheel so violently to find out which of the two sounds is getting louder?

  If the second Commander up there is an old hand, if the two of them have worked together before, they’ll exchange roles as often as possible in order to outfox us.

  Unless I’m completely mistaken, the Old Man is steering toward the enemy in a tight curve.

  Rollercoaster! The thought keeps coming back. Rol
lercoaster. Up, down, gliding, rising and falling curves, looping back on ourselves, sudden dives and jarring ascents.

  Two crashes shake the boat. Four, five more follow, Two of them from underneath. Only a couple of seconds, and the face of the chief mechanic Franz appears in the frame of the after hatch, completely distorted in terror.

  He emits a sort of cackling high-pitched “hee hee hee,” which sounds like a bad imitation of the destroyer’s screws. The Commander, who has closed his eyes again, turns toward him. Meanwhile the mechanic has climbed through the frame of the hatch and stands, escape apparatus in hand, half crouched behind the periscope shaft in the control room. He bares his teeth, looking like a monkey. They gleam brightly out of his dark beard. A spasmodic sobbing now compounds the “bee bee hee.”

  How does he do it? Then I realize that the sobbing is coming from another corner.

  The Old Man stiffens. For a fraction of a second he sits rigidly upright. Then he draws his head in again and turns around slowly. He sees the chief mechanic. Seconds pass and then he snarls, “Are you crazy? Back to your battle station! At once!”

  According to regulations the chief mechanic should say, “Jawohl, Herr Kaleun!” But he simply opens his mouth wide as if he were at the point of screaming hysteria.

  Loss of hearing, I think to myself: He’s shouting and I can’t hear a thing. But my ears are working! I can hear the Old Man spit out, “Goddammit, pull yourself together!”

  He’s on his feet.

  The sobbing stops.

  “Destroyer bearing one hundred twenty degrees,” reports the operator. The Old Man blinks irritably.

  The chief mechanic starts to writhe in a wordless struggle—as if under the spell of a hypnotist. I can see the spasm begin to pass. If only he doesn’t collapse!

  “Return to battle station at once!” and immediately thereafter, in a threatening undertone, “At once, I said!”

  “One hundred ten degrees. Getting louder!” The operator’s whispering voice sounds like the monotone of a priest.

  The Old Man hunches his head down even farther, then relaxes again and moves two or three steps forward. I get up to make room for him. Where does he mean to go?

  The chief mechanic finally pulls himself together with a jerk and gasps out, “Jawohl, Herr Kaleun!”

  Then he throws a lightning glance around him, bends over double, and disappears through the after hatch without the Old Man seeing him.

  The Commander, who is just on the point of putting his left leg through the forward hatch frame, stops and looks back with an odd expression on his face.

  “Herr Kaleun, he’s gone,” stammers the Chief.

  The Commander withdraws his leg. It looks as if a film were suddenly being run backwards. Like a slightly dazed boxer whose vision had been blurred for a minute or two, the Commander walks stiffly and silently back to his place.

  “I’d have finished him off!”

  The pistol in his cubbyhole!

  “Starboard full rudder! Steer two hundred thirty degrees!” he says in his normal voice. “Take her down one hundred seventy-five feet, Chief!” The operator reports, “Propeller sounds bearing ten degrees.”

  “Acknowledged!” says the Old Man.

  The Asdic beams rattle and rasp along the boat.

  “Revolting,” he whispers.

  Everyone in the control room knows that it’s not the Asdic he’s referring to but the chief mechanic. “Franz of all people! Disgraceful!” He shakes his head in disgust, as though he’d seen a sexual exhibitionist. “Lock him up. I’ll have him locked up!”

  “Destroyer attacking,” reports the operator in a drone.

  “Steer two hundred degrees. Both motors slow ahead!”

  The Old Man is up to his tricks again: dodging aside into the underbrush. How many times does this make?

  Through the forward hatch drifts a sour smell. Some of the men must have vomited.

  The operator starts squinting again. Whenever he makes this face I turn my head away and hunch up my shoulders.

  A tattoo on the boat, then an immense blow, and soon the infernal resounding gurgle and roar of the water, like a mighty rolling echo.

  Five thunderclaps punctuate the echo. A matter of seconds. Everything that is lying around loose comes sliding and rolling toward the stern. The Chief has increased speed during the detonations and in the ensuing roar he shouts, “Pump!” He remains behind the hydroplane operators, crouched as if to leap.

  The thundering and roaring goes on and on, We crash through a raging waterfall. The bilge pumps work throughout the noise.

  Before the Chief can shut them off, three more explosions shake the boat.

  “Continue bailing!” The Chief sucks in his breath, throws a quick look at the Commander. Could there be a touch of satisfaction in it? Can he actually be feeling proud because his bilge pumps are still functioning?

  “They’re doing their best for you, Chief,” says the Old Man. “Superb service!”

  04.00. Our attempts to break away have lasted—how many hours? I’ve lost count. Most of the men in the control room are sitting down: elbows on knees, heads in their hands. No one even looks up any longer. The Second Watch Officer is staring at the floor as if he could see mushrooms growing out of the floor plates. The graduated circle of the sky periscope has been torn loose and dangles on a wire. There is the tinkle of falling glass.

  But wonders never cease!—The boat remains watertight. We’re still moving, still buoyant. The motors are running, our screws turning. We’re making headway, and we still have power for the rudder. The Chief can hold the boat: it’s actually on an even keel again.

  The navigator is bent over the chart table as though he is fascinated by it; his head is close to it, and the points of the dividers—which are clasped in his right hand—have bored into the linoleum.

  The control-room mate has stuck two fingers into his mouth, apparently about to whistle on them.

  The Second Watch Officer is trying to imitate the Commander’s equanimity. But his fists betray him: they’re firmly clenched around his binoculars—he still has the glasses hanging around his neck—and he’s flexing them very slowly at the wrists, first one way, then the other. His knuckles are white with strain.

  The Commander turns to the operator, who has his eyes closed and is twisting the wheel of his apparatus from side to side. Having apparently singled out the sound he was looking for, his maneuverings taper off almost to nothing.

  In a subdued voice he announces, “Destroyer noises receding at one hundred twenty degrees!”

  “They think they’ve finished us off!” says the Commander. That’s the last of one of them—but what about the other?

  The Chief is in the stern, so the Commander himself is still in charge of the hydroplanes.

  The whining has ceased. All that comes from the bow compartment is an occasional spasmodic sobbing.

  The Chief reappears, his hands and forearms black with oil. Snatches of his half-whispered report reach me. “Flange of outer gas vent… condenser… two foundation bolts broken… already replaced… firmly wedged with wooden pegs… flange still leaking—but it’s minor.”

  Beside the Commander’s desk lies a carton of syrup, mashed and trodden all over the floor. The accordion is spread open in this disgusting mess. All the pictures have fallen off the walls. I take a cautious step over the face of the C-in-C.

  In the Officers’ Mess, books lie strewn among towels and spilled bottles of apple juice. The silly straw dog with glass eyes that’s supposed to be our mascot has landed on the floor too. This is where I probably ought to start cleaning up—do something to occupy my hands. I bend over; stiff joints; I go down on my knees. Christ! I can actually move my hands. I’m making myself useful! Quietly, quietly, be careful, Don’t hit anything. It must be way past four o’clock.

  I’ve been cleaning up for a good ten minutes when the Chief comes through: greenish rings under his eyes. Pupils dark as lumps of coal, chee
ks sunken. He’s at the end of his tether.

  I hand him a bottle of fruit juice. It’s not just his hand; his whole body is trembling. He perches on a ledge while he’s drinking. But as he puts the bottle down he’s already on his feet, staggering slightly like a boxer, badly shaken and completely exhausted, but pulling himself up out of his corner one more time. “…It won’t work,” he mutters as he disappears.

  Suddenly there are three more explosions, but this time they sound like beats on a slack drumskin. “Miles away,” I hear the navigator say.

  “Two hundred seventy degrees—moving away slowly!” the operator reports.

  To think that somewhere there is dry land, hills and valleys… people are still asleep in their houses. In Europe, that is, In America they’re still sitting up with the lights burning, and we’re probably closer to America than we are to France. We’ve come too far west.

  Absolute silence in the boat. After a while the operator whispers, “Destroyer bearing two hundred sixty degrees. Very faint, Slow revs—seems to be moving away.”

  “They’re running silent,” says the Commander. “Dawdling as slow as they can. And listening! Where in hell’s the second one? Watch it!”

  This is addressed to the hydrophone operator. So the Old Man no longer knows precisely where the enemy is.

  I can hear the chronometer ticking and the condensation dripping into the bilge. The operator does a full sweep—and another, and another—but gets no bearing in his instrument.

  “I don’t like it,” the Commander mutters to himself. “Don’t like it at all.”

  A trick! It has to be. Something’s wrong: it sticks out a mile.

  The Old Man stares straight ahead, expressionless, then blinks quickly once or twice and swallows hard. Apparently he can’t decide on a course of action.

  If I only knew what the game was. No more explosions—no more Asdic—the Commander’s continued play-acting—what to make of it?