Das Boot

  As though to emphasize what he’s saying, he nods, then withdraws from further questioning by walking backward.

  Stopped a liner? The Old Man must have gone mad. What’s all this nonsense about? A new act? Or a rehash of the old days when they captured enemy ships and sailed them home as booty?

  So quiet! The curtain opposite is open, and the one underneath. No one around. Are they all out stopping ships?

  Two men in the control room, thank god. Tilting my head back I ask, “Permission to come onto the bridge?”

  “Jawohl!”

  A wet wind. Sky full of stars. Chunky figures in the dark: the Commander, the navigator, the First Watch Officer. A quick glance over the bulwark: Oh my god—directly over our net guard a gigantic ship. Bearing ninety, bow left. Brilliantly lit up from stem to stern. A passenger liner. Easily twelve thousand gross registered tons, if not more! Just lying there! Dead in the water! A thousand tongues of yellow-white reflections on the black ocean: shimmering spangles.

  “I’ve been busy with her for an hour now,” the Old Man growls without turning around.

  It’s icy cold. I shiver. The navigator hands me his binoculars. After two or three minutes the Old Man speaks again. “We stopped her exactly fifty-five minutes ago.”

  He has his glasses to his eyes. The navigator begins a whispered explanation. “We used our lamp to signal her—” Then the Commander breaks in: “Signaled that we’d torpedo her if they used their radio. They probably haven’t used it, either. And they were supposed to give us her name. But it doesn’t check. Reina Victoria—something or other Spanish. The First Watch Officer couldn’t find it in the register. Something’s rotten in the State of Denmark!”

  “But all those lights!” I say without thinking.

  “What better camouflage than to keep all your lights on and claim to be a neutral?”

  The navigator clears his throat. “Funny,” he says, between the hands supporting his binoculars.

  “Much too funny for my taste,” growls the Commander. “If only we knew whether the scow’s on record. I’ve asked. Message went out long ago.”

  So the Old Man has radioed after all! Damned dangerous. Was it really necessary?

  “Still no answer. Maybe our transmitter is out of order.”

  This is too much! A signal—in our situation! Just to be sure they can get a fix on us!

  The Old Man seems to have read my thoughts, because he says, “Have to be certain what I’m doing.”

  Once more the feeling of unreality, that this huge ship is an optical illusion, that at any minute there will be a bang—and then sighs of relief, laughter, end of performance.

  “He’s known for the last half hour that he’ll be torpedoed if he doesn’t send over a boat,” says the Old Man.

  The First Watch Officer also has his eyes glued to his glasses. Silence. This is pure madness. This gigantic liner towering over our bulwark. Playing pirates with our ruined scow! The Old Man’s out of his mind!

  “We’re covering the wave length he uses. But god knows what all this is about. First Watch Officer, signal over again in English: If the boat isn’t here in ten minutes, I’ll open fire. Ship’s time, navigator?”

  “03.20 hours!”

  “Report to me when it’s 03.30.”

  For the first time I see the radioman Hinrich on the bridge. He’s braced high up over the bulwark, with the heavy signal lamp in his hands, sending stabs of light darting through the darkness toward the liner.

  “Damned impertinence!” the Old Man snorts, when there’s no acknowledgment of the signal from the other side. “That really is… the fucking limit!”

  The radioman has to repeat his call three times before a signal lamp finally shows between the bright portholes of the steamer. The First Watch Officer whispers each letter along with the radioman: short flash—long flash—short, long—another eternity before the answer is completed. The Old Man defiantly refuses to read the letters.

  “Well?” he finally snaps at the First Watch Officer.

  “He’s hurrying the best he can, is what he signaled, Herr Kaleun.”

  “Hurrying the best he can! What’s that supposed to mean? First he gives us a false name, then this rubbish. Ship’s time, navigator?”

  “03.25 hours.”

  “Nerve! Gives us a false name, then just sits there, not doing a fucking thing…”

  The Commander shifts from one foot to the other, hands thrust deep into the side pockets of his leather jacket, head down.

  No one ventures a word. Not a sound apart from the splashing of the waves against the buoyancy tanks till the Old Man cuts loose again, cursing hoarsely. “Hurrying the best they can—what the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

  From below, the Chief joins in. “What’s wrong?”

  “If there’s no boat here in five minutes, I’m going to let them have it,” the Old Man says in a tight voice.

  I’m well aware that he’s expecting the navigator to agree, but the navigator remains silent. He raises his glasses and puts them down again, but that’s all. Minutes pass. The Commander turns to him: The navigator tries to raise his glasses, but too late. He has to express an opinion. “I—I—no idea, Herr Kaleun. You simply can’t tell—”

  “What can’t you tell?” the Old Man interrupts.

  “There’s something not quite right,” the navigator says haltingly.

  “Exactly my opinion!” the Old Man answers. “The delay’s intentional. They’re sending for destroyers. Or aircraft.”

  He sounds as if he’s trying to convince himself. The halting voice of the navigator makes itself heard again. “…worth waiting a bit.”

  After all, we can’t play pirates with this ruined tub of ours. The Old Man can’t possibly go on playing the heavy. Thank god the cannon’s gone. Otherwise he’d be all set to fire away, just to get the people on the ghost ship moving.

  “Flood tube one!”

  That ice-cold voice! He’s standing diagonally behind me. I can feel his impatience between my shoulder blades. This is no attack: This is a shooting gallery. Our opponent is lying still. So are we. Virtually point-blank range: We’re holding our muzzle right up against the target, so to speak.

  Two waves boom dully against the buoyancy tanks, one after the other. Then silence again. Only panting breath. Is that really the navigator? Suddenly the Old Man’s voice is loud and cutting. “That’s it, navigator: I’ve had enough! Anything to be seen?”

  “No, Herr Kaleun,” Kriechbaum replies from under his binoculars, his tone equally sharp. A few seconds pause, then he adds more calmly, “But I’m not happy…”

  “What d’you mean, you’re not happy, navigator? Do you see something—or don’t you?”

  “No, Herr Kaleun, nothing to be seen.” Hesitantly.

  “Then why the metaphysics?”

  More silence, in which the splashing of the waves suddenly echoes loudly.

  “All right then!” the Commander suddenly shouts, apparently in a rage, and gives his orders. “Tube one stand by for underwater shot!”

  He takes a deep breath and then in a lowered voice—as if giving a running commentary on some trivial event—he gives the order to fire tube one.

  A perceptible jolt runs through the hull as the torpedo leaves the boat.

  “Tube one discharged!” comes the report from below.

  The navigator puts down his binoculars, the First Vatch Officer too. We stand rooted, all faces turned toward the glowing chain of portholes.

  Christ, what happens next? It’s a gigantic ship, this passenger liner. And it must be filled to bursting. Any moment now they’ll be blasted sky high or drowned in their cabins. The torpedo can’t possibly miss. The ship’s lying still. No need to calculate the angle of fire. Smooth sea. The torpedo’s set for six feet below the water line, aimed precisely midships. And the range is ideal.

  I stare wide-eyed at the liner, already imagining a massive explosion: the whole ship rearing up, jagged f
ragments soaring into the air, a huge mushroom of smoke, a blaze of white and scarlet.

  The air sticks in my throat. How much longer till the blow falls? The chains of light in the liner begin to dance—I must be straining my eyes.

  Then I become aware that someone’s making a report: “Torpedo not running!”

  What? Who was that? The voice came from below—from the sound room. Not running! But I distinctly felt the jolt of its discharge.

  “No wonder,” says the navigator, with what sounds like a sigh of relief. The torpedo isn’t running. Which means it’s not functioning properly. The bomb from the plane! It must have wrecked the steering mechanism—the pressure wave, of course—no torpedo could have withstood it. An omen! And now?

  Tube two, tube three, tube four?

  “Then we’ll just try tube five,” I hear the Old Man say, immediately followed by the order: “Connect stern tube!”

  Now he’s giving the necessary engine and rudder orders to turn the boat—calmly, as if practicing maneuvers.

  So he doesn’t trust the other torpedoes in the bow tubes—but is counting on the fact that the one in the stern tube may still be undamaged.

  So he won’t let go. Won’t leave it at that. Won’t even heed the omens. He’s waiting for a regular kick in the teeth. The boat slowly gains momentum and begins to turn. The bright lights of the ship that were ahead of us just a moment ago move gradually to starboard and then shift astern. Two or three minutes more and we’ll have her right over our stern: in perfect position for tube five.

  “There they are!”

  I nearly jump out of my skin. The navigator shouts straight into my right ear.

  “Where?” snaps the Commander.

  “There—that has to be the boat!” He points with outstretched arm into the darkness.

  My eyes are watering from staring at the night sea. And there—there actually is a blob—something black, something a shade darker than the rest of the water.

  Soon it’s between our stern and the flickering glow—a dark mass clearly outlined against the twinkling reflections.

  “In a cutter! Are they out of their minds?” I hear the Old Man say. “A cutter. In this sea! And without light!”

  I stare incredulously at the dark blob. For one brief instant I catch a glimpse of six figures.

  “Number One and two men stand by on the upper deck! Searchlight to the bridge!”

  From the tower, a confusion of voices.

  “Move it!”

  Apparently the electric cable has become tangled up in something, but the navigator reaches down and manages to get hold of the hand searchlight.

  I think I can hear the splashing of oars.

  Suddenly the bow of the cutter appears in the beam of the searchlight, high out of the water, unreal, projected on a movie screen; then it disappears again between the waves. Only the head of the man in the stern is visible; with his forearm he’s shielding his eyes from the dazzling glare.

  “Careful, Number One! Keep her well clear!” roars the Old Man.

  “Christ almighty!” rings in my ear. I give another tremendous start. This time it’s the Chief. I hadn’t noticed him come on the bridge.

  The cutter is up again. I make out six men plus the helmsman: shapeless creatures rowing furiously.

  Number One thrusts out a boat hook like a lance.

  Shouting, confusion of voices. Number One curses, and sends his men scurrying up and down on the upper deck with fenders. Now it sounds as though an oar has splintered. The helmsman on the cutter waves wildly with his free hand. Most of the shouting seems to be coming from him.

  “Look out!” roars Number One. And again: “Look out! Goddammit, you crazy pigs…”

  The Commander hasn’t budged an inch. And he doesn’t say a word.

  “Searchlight to the upper deck! Don’t blind them!” shouts Number One.

  The cutter is carried away again; in a moment there are fifteen or twenty feet of open water between it and our upper deck. Two men have stood up, the helmsman and someone else I hadn’t seen before; so there are eight of them.

  Meanwhile Number One has been joined by some more of the crew. As the cutter swept toward us again, the two men succeed in jumping onto our upper deck, one after the other. The first one stumbles, almost falls, but is caught just in time by the bosun. The second jumps short and lands on his knees, but before he can fall back one of our men has grabbed him by the back of the neck like a rabbit. The first stumbles into the hole that the bomb tore in our upper deck; the second trips and falls against the gun mount. There’s an audible thump.

  “That’ll put a nice gash in his face,” someone behind me says. The bosun curses.

  The two shapeless figures clamber stiffly up the iron ladder on the outside of the tower. Dear god, they’re wearing old-fashioned kapok life jackets. No wonder they can hardly move.

  “Buenos noches!” I hear.

  “What was that the gentlemen just said?” the Chief asks.

  The bridge is suddenly jammed. An incomprehensible torrent of talk. The smaller of the two men is gesturing like an epileptic marionette.

  Sou’westers, pulled low, almost cover their faces. Their kapok life jackets have worked up so high during their climb that the arms of the second man—the one who’s not motioning—stick out like two long handles.

  “Take it easy gentlemen, and downstairs please!” says the Old Man in English, making quieting gestures as he points below.

  “Spaniards,” says the navigator.

  They’re small men, but they’re wearing so much bulky clothing that they can hardly get through the hatch.

  In the semi-darkness of the control room I finally get a look at them. One, the Captain, apparently is stout, with a short black beard that looks glued to his face. The other is a little taller and has a dark complexion. Both peer about as though searching for some means of escape. Now I notice that the Captain is bleeding from a flesh wound over his eye. Like a wounded boxer. The blood’s running in streams down his cheek.

  “Boy, they’re at the end of their rope!” I hear the control-room mate Isenberg say.

  He’s right. I’ve never seen such fear.

  Then I realize what a terrifying spectacle we must present: glittering eyes, sunken cheeks, unkempt beards, a barbarian horde loose in a world of machines. And we must stink like the plague. Most of us still have on the same tattered underwear we were wearing when we put to sea. And these two have come from a world of rosewood saloons and carpeted passageways: I bet there are even crystal chandeliers on the ceilings. Everything as fancy as the Weser.

  Did we scare them up from the dinner table? Can’t have. It’s the middle of the night.

  “They’re acting as if we were about to butcher them,” Isenberg murmurs.

  The Old Man stares open-mouthed at the gesticulating Spanish Captain as if he’s a visitor from outer space. Why doesn’t he say something? We all stand round the two jumping jacks and stare: No one says a word. The fat Spaniard flails his arms and emits torrents of incomprehensible syllables.

  Suddenly I’m wild with rage. I could jump at his throat, choke off his stream of gibberish, knee him in the balls. I no longer recognize myself: “You goddamned sonovabitch,” I hear myself snarl, “getting us into this mess!”

  The Old Man’s flabbergasted.

  “You can’t wipe your ass on us like this!”

  The Spaniard just stares at me, blank horror in his face. I can’t articulate what has enraged me: but I know what it is. Turning us into executioners—not answering our signals; keeping the Old Man waiting for hours; arriving in this childish cutter instead of a motor launch; without running lights; simply wandering about.

  The stream of Spanish has ceased abruptly. His eyes jerk around. Suddenly he stammers, “Gutte Mann, Gutte Mann.” He doesn’t know whom to make this grotesque appeal to, so he turns on his heels in his life jacket, awkward as a bear, still clutching the oilskin envelope with his ship’s papers unde
r his arm. Then he seizes them in his right hand and performs a kind of hands-up.

  The Old Man screws up his face and reaches silently for the envelope. The Spaniard screeches in protest, but the Old Man interrupts him coldly. “Your ship’s name?” He asks in English.

  “Reina Victoria—Reina Victoria—Reina Victoria!”

  Suddenly he’s all eagerness to oblige; he bows and immediately rises on tiptoe to point out this name in the ship’s papers, which the Old Man has pulled out of the envelope.

  The First Watch Officer observes the scene expressionlessly, but he’s beginning to look sick.

  Suddenly, there’s quiet. After a while the Old Man raises his eyes from the papers and looks at the First Watch Officer. “Tell this gentleman that his ship does not exist. After all, you speak Spanish.”

  The First Watch Officer comes out of his trance. He turns bright-red and begins to stammer out Spanish from behind the foreign Captain’s back. The latter opens his eyes wide in amazement and snaps his head from side to side, trying to catch the First Watch Officer’s eye, but no amount of head-turning can accomplish this—his life jacket’s sitting much too high on him; he has to pivot his whole body. In so doing he ends up with his back to me. And it’s a shock. Small stenciled letters on the under edge of his life jacket: South Carolina. I’m suddenly triumphant. Now we’ve got you! The Old Man was right. An American, disguised as a Spaniard!

  I poke the Old Man and trace the lettering on the edge of the life jacket. “Interesting, this: look—South Carolina!”

  The Spaniard whirls around as though bitten by a tarantula and pours out a torrent of words.

  Got you, you bastard. Cut the Spanish jabber. You can talk English, you son of a bitch.

  The Old Man stares nonplussed at the stuttering little man, then orders the First Watch Officer to tell us what the Spaniard is gabbling about.

  “South Carolina—the ship—was actually named—South Carolina,” stammers the First Watch Officer. The Spaniard is hanging on his words and nodding like a circus clown. “Now, however, it is Reina Victoria. It was—five years ago—bought from the Americans.”

  The Old Man and the Spaniard stare at each other, and look ready to spring at each other’s throats. It’s so quiet von can hear every drip of condensation as it falls.