He tried again and groped for clues, explanations, like piecing together parts of a puzzle.
He made his taut limbs relax but kept his hands pressed against his sides. His body was naked, but warm beneath a sheet and a soft blanket. Again, he felt the surge of hope. A nightmare after all. He could feel the pulsating tremor of engines through his
spine, the gentle clatter of unseen objects. But he felt despair close over him once more. It was not his ship. He closed his eyes tightly as if to shut out the stark, leaping pictures, the great fountain of searing flames, exploding metal as the torpedo, maybe two, had exploded into them. He tried again, and in his reeling thoughts seemed to read the vessel's name, as he had once seen it at the dockside. The Radnor Star. An old ship, then part of an east-bound convoy from St John's to Liverpool, packed to the gills with engine spares, bridge-building equipment, armoured vehicles, all heavy stuff. The poor old girl must have gone down like a stone afterwards.
He opened his eyes wide and stared at the solitary light. Afterwards. What then?
It was almost painful to work it out. He had been in the open, something in his hand. Had to see the captain. Then the explosion, wild faces, mouths open in silent cries, smoke, dense choking smoke which he imagined he could still taste.
Then the boat, water swilling over his feet and thighs as someone had fought it away from the ship, the terrible suction as she had dived for the last time. Why had nobody seen them? It was coming back, sharp and hard, like heart-beats, the panic of a child who wants to hide under the blankets.
It had been at night. That was it.
He felt the sweat break over his chest and stomach. The lifeboat then. Why did his mind refuse to examine it?
He heard a distant bell, the clatter of feet somewhere. Where
the hell am I?
He tried again. My name is Peter Younger. He wanted to laugh, but was closer to weeping. He had a name after all. He could not be dead.
It was difficult not to cry out as another picture loomed through the mist.
Men bailing and working at a handful of oars, a great sea which lifted and flung the boat like a sodden log. Later still, the deathly quiet, the silent figures, some seared by fire, others who had died of exposure, a few eyeless, victims of seabirds. They were all dying. He vaguely recalled the hoarse voice of Colin Ames, Radnor Star's second mate, close against his ear. He must have been dying too. The whole bridge had collapsed, and it was a miracle he had made it into a boat.
Take the tiller, Sparks.' That was all he had said. Sparks? It was coming back. He had been the radio officer. Had been on his way to the bridge with a signal when the world had exploded. He recalled the other man wrapping his jacket around him. He must have lost his own. Younger examined his body limb by limb without moving a muscle. He ached all over, but he was whole.
then more distorted faces, alien voices, hands hauling him into .mother boat, a huge ship away in the distance. He tensed. This must be the one.
He remembered that he had been too weak to protest or struggle, but knew that in some strange way he had not wanted to leave his dead companions, and the boat he had steered until the last oar had drifted away.
All dead. Like the old ship, nothing left.
Another twist of terror as he pictured his mother reading the telegram. God, there had been plenty of those in their street. He could not remember its name, or that of the town. A seaport. Pictures of his father and uncles, ail in uniform. Sailors.
Feet scraped on metal and he tested his strength, tried to raise his head above the side of the cot.
His eyes would not focus at first. All glaring white, bottles and jars on neat shelves, like a hospital, while nearby lay a pile of gramophone records.
Perhaps he had gone mad?
Bit by bit, section by section, like a complicated, coded message over the receiver.
He stared uncomprehending at two uniform jackets which hung from a brass rail. One with three stripes, the other with two, with some odd insignia above them, and - he caught his breath, the Nazi eagle on the right breast. He had seen enough of those. Again the urge to laugh. But only in films.
Then he saw the other cot, the untidy white beard, the ancient face creased with pain or some terrible memory.
He held on to what he saw. Like a life-raft. It was Old Shiner. A bit of a character in the Radnor Star, listed as boatswain but one who could do almost anything. He had been at sea since he was twelve. A bit of a character.
He caught a brief picture of him in the boat, his pale eyes wild while he had clutched the cat against his scrawny body.
Younger attempted to bridge the gap between the boat and here. All he could remember was warmth, the fact that he felt no urge to hold on, even to live.
He imagined he had heard a woman's voice too, but that was impossible. A part of something else maybe.
So he and Old Shiner were in a German ship. Prisoners. Survivors. But not a U-boat. He recalled the misty silhouette of the ship. He also remembered a needle going into his arm, oblivion, but not before the world had begun to shake and thunder to gunfire. He had wanted to scream, to escape; instead there had been nothing.
He winced as a shadow fell across the cot and he saw a man in gold-rimmed glasses looking down at him.
'Well, now, Herr Ames, are you feeling better?'
Even his voice made him shake with silent laughter. Shock.
The man must be a doctor, and he spoke like one of those Germans in the movies.
He prised his lips apart, or so it felt, and tried to explain that his name was Younger. Then he saw the crumpled, oil-stained coat with the two tarnished stripes lying on a table. Ames's jacket, the one he had used to shield him from the wind and drenching spray. It flooded through him like fire. Anger, hatred, and an overwhelming sense of loss.
The doctor leaned closer and took his wrist. 'You had a narrow escape, young man.'
Younger moved his dry lips again. 'What ship?'
‘Prinz Luitpold.' He lowered the wrist. 'Kriegsmarine
Younger was not sure if the name meant anything or not.
How is Old Shiner?'
'Is that his name?' The doctor gave a sad smile. 'He will live, but I fear his mind may be scarred.'
Younger heard himself shouting, but the words sounded wild, meaningless.
A door opened and he saw an armed sailor peer in at them, his eyes questioning. Just like the movies, a voice seemed to murmur. It must be his own, he thought despairingly.
The doctor waved the sailor away and said, 'You must try to eat something soon. You are young, it will pass.'
Younger could feel his strength draining away, and twisted his face to the pillow to hide the tears which spilled down his cheeks. They were all dead. He saw the needle glinting in the overhead light and tried to struggle, but the doctor's grip was like steel. You killed them!' He saw the needle hesitate. 'Bloody murderers!'
Stroheim felt the fight go out of the young officer and stood back to watch his face lose its anguish, its hate.
He moved to the other cot where the old man still cradled his lost cat in his arms.
They had no part in their ship's destruction, but the fact gave no comfort.
tie thought of the guns thundering and shaking the ship from deck to keel, the muffled shouts of the intercom as one by one the convoy had been decimated.
KarhHeinz Stroheim examined his hands. They were surprisingly steady.
He had been sent to the Prinz Luitpold as a punishment or a reprieve. All things considered it seemed likely they would come to rely on his skill.
The twist of fate which had brought these two strangers to his care was like an additional challenge. The oldest and the youngest in the lifeboat had survived.
He put on his jacket and gestured to the sentry. If hate was a reason for survival, the young officer named Ames would outlive (hem all.
Chapter Ten
Beyond Duty
Hechler wriggled his shoulders deeper
into his watchcoat and felt the damp air exploring his bones. By leaning forward in his tall chair he could see much of the Prinz Luitpold's long forecastle, which glistened now as if from a rain squall. But there was no rain, and as the high bows sliced through the Atlantic swell he saw the spray drift over the anchor-cables and breakwater to make the angled gun turrets shine like glass.
It was afternoon, and the sky was almost hidden by dark-bellied clouds. He heard Gudegast's rumbling tones as he passed another helm order before checking his ready-use chart again. How many times had he done that, Hechler wondered?
He saw the rear-admiral appear around Turret Anton, head high despite the misty spray, his face flushed and youthful in the distance. He was walking in step with Oberleutnant Bauer, the signals and communications officer. They could be brothers, he thought. Bauer was also the political officer and had been having a lot of private conversations with Leitner. What did they discuss? The Prinz's captain probably.
Gudegast called, 'New course, sir. Two-one-five.'
It was a strange relationship, Hechler thought. Leitner had been as good as his word for the most part, and had let him handle the ship in his own way.
As they had steered south-west away from the broken convoy and the additional freighter which the radar had plotted with unnerving accuracy, Leitner had only once questioned his judgement.
Hechler had answered, 'The British will look for clues. By heading south-west in view of that ship which was under tow, they will assume it was a ruse, and expect us to alter course immediately to throw them off the scent. I think I would.'
Leitner had considered it, his eyes opaque, giving nothing away.
'But if not, Dieter? Suppose the British admiral thinks as you do?' Then he had nodded and had given his broad grin. 'Of course, that other convoy - they will think we are after it.'
OKM Operations Division had signalled more information about a vast troop convoy which was scheduled to head around the Cape of Good Hope en route for England. Commonwealth soldiers with all their equipment and vehicles, life-blood for the armies in France. A prize which would draw every U-boat pack in the Atlantic, and which would have a massive escort to match it.
Heavy units of the Home Fleet would be hurrying at full speed to meet it and swell the defences. Suicide for any attacking surface raider, but with such high stakes, the end might justify the means. Because of that risk no admiral would dare leave the convoy underguarded.
It was one of the biggest of its kind, too large to turn back, too vital to stop.
So the Prinz Luitpold had carried on as before. Nothing further had been sighted. If anything showed itself now they would have to forego their first rendezvous with a milch-cow. They had plenty of fuel, and Leitner intended it would remain like that. A little and often, as he had termed it.
It was too early to expect enemy submarines in their path. The simplicity of von Hanke's strategy had worked perfectly, and there had been no time to deploy submarines from their normal inshore patrols in the Baltic and the North Sea.
Hechler watched the two windswept figures until they vanished beneath the bridge. He thought of Leitner's broadcast that morning to the ship's company. Rousing, passionate, compelling. It was all those things, if you did not know the man.
Hechler had watched him as he had stood with the handset close to his lips in the armoured admiral's bridge. The flag-lieutenant and Bauer had also been present while Leitner's clipped tones had penetrated the ship above and below decks.
He had spoken of Liibeck's loss at some length. Her sacrifice. 'We must not fail her, can never forget they fought for us, to give us the freedom to break out into the Atlanticl For us and our beloved Fatherland!'
Hechler had watched as one hand had darted to his cheek as if to brush away a tear. An act? He was still not sure.
Of one thing he was certain., however. There were two faces to the youthful admiral. After the attack on the convoy Leitner had walked around the upper deck, chatting to the jubilant gun crews, lounging against the mountings or slapping a seaman on the shoulder to emphasise his satisfaction.
Then, on the bridge, almost in the next breath, he had snapped complaints about this man or that, and had ordered Theil to deal with their slackness. So the reprimands would come from the bridge, not from their popular and untiring rear-admiral.
Then there had been the flash of anger over Leitner's mysterious boxes.
Hechler had requested permission to move them deeper in the hull, so that their space could be used to store additional short-range ammunition.
Leitner had snapped, 'They belong to me! I will not be questioned! I am entrusted to this mission, to carry it out in my way!' He had been almost shouting, his voice trapped inside the armoured bridge. 'It is a mark of my trust in this ship's ability, surely? If we are crippled or sunk in battle, my boxes will go to the bottom too!'
So they were that valuable, Hechler thought.
He heard Theil's footsteps on the gratings and shifted round to look at him.
'All well, Viktor?' Things were still strained between them, although Theil had shown his old pride and excitement when the enemy convoy had been destroyed.
Hechler had thought about that often enough. It had been so easy, he had found no satisfaction from it. It had been slaughter, the careering merchantmen and their escorts falling to their massive bombardment like targets in a fairground.
He had told himself that they would have done the same to Prinz Luitpold, would have cheered like his own men, if they had been left to burn and drown.
It was their war. What they had trained for. What they must do.
Theil shrugged and stared moodily at the grey ocean, the lift and dip of the raked bows.
'Yes, sir. I have just questioned the prisoner, the officer named Ames.' He shrugged again as if to sum up his irritation. 'The other one is raving. I can't imagine how he ever got to sea.'
Hechler eyed him thoughtfully. The old sailor should have been ashore with his grandchildren, not fighting for his life in an open boat. They had been adrift for five weeks. How could the human body stand it? But it wras pointless to say as much to Theil.
It would sound like one more disagreement. Perhaps he was more worried about his missing wife than he would admit.
Hechler tried not to let his mind stray to Inger, but even in ilistance her will seemed too strong to resist. In that low-cut gown, when he had held her, had seen her perfect breasts. In another moment - he sighed. She could never be kept out of his thoughts for long. Her betrayal and her contempt were like deep scars.
He had felt clumsy by comparison, and she had scorned his reserve as being stuffy, and dull.
Maybe she had been right?
Theil said abruptly, The Englishman knows nothing. Just that the torpedoes hit his ship in the forward hold. She sank in minutes, apparently.'
Hechler glanced at his watch. The rendezvous was in twenty minutes' time. If it happened at all. It seemed impossible that two such diverse vessels could meet on a pinpoint in this ocean.
There was a coughing roar from amidships and Hechler stirred uneasily in his chair. He wanted to walk aft and watch the brightly painted Araao as it was tested on the catapult. Leitner had told him that it would be launched without further delay. The camera team would be down there too, waiting to record I heir audacity as they flew off their new aircraft, indifferent to the enemy and what they could do.
Hechler had seen the girl when he had left the bridge to visit the various action stations while the ship had steamed away from the last fall of shot. She had been in the hangar, where her new Arado had been housed throughout the bombardment, its wings detached and stowed separately rather than folded, like a toy in a crate. They had faced one another awkwardly like strangers; perhaps each was out of his or her depth.
Hechler had heard himself enquiring how she had accepted or endured the din of salvoes, the hull's shaking to each ear-shattering crash of gunfire.
She had watched him as
if to see her own answers without asking the questions. How small she had seemed against the wet, camouflaged steel, and the smoke-blackened gun-muzzles.
Now she was down there with the aircraft-handling party.
Ready to fly off, so that some lunatic's desire for patriotic realism could be filmed.
Theil said dourly, '1 think it is madness to put that plane in the air. Suppose
The word hung between them. There were no enemy carriers anywhere in this part of the ocean if the OKM's reports were to be believed. Submarines, then? Even the hint of a plane would be enough to make them increase speed and head away. The Arado might fly after them, like a fledgling abandoned by its parents, until it ran out of fuel.
Theil whispered, 'He's coming up, sir.'
Leitner strode on to the bridge, the familiar silk scarf flapping in the keen air, but otherwise unprotected by a heavier coat. He smiled at the bridge-party and then returned Hechler's salute.
'According to my watch -' He frowned as Gudegast called, 'Permission to alter course for take-off, sir?'
Hechler nodded. 'Warn the engine-room.'
Leitner's good humour returned. 'See, the sky is brightening. It will do our people at home a lot of good to see these films.' He glared at his willowy aide as he clambered on to the bridge. 'Well?'
The flagTeiutenant eyed him worriedly, hurt by his master's tone. The camera team would like you to join them, sir.' He glanced shyly at Hechler. I have a list of the questions you will be asked.'
Leitner clapped one hand across his breast and gave an elaborate sigh. 'What we must do in the name of duty!'
Gudegast lifted his face from the voice-pipe as the helmsman acknowledged the change of course. He watched Leitner march to the after-ladder and then looked over at Jaeger, who shared the watch with Korvettenkapitan Froebe.
He said softly, 'Does he fill you with pride, young Konrad? Make you want to spill your guts for your country?' He grimaced. 'Sometimes I despair.'
He thought of the painting he had begun of Gerda. Just imagining the softness of her body, the heat of their passion, had helped him in some strange fashion to endure the massacre of those helpless merchantmen. Bomber pilots who nightly released their deadly cargoes over Germany did not care about the suffering they created; the U-boat commander did not see ships and sailors in his crosswires, merely targets. Any more than an escort captain spared a thought for that same hull being crushed by the force of his depth-charges as the sea thundered in to silence the submariners' screams.
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