by John Day
The crane lowered prefabricated joist and plywood decking, complete with guard rails, over the hatch areas on the deck. Men moved briskly into position with tools to free the hatches. Like monkeys, they shinned up the iron rungs onto the conning tower.
Several high capacity diesel generators connected to high flow electric immersion pumps, and lengths of coiled yellow hose pipe were positioned on the new decking and assembled. Engines were started early and throbbed enthusiastically as they warmed up. Not a second would be lost in struggling to start an engine with issues.
A yell from the conning tower and excited waving spurred the five friends to join them. They needed to be close to the real action, not gawping from a safe distance across the shimmering sea.
Lady Jane’s small dinghy, rowed swiftly by Alan and Walter, carried the group to a convenient gap between flotation bags, near the conning tower. The excitement was because that section inside the submarine was dry. No one had expected that, but it brought with it problems of its own.
Perhaps decomposed bodies were inside. Even the hardened salvage team were not immune to bad juju. By now, there would be no oxygen remaining in the air. Condensation and oxygen would have combined as rust.
All submarines leak to some extent and over 70 odd years, a small but constant drip will accumulate to a substantial depth in the low chambers where the batteries are housed. There would be pollutants in the form of chlorine gas, created when the seawater seeped into the batteries and mixed with the sulphuric acid electrolyte.
If breathed in, any of these would be lethal.
The simple task of pumping out all the water would fill the hull with fresh air. The partially filled hull would harbour lingering pockets of lethal gas. The men would now be required to wear cumbersome breathing apparatus, during the strenuous unloading, which would slow them down.
Time was already running out, as the storm drew ever closer. Would fate reveal the treasure, and then snatch it from their grasp?
Uncertainty.
Alan, Benny, and Walter scrambled aboard for a better look at this fascinating relic.
“Hey, what about us?” The girls complained. “We want to see everything as well!” They felt marginally safer on the solid hulk than in the unsteady dinghy. Crew helped them aboard and pointed to where they could go for a view and not be in the way.
Walter watched as two men from Celeste with breathing gear entered the conning tower and climbed down inside. Their powerful lights reflected off the dirty white paintwork and rivulets of moisture gleamed as it trickled down. The submarine had been chilled to 10 degrees Celsius on the seabed and up on the surface it was a humid 35 degrees C. It was like taking a can of beer from the fridge into a warm room.
He got on his knees, avoiding the crushed shell and weed that had been trampled to a slime by the workmen opening the hatch. Walter peered down and caught the stifling updraft of foul air, displaced by the two men. It had the usual smell of heavy machinery, a mixture of oil and grease, but there was a sour, acrid body to it that seared his lungs and forced a fit of violent coughing. He backed away and leaned against the conning tower managing to inhale hot, clean tropical sea air. It smelt so good.
Now he could hear the splashing sound of legs wading through water.
Holding a deep breath, he peered in again. Down below, on the upper level, inky black water swirled around, sending flashes of reflected light from the rippling surface. The U-boat was quite full of water, so pumping would still be needed.
The men clambered up the internal vertical metal ladder, the filthy oily water draining off their protective legwear and falling as heavy rain on the water below.
The second man out used his radio. “Control, conning tower team reporting.”
The hiss of static and the distorted voice from control replied. “Go ahead.”
“The water is about 45cm above the top floor level. We are going to start pumping here, so the other hatches should do the same.” The lead man handed the second man a pH test stick.
“The water is slightly more acidic than seawater, but not unexpected.
“Forward and aft compartments are closed, and I have not attempted to open them. Be advised that the water level on the other side of them has not been verified. Out.”
Walter understood the caution. Opening a heavy iron door with tonnes of water behind it would throw it open in an instant, swotting anyone in the way to pulp.
“Understood, control standing by.”
***
The long yellow output tube with the pump on the end was lowered into the inky water and seconds later, the pipe kicked and threshed as water gushed out into the sea. By now, other hatches had been opened and after a cursory look inside, their pumps gushed into action.
For several hours, until the level was drained, nothing much would happen. So far, no dead bodies or treasure were found. Standing around waiting would certainly drive everyone mad, so the group decided to board the Celeste and speak to Charles.
Benny asked the question they were all thinking. “Where will the cargo be stored?”
Charles had already considered this and replied immediately. “The bullion will be at keel level, amidships. 10 tonnes is a fair weight and to ensure the submarine is still stable when it is unloaded, it would need to be placed there. Don’t forget, there will be no opportunity to replace it with lead ballast until back in a friendly port.
“Did you know that when a torpedo is released, a weight of roughly 1.5 tonnes, a similar weight of seawater has to be rapidly drawn in at the same end as the torpedo to compensate?
“You might think that a 1200 tonne vessel would be unaffected by the loss of a mere 1.5 tonnes, but without it the bow or stern could rise out of the water, before it could be counteracted with dive controls.”
His attentive audience was surprised at the facts, but frankly they hardly cared. Their faces showed it, much to his chagrin.
Charles continued. “With regard to crates of artefacts, they will be stored where they can be fitted in, anywhere on board. Unlike a ship, there is no strong room or hold, to keep non-military type cargo.”
Ellen chipped in. “So, the thing has to be fully drained and a thorough search made, to be sure we don’t miss anything.”
“Quite so Ellen.”
An awkward silence hung in the air like a pungent fart. This treasure would take for ever to find and although they hadn’t been updated on the weather, it was bound to hit just as they reached it. So far luck had been with them, but it could easily swing the other way.
Ellen needed some facts to cling to. “When we find the cargo, what will happen if the storm hits before we can offload it?”
Charles took a moment of pleasure in formulating his devastating reply.
“Actually, not a lot. We would have already left at least half a day beforehand. You might well be on-board desperately searching, but Celeste and I will be far away out in deep water, ploughing through waves several times higher than this ship.
“Perhaps not the first wave, but certainly the second will broach side on to the sub. You will capsize and even with all the hatches shut and watertight, you will plunge back to the seabed. The buoyancy bags will have been swept away, so there will be nothing to stop it sinking.
“With no power or escape gear, you will not be able to leave the pressure hull. Even if you could, you would drown in waves of tsunami proportions as they ride up out of the shallows.
“The last I heard, Hurricane Matthew is sweeping by quite close and although it could change course, it will still be lethal.”
Ellen felt anger building and with it the desire to bludgeon the smirking bastard for his tactless reply. As a psychopath, having control of events and those around her was essential. Henshaw had just taken all that away from her. Brutally killing him would be her way of regaining power.
Walter sensed her mood and intervened to avoid bloodshed. “Why can’t we beach the sub and let it wash ashore?”
Henshaw was on a roll, he was enjoying toying with the bunch of stuck up, half-witted amateur treasure hunters. And they knew it. He still held all the aces, he could return at a later date and perhaps raise the wreck again.
“Assuming it isn’t broken up on the rocks along the shore, or when it is driven hard on the reef, the Authorities would soon learn about the wreck mostly buried in the sand and claim the treasure for themselves.
“You would be stranded here until help arrives, so hiding 10 tonnes of bullion would be noticed by the villagers when they return to their homes.”
Of course, the group had only suspected they might be cut out of the treasure. Mendez had already decided on it. The only unknowns were the manner and timing of the group’s demise.
Steel coffin.
The hours ticked by as they paced along the deck, peering over Celeste’s rail, down at the enigmatic wreck. They watched the men constantly checking and clearing the inlets to the pump. Paper and possessions of the crew were being stirred up by the vessel’s movement and the swirling currents around the inlets.
Sarah wanted a share of the treasure, of course, but not because of the wealth it would bring. It was the climax to all the excitement of the hunt that she craved. If it wasn’t on-board, or if Henshaw and Mendez took the treasure from the group, she would be upset, but would move on.
The warm emotional side of her pictured the men in that dark steel coffin, as they went about their business operating it. She could imagine the personal issues they would think about. Most of the crew would have been in their late teens or early twenties. They would be wishing they were back home safe with their families, certainly they would be thinking about girlfriends. With so little space on-board, a change of clothes, pencil and paper for letters home and a treasured photo would be all they could keep.
So far, apart from the upper conning tower section, the submarine had not been searched. What lay behind the sealed watertight doors to the crew’s quarters?
The vessel sank for a reason. All the hatches were closed. The scenario in which the trapped crew crawled off to their bunks and suffocated, seemed perfectly logical. She shuddered at the thought of their cold spirits emanating from the unsealed wreck, swirling angrily around her. The dead were at peace down there in the dark chill of the ocean depths. Now they had been disturbed, for what, lustrous metal and baubles, prized more highly than human life and the dignity of death.
Sarah turned away from the rail and wept.
Alan and Ellen took her aside and tried to console her.
“I am sorry to blub, but I am so ashamed to be here. This is a war grave we are plundering. Young men have died and we care so little for them. We will go to any lengths, even cheat our friends, to take pointless material things just to make us wealthy.”
Her declaration of shame was infectious, except to Benny. He was immune to such emotion.
“I do understand your point of view Sarah and it is what I would expect from a kind, sincere and spiritual person like you. However, perhaps these facts will paint another picture, equally valid.
“Until we find a body, we should not assume U-159 is a war grave. Even if men died down there, dead is final and nothing can change that. If there is a spiritual afterlife, their spirits will be indifferent to us and what we do. Feeling sorry for them passing from this life to theirs will not make them feel happier.
“Imagine if you were a spirit, free of this earthly burden and all you could see were loved ones suffering your loss, wouldn’t you feel heartbroken as well?
“The treasure is of no use to the dead. At some stage, in our world, money will change hands as it is bought or sold. This will affect the lives of those less fortunate as well as the wealthy. It creates gainful employment for them, as they make a living.
“The have-nots obsess too much about those that have. They should better themselves by buckling down, getting a better education and working hard. We are all animals in a survival of the fittest world. Fittest does not just mean strength and good health, but ‘most suitable’ for purpose.
“You four should be planning to stay alive, not worrying about the dead.
“Hell! Mendez is probably just waiting for the best time to bump you all off and blame Hurricane Matthew for it.”
Benny strode away, he had said his piece and had better things to do than engage in pointless ethical argument.
Shocked at this surprising outburst from the secretive and untrustworthy man, Sarah stopped blubbering and stomped off in the opposite direction to think it through.
Alan wanted to give chase, but Ellen pulled him back. “Let her go to think it through. She is rather emotional at the moment. You do realise she loves you deeply, don’t you? I mean in the romantic sense, not familial. I also owe you an apology for what happened that evening outside my cabin…”
A shout came from the submarine bridge.
Ellen’s confession died on her lips. Alan stopped listening. Walter jerked round and peered down towards the shout. Sarah ran back to the others, as did Benny. The chatter of radios confirmed the water had now been drained from the next level down, only the bilge remained.
Ellen took command. “I think it is time we joined in and started looking for what we came for. Let’s grab a breathing set and get down there.”
***
No one on Celeste had any objection to them joining in with the meticulous search. Hurricane Matthew was not holding back and time raced on.
The idea that the treasure would be stacked in a convenient heap in the middle of the floor somewhere was quite wrong. The floor area was always kept clear. During action stations, men would be running to their posts and a second’s delay could cost them their lives. Cupboards, cubbyholes, infrequently used crawl spaces for maintenance would be the places to store things. On a submarine, there are a lot of those.
Adjacent compartments had kept out almost all of the water, what had seeped in had now been drained and the heavy circular steel watertight doors were opened. As the crew man wound the red painted steel wheel that pulled back the locking dogs, everyone dreaded what they would find in there.
The door was stuck. The rubber gasket had bonded to the metal and a crowbar was called for. Speculation ran wild in the minds of the silent gathering.
Would it smell bad? They wouldn’t know of course; the breathing sets would prevent them smelling anything.
What would the dead look like? The popular image was a shrivelled and desiccated old man with very dark brown or black skin, stained that way during decomposition. While the submarine was dry at bunk level, decomposition would have halted soon after the oxygen ran out. The dead submariner would be clothed, probably in uniform. The corpse would dry out leaving a shrunken bag of bones. That would make the clothes look ill-fitting and crumpled.
With a hideous loud groan that vibrated throughout the steel shell, the corroded hinges woke protesting, from their slumber.
Torches flashed their rod-like beams around as the user searched frantically for the horror that they believed lay within.
All the bunks, but one, appeared to be empty, the dark brown bedding neatly laid out, waiting for its owner. The lower bunk by the door was missed, by the scything torches. The masks of the breathing sets also restricted peripheral vision.
Of all the people to see the corpse, it had to be the sensitive and over emotional Sarah.
***
She thought it was horrible, a prank in poor taste by one of the sub’s crew. The poorly shaped ball of glistening white dough for a head was huge and quite unconvincing. The body was bursting the officer’s uniform apart, the waist had popped buttons already and a mound of white for the belly, bulged out. The hands were probably the worst attempt at modelling she had ever seen, rather like an inflated white surgical glove. A child of five could do better.
Then it hit her like a charge of current through an electric chair. These were the remains of a dead man!
Sarah screamed and screamed. Her shrill sound
of terror echoed from end to end of the sub, turning hard men into spooked, jabbering apes as they pushed and barged into each other to escape to daylight.
Still screaming, the others crowded her, pushing closer for a better view. No one believed that what they saw could ever have been human. Lurching forward, Sarah instinctively thrust out her hands, to save herself.
One gloved hand pressed through and into the belly, the other landed on the face. The thick soft soap-like layer oozed through her spread fingers until her palm made contact with the underlying skull. Her heart stopped and she sank to the floor in a dead faint.
As Sarah slumped back against those around her and slid down, Walter grabbed her and laid her out straight on the oily wet linoleum floor. He felt for a pulse and not finding one, gave a considered firm thump on her chest. He felt again and heart rhythm had been restored. Ripping away her mask and removing his own, he checked she was breathing. She was, so he fitted her mask back and ordered that she be carried topside.
Regardless of the head straps of the breathing masks tending to ruffle hair, everyone in the confined space had hair that stuck up with fright.
Ellen looked at the mutilated corpse clinically and when she had seen all she wanted, she yanked a damp blanket from a nearby bunk and laid it respectfully over the corpse.
Her voice was calm and firm as she refocussed minds.
“Come on everyone, we have treasure to find, before Hurricane Matthew snatches it all back...”
The Logbook.
With great trepidation and haste, everyone systematically opened and looked into the numerous hiding places for packages and wooden boxes. After an hour, the whole level was declared empty.
The team dealing with the forward section forced open the flimsy safe in the Captain’s cabin and retrieved his waterproof, bound Logbook.