by John Day
The friends looked aghast, Henshaw had to be joking. Earlier, they had all agreed to travel to safety aboard Celeste.
Henshaw beckoned aggressively, “everyone else, follow me.”
***
Walter Norris weighed his chances, but it was pointless risking serious injury by resisting. The swim to the dinghy, still tied up alongside U-159 was not far, though they would be forced to take refuge with the friendly villagers on the shore and seek shelter on high ground.
Sullenly they filed out and lined up against the rail. Already the steps down to the sub had been raised and the Celeste was easing away with thrusters.
Benny let out a wail like a castrated pig as he was helped forcibly over the side. “I can’t swim!” he screeched. Someone thrust a life jacket into his hands and as he grabbed it, they let him fall.
Hitting the water badly, he was certain to be winded. Alan leapt on the rail and shouted to Walter. “Look after the girls, I will grab Benny.”
As Alan dropped, feet first into the churning sea, Benny’s life jacket surfaced, but not Benny. As the Russian went under, the jacket ripped from his feeble grasp. He was already 3 metres below the surface and sinking fast, flapping his arms uselessly in the gloom.
Alan made no attempt to slow his decent into the depths and quickly caught up with the struggling man. Benny’s legs and arms kicked and lashed out, making it impossible for Alan to get close, except from behind.
Benny had the forethought to take a deep breath as he fell, but he had now consumed all the oxygen, and his bulging eyes searched wildly for salvation. He let out a final scream in a cloud of bubbles as Alan grabbed his collar with one hand and struck out for the surface. The others splashed in around him, as he aimed for the floating life jacket above.
Alan and Benny broke the surface, gasping and floundering. Alan turned him on his back and supported his head, clear of the water. As soon as Benny calmed down, and with help from the others, they got him safely into his life jacket.
The Celeste towered above them as they swam clear. Between them they dragged the spluttering Russian around U-159 and climbed into their dinghy.
The storm clouds were noticeably closer now and the sea becoming choppy, as the wind got up, blowing from the south.
Pushing the boat away from the submarine, Alan and Walter pulled hard on the oars, heading for the catamaran. As they rowed, Alan decided he wasn’t going to accept defeat. Something was bothering him, but he just couldn’t get whatever it was, clear in his mind.
“Walter, take everyone back to the Lady Jane and come back for me, I want to have one last look, before the U-159 goes down.”
***
Ellen had no idea what was going on in Alan’s mind, but as she saw it, it had to be something worth risking his life for. She knew of only one thing that would make her do that, it would be a clue to finding the treasure.
“I am coming with you Alan,” she yelled. “We can work quicker together.” Alan didn’t reply, he plunged over the dinghy’s bow and swam hard to the submarine.
The waves towered above him one moment, then fell away below him. As they crested, they broke heavily over him, upsetting his rapid rhythm of stroke and breathing.
To make matters worse, the air bags and submarine superstructure acted as a large area of sail. The wind had caught this sail and was pushing the submarine, ever faster, out to sea.
Alan had no option but to keep swimming at a much faster pace.
Ellen found the going just as hard. However the thought of that treasure slipping away, made her furious and fuelled her determination to go faster.
Getting aboard U-159 was the next challenge. Because the smooth casing bulged out, the waves threw him on perfectly, but with nothing to hang onto, they immediately swept him off again. Any footholds to assist boarding were covered by the air bags.
Ellen caught up with him and he explained the problem. “Why not use the bow rope?” she suggested.
She was right, they could use the rope that tied the Celeste and U-159 together, before the tie was cut.
With renewed strength, they clawed their way forward and easily climbed up the thick wet rope. The deck was pitching and rolling now and because the deck areas were rotten, they had to pick their way carefully towards the conning tower. One false move and they would drop through onto pipes and corroded machinery. Neither of them fancied breaking a leg or becoming wedged amongst them, perhaps becoming permanently trapped.
The sea was now starting to break over the deck. The temporary plywood lifted with each surge, and the abandoned generators were gradually sliding off. They would need a generator for power to light inside.
As Ellen climbed to relative safety in the conning tower, Alan cranked up the diesel generator for the lighting system. Still hot, the willing engine hammered enthusiastically into life. All he could hope for was that it didn’t fall overboard.
To prevent that, Alan looped unused cables through the generator frame and the bottom rung of the conning tower ladder. He tied them off and the movement of the generator was greatly restricted.
***
As the temporary lighting in the hull grew bright, Ellen climbed down inside the conning tower to the control room. She found it a struggle to stand. The lively motion of the vessel threw her around and the oil coated, wet floor offered no foothold to her bare feet.
When Alan climbed in and joined her, he found her hanging onto wheel valves and levers as she made her way towards the stern. Together they followed the lights to the crew’s quarters.
“It just dawned on me Alan, the only place where no one had thought to look for answers was the corpse on the bunk.” He grimaced at the thought as he lunged for the next hand hold. “Great minds, Ellen. I was thinking that myself.”
Without a shred of emotion, she ripped the blanket off the body, if it could still be called that. She felt the bile rise in her throat as the crushed face, still bearing Sarah’s hand print, looked back at her. Alan pushed her to one side and suggested she search the crumpled trousers at the foot of the bunk. Kaltman had discarded them when he put on his uniform.
Alan felt in the corpse’s pockets. It was then that he discovered the four gold bars between the body and hull.
“Look Ellen, here is some of the cargo!” Alan placed the four bars on the adjacent bunk. The gleam of the gold was tantalising, hypnotic, time lost all meaning while they gazed at them and daydreamed.
The cacophony of breaking waves against the hull, heavy steel fixtures and fittings clanging together, as the vessel lurched and bucked in the storm, and the rhythmic shrieking and grinding of steel cables supporting the hull from the air bags, seemed almost inaudible.
Snapping back to reality, they continued the search. Neither of them found any hint about the cargo in the dead man’s clothing.
“We are missing something here, Ellen. Kaltman would have needed to return to the cave at some point, and he would need men and transport to carry the cargo from cave to Caracas, or where ever he planned to end up.
“He might well have been able to get from beach to cave from memory, but how would he ever find his way from civilisation back to the beach? As we have seen on our cruise, the coast line has many beaches that are similar to this one.”
Excitedly, Ellen replied. “There was probably a navigator on board, Alan, he could have plotted the position. Well, we know he did, because it was in the Logbook. But Kaltman didn’t have the Logbook.”
“I see what you are suggesting, Ellen, he would have coordinates written down, somewhere safe.
“I guess he kept the four bars to finance an expedition back here. They were hidden in his bedding, so perhaps he kept the map reference there as well.”
They looked at one another, faces twisted with revulsion at the thought, but it had to be done.
Alan slipped his hands under Kaltman’s armpits and heaved. Suddenly and unexpectedly, the body separated at the waist and Alan fell back onto the floor. The head drop
ped off due to the impact and rolled aimlessly around, down the passageway towards the stern, with every movement of the vessel. Entrails spilled out of the abdomen like eels in aspic over the bunk and floor.
Alan lay there gagging. Ellen chuckled at his predicament and felt under Kaltman’s stained pillow.
“Found it!” She held up a well-drawn map with writing and numbers on it. All they needed now was Walter to drop by with the dinghy.
What was keeping him? …
Lady Jane.
When Ellen had leapt into the sea after Alan, it threw Walter into overdrive. He needed to be with her aboard U-159.
It was hard work rowing against the strong wind, but he pulled long steady strokes. Sarah kept him on course for Lady Jane by looking past him and navigating.
Benny was numb with the cold, wet, and miserable. He felt betrayed. For the first time in his recent business dealings he had been caught out by a client. Obviously, they didn’t fear his threat of exposure, if he ever turned against them or wound up dead. Well, they hadn’t silenced him and now they would pay!
He was also upset about losing his glasses. He had a spare pair, but it would cost $200 to replace his favourites. Then there were the clothes, these were his only best ones. More expense. He never gave a thought about the expensive designer shades the others had all lost in the sea.
At last, the three friends reached Lady Jane. The waves made boarding the catamaran tricky, timing the jump was crucial, but even with two left feet, Benny managed it.
As Walter tied up the dinghy, Sarah turned over Lady Jane’s engine. It roared into life but died moments later.
She tried again, but it was not catching.
“Got to be a fuel problem!” Walter shouted over the shriek and howl of the wind through the rigging. He pulled up the deck access cover to the engine and checked the cup shaped fuel filter glass. It was filled with a light brown substance, almost certainly a mixture of water and bacteria that feeds on diesel fuel. He would have to drain the fuel system until it flowed clean. That would be just a temporary solution of course, to get moving, pick up Alan and Ellen, and back to shore. The Lady Jane would soon be smashed to pieces in the approaching storm anyway.
As he worked, Sarah watched the submarine being swept further out to sea. Charles Henshaw was almost right, the hulk had turned side on to the huge waves and it was a wild ride, but so far, it hadn’t capsized as he predicted.
“Sarah, can you come down here and give me a hand?”
Walter needed four hands to pump, and manage the collection and disposal of the contaminated fuel. Speed was essential right now if they were to stand any chance of rescuing Ellen and Alan.
***
Alan climbed up to the bridge on the conning tower and looked across the expanse of water to see what was keeping Lady Jane. It was still riding at anchor, way off in the distance. Worryingly, he saw no one moving on board.
He glanced down at the wave action over the deck. By the looks of the generator, sliding from side to side over the plywood decking, it wouldn’t last much longer, and without power it would be pitch black inside the old rust-bucket.
The motion in the hull was violent, but it was many times worse up top and he would be unable to hold on for long up here. Ellen was tough, but he couldn’t see her hanging on for long, either.
He looked aft. The open back of the fairing where he was clinging on, led to a gun platform. It was part of the conning tower. The platform was awash with broaching waves that surged towards the open conning tower hatch. The hatch would soon have to be closed, or the sub would fill up.
Alan shouted down to Ellen. “Did the pump crew leave any torches down there?”
“I’ll have a look” she called back. It must be getting dark and Alan would need it to signal Lady Jane or guide her to them. Endlessly being thrown about down in the hull, she had lost all track of time.
The way the repair was proceeding on the catamaran, darkness might well fall before help came.
Ellen lurched and staggered from handhold to wheel valve as she made her way along the passage. Seeing Kaltman’s head rolling around and the torso sliding from side to side put her off going aft. The head had reached the watertight bulkhead of the engine room. She decided to go forward, she hadn’t been in that part of the vessel.
She worked her way along until only the forward torpedo room remained to be searched. She grabbed the hand hold above the watertight door opening, and swung herself through like the submariners did.
As she peered around at the racks of long, greased steel bodies of the torpedoes, and swinging loops of chain that lifted them, there was a very loud bang. It made the hull ring like a huge bell and the stern dropped suddenly.
Ellen fell against the watertight door release and the massive round door swung shut, cutting through the electric cable for the temporary lights. The severed wires arced as they dropped away outside the torpedo room, melting the metal rim of the door opening. It was just a tiny bridge of metal, the thickness of a pencil lead, but it had effectively welded the heavy door shut.
The lights dimmed throughout the vessel and the generator laboured hard, almost to the point of stalling. The very long light cable grew so hot that the insulation began to burn, releasing a thick cloud of acrid smoke into an already polluted atmosphere.
Alan heard the loud bang and felt the stern drop as a pair of air bags near the stern sprang free, rolling away like massive, shiny black tumbleweed, in the wind. The steel cable joining them like a sling under the hull had either broken or ripped free from a bag.
As if that wasn’t enough, he heard the steel door slam inside, followed by the dimmed lights and struggling generator. It all made sense to him. A shorted-out cable.
As the severed end of the cable fell away from the outside of the torpedo room door, the power picked up and the lights returned to normal brightness. Thankfully, the surge resistant fuse didn’t blow out on the generator.
How would he find Ellen in the dark if the generator failed?
If she lay injured, how would he see to help her?
He glanced up to see the Lady Jane was still not moving. Help would not be coming from that quarter any time soon. Meanwhile, the electrics might fail at any moment, either from burnt insulation or because the generator had fallen into the raging sea.
Then the true horror struck him, the stern was well below the surface and the sea was sweeping up towards him, well past the gun and swirling around his feet. It poured down into the open conning tower.
Leaping into action, he spun the lock wheel of the hatch, so the locking dogs stuck out. He climbed inside the conning tower and as carefully as he could he lowered the hatch so he didn’t pinch the cable where it entered the sub. The dogs prevented it closing, leaving a small gap between hatch cover and conning tower rim. It allowed the power cable through, but prevent most of the water from pouring in.
Panicking, he dropped quickly back down to the control room. He shouted for Ellen, but with all the noise from movement, the sea against the hull and things sliding and rolling, he never heard her. She pounded madly on the solid steel door with the flat of her hands, up at the bow.
The acrid fumes from the charred electric cable hung in the air, it stung his eyes and made him choke. He used his wet shirt as a crude gas mask and headed aft. The slope of the deck was significant. Water from the hatch ran along the floor, making it very slippery.
Gripping anything fixed, he reached the engine room. There on the floor was a powerful modern torch. He flicked it on and it lit the place up as bright as a searchlight.
Well, Ellen wasn’t at this end.
Booting Kaltman’s head and torso clear of the passage, Alan made his way back past the captain’s cabin. Drawers had opened and the contents slid restlessly around. He spotted a box of matches and a pack of cigarettes. He had no use for them or the other personal items and moved on.
Alan reached the bows. The torpedo room door was closed and the cable dan
gling from the ceiling was charred and still smoking at the end. A large black sooty patch, where the cable had been cut by the steel door, confirmed his suspicions.
He put his ear to the door and could feel, rather than hear Ellen still pounding on it. She must be terrified, shut in there, all alone in the pitch dark. He reached up and bent the end of the power cable out of the way of the door before attempting to open it.
At first, he thought it had self-locked, but turning the wheel both ways did not release the door.
He needed a crowbar!
Back to the engine room he went, fuelled by fear that the lights would go out, or another pair of bags would fail.
The further back he went, the deeper the icy, black bilge water became. The head and torso were back in play at the entrance to the engine room, but floating now, and the water was swilling over the deep threshold of the watertight door opening.
They had no alternative but to get off this U-boat immediately, or they would go down with it.
Amongst the tools was a massive crowbar, a hammer and a chisel. With time so critical, he took them all.
Back at the forward steel door, Alan banged on it with the hammer to let Ellen know he was there and trying to get her out. He imagined her relief, he knew how he would feel, trapped in there. She stopped slapping the unyielding cold steel and slumped down on the filthy floor and cried like a baby.
Try as he might, he could not force the thin end of the crow bar into the narrow crack between door and frame. It was useless. The same applied to the chisel. Hitting the door just made a hell of a noise and chipped the paint.
Practically screaming with frustration, he searched the circumference of the door with frantic fingertips, for a wider gap. Then he found the weld, for that is exactly what it was.
He stood on tip toes to direct the chisel point at the optimum steep angle to the weld. He rained down blows on the chisel till his arms ached. Eventually he struck and fractured the weld. With a mighty heave, he pulled the door open.