‘What about the Devil’s Frying Pan?’ suggested Logan.
‘Yes, indeed—but it was very choppy last night. The boat would have been stove in.’
‘They have collapsible boats,’ replied Logan. ‘They’re made of rubber.’
‘Well, supposing it was possible to land a man safely from a submarine at the Frying Pan, why should the Germans want to? Surely they would have all their spies in the country by now?’
It was a very reasonable point. Logan shrugged his great shoulders. ‘I’m not responsible for their actions,’ he said. ‘Maybe this man Cutner is a spy and one of the officers of the U-boat was sent ashore to collect important information from him.’
The coastguard considered this for a moment whilst he explored his small discoloured teeth wih a toothpick. At length he shook his head and said, ‘You know, there are sharks on this coast.’
‘Good God Almighty!’ exclaimed Big Logan with sudden exasperation. ‘Do you think I don’t know a bloody shark when I see one? This wasn’t a shark. The displacement of water was too great. It was either a submarine or a whale. And if you think you’ve ever seen a whale from this little perch of yours, you’d better put in for your discharge right now.’
This outburst apparently left the little coastguard unmoved. He continued to drum with his fingers on his desk and to pick his teeth with the toothpick. In the end he turned to me and said, ‘What do you think about it, Mr Craig?’
His question put me in an awkward situation. I was not at all convinced that Logan was right. It seemed much too fantastic. On the other hand, I did not want to offend him. I said, ‘I think the matter ought to be investigated.’
The coastguard then turned to Logan. ‘What would you like me to do about it? Get on to the police?’
‘What the hell’s the good of the police?’ demanded Logan. ‘Either get on to the Admiralty, or phone Scotland Yard and tell them to pass the information on to M.I.5.’ It was only then that I realized that he must be old enough to have been through the last war. Generally the inhabitants of English country districts call it the secret service. ‘If you don’t feel like doing either of these,’ he continued, ‘I suggest we settle the matter locally.’
‘How?’
‘Well, figure it out this way,’ he said. ‘You’re probably right when you say a spy wouldn’t be landed by submarine—certainly not on this part of the coast. If he is a German, then he’ll have been landed to collect information. And if he’s been landed to collect information, he’s still got to get it back to the submarine. Our job is to see that he doesn’t.’
‘He may have rejoined his boat already,’ I said.
‘What—last night?’ Big Logan shook his head. ‘The sea was rising fast. By the time he’d reached the cottage and got back to the shore again it would have been absolutely impossible to get a boat in anywhere along the cliffs there. It would have been pretty bad landing at Cadgwith even. What I suggest is, we lie in wait for him on the cliffs above the Frying Pan tonight. If he doesn’t come—well then, we can consider what’s best to be done.’
The coastguard considered this. Then he said, ‘All right, Big Logan. You and Mr Craig here wait for him on the cliffs. I’ll take two of the boys and keep watch by the head there.’ He nodded through the window to the opposite headland that guarded the entrance to Cadgwith from the south west. ‘I suppose we can take your boat?’
Big Logan nodded. ‘Surely. And take that old service revolver of yours, Ted—you may need it.’
The coastguard pulled open a drawer and, routing among a pile of government forms and other papers, produced a revolver. He turned it over reflectively in his hand as though it brought back old memories. Then he shook his head. ‘It’s early for spy scares. Still, it won’t do any harm to take it along.’
So it was that at nine-thirty that evening Big Logan and I met on the path above the Devil’s Frying Pan. By that time I had heard the news of the sinking of the Athenia and was suffering from that indefinable desire to express my horror in action. This, I think, is the most deadly moral effect of war. As I had walked along the path from Church Cove my mind had evolved all sorts of wild schemes by which I could bring about the destruction of the submarine. It wasn’t until I had settled down to the long vigil on the cliff-top that I gave a thought for the men in the boat itself. Then all the horror of the Thetis disaster flooded back into my mind. Journalism and the theatre foster the growth of an imagination. And in war an imagination is a definite handicap. I could not help—despite the sinking of the Athenia—a sudden feeling of deep sympathy for men of the German submarine service scattered about the high seas, cooped up in their steel shells, facing a horrible and almost inevitable death.
But after all, there was no question of destroying the submarine. Somehow I felt thankful that Big Logan had not felt sure enough of himself to insist upon the Admiralty being notified. I could picture the torpedo boat waiting under the shelter of the headland and then dashing out, as the U-boat submerged, to drop depth charges that would blow her back to the surface and destroy her utterly. But there was only Big Logan’s boat waiting, with no bigger armaments than the coastguard’s revolver, and the two of us sitting on top of the cliffs. Anyway, there probably was no U-boat.
That belief grew as the hours slipped monotonously by. We could neither smoke nor talk. We sat on a great rock on the westward side of the Frying Pan, watching the sea until everything merged into the blackness of a tunnel. There were no stars, no moon—the night was like a pit. I had brought some chocolate. We ate that, spinning it out as long as possible, for it gave us something to do. At length I began to feel drowsy. It was then nearly two. I was cold and stiff. For a time I felt angry with Big Logan for assuming that I would accompany him on this damfool errand. The belief that he did not know a shark when he saw one had grown to a certainty by the time I fell asleep.
It seemed but a second later that I was being shaken out of my sleep. I opened my mouth to speak, but a rough hand closed over it and Big Logan’s voice whispered in my ear, ‘Keep quiet and watch the sea.’
I felt suddenly tense. The night was as black as ever and, as I stared out into it, I felt that I might just as well be blind. Then suddenly a light showed out there on the water. I saw its reflection for an instant in the sea. Then it was gone, and the night was as dark as ever, so that I felt it must have been my imagination.
Big Logan did not move. I sensed the rigidity of his body. His head, only a few feet away from my own, was just visible. It was tilted slightly to one side as he listened, his eyes fixed on the spot where I supposed the water must flow into the Frying Pan.
At length he rose. And I scrambled to my feet too, though I had heard nothing. He took my arm and together we moved with great care back on to the path. There we waited, huddled against the wall of the big white house that lay back from the Frying Pan. ‘The boat has arrived,’ he whispered in my ear. ‘It’s down in the Frying Pan now. And I saw the flash of your friend’s torch away along the cliff as he signalled the submarine.’
It seemed hours before we heard the sound of footsteps on the path. Actually I suppose it was only a few minutes. They drew nearer. I felt Logan tense for the spring. Then they ceased. Almost at the same time there was the flash of a torch reddened by a screening hand. And in that flash the slim waterproof-clad figure stood out quite clearly. He had left the path and had reached almost the exact spot where we had been sitting. He was descending the steep shoulder of the Frying Pan towards the archway.
For all his bulk, Logan moved swiftly. He was down the slope, a vague blur in the darkness, almost before I had crossed the path. As I scrambled down the shoulder I saw him pounce. It was so dark that it was difficult to distinguish what happened, but I think the man turned just before the attack. My one fear had been that he would have a revolver. But if he had, he got no chance to use it. Logan had the advantage of the slope and his own huge bulk. They went down together, and when I reached them Logan had his man
pinioned to the ground, his hand across his mouth. ‘Search him,’ he said.
I ran my hands over his body and felt the outline of an automatic in the pocket of his waterproof. I was on the point of removing it when the whole scene was suddenly illuminated by a torch. I looked up and was almost blinded by its light. I have a vivid mental picture of Big Logan’s bearded head in silhouette against that dazzling light. The light came steadily nearer. A tall man in uniform was standing over us. His arms rose and fell, and as it fell in front of the torch I saw that his hand grasped a big service revolver by the barrel. There was a sickening thud, and Big Logan slumped forward. The man in the waterproof thrust Logan’s body away from him and scrambled to his feet. Something cold and hard was pressed against my head. I knew what it was and I thought my last hour had come. The man had not switched off his torch and I could see Big Logan’s head hanging loosely over a rock and blood was trickling down from his scalp into his beard. I thought the blow had killed him.
‘Wir werden sie beide mitnehmen.’ It was the man in the waterproof speaking. I was never so thankful for a knowledge of German. Their decision to take us along was presumably due to a desire to leave no evidence of the fact that they had landed and to safeguard, as far as possible, the owner of Carillon.
The man in the waterproof turned to me. ‘You must regard yourself as our prisoner,’ he said in his precise English. ‘You will walk two paces in front. Any attempt to escape or to attract attention and you will be shot.’ He motioned me forward with his automatic, and then he and the other German each took hold of one of Logan’s arms. The torch was switched off and in the sudden darkness I could hardly see where I was going. I could hear Logan’s feet dragging along the ground behind me as I went down the slope to the bottom of the Frying Pan. The Germans frequently had to pause in order to adjust Logan’s weight between them and the sound of their breathing became louder.
It grew darker than ever as we descended and I almost stumbled into the arms of a man waiting at the water’s edge. He challenged us in German. ‘Schon gut, Karl,’ answered the man in the waterproof. ‘Sehen Sie, dass die Leute in’s Boot kommen.’
‘Zu Befehl, Herr Kapitaenlautnent.’
So Logan had been right. It was the commander of the U-boat that had been landed. I began to wonder what it was that he had come ashore for. It must have been something of considerable importance for him to run that risk at the outbreak of war. We ought to have realized that one of the boat’s crew might come up to meet him. Our only hope now lay in the coastguard, waiting off the headland—or had they already dealt with him? Was that what had put them on their guard?
The boat was dragged in closer. It was a collapsible affair with two oars, and by the time Logan’s inert body had been placed in it, there seemed no prospect of it holding four more men. However, it did, though it sat very low in the water as a result. The commander sat facing me with his automatic ready, while the other two men took an oar each.
Silently we slid beneath the great archway that had originally formed the entrance to the cave before it had collapsed to make the Frying Pan. It was lighter as soon as we got out into the open sea and it was possible to distinguish the dim outline of the cliffs towering above us. Soon, however, even this landmark merged and was lost in the night. It seemed impossible to believe that we should find the submarine in the dark until, turning my head, I saw the merest pinprick of a light showing straight over our bows.
I looked back at the commander. He was watching me, the automatic gripped in his hand, its barrel pointed at me. Big Logan lay inert between us. There was no sign of the coastguard’s boat. Then I began to think of the information that the U-boat commander had presumably obtained. What was it—movements of merchant ships, fleet dispositions, transport sailings? It might mean the loss of hundreds of lives if he were allowed to reach the submarine with it. I shifted my position. The boat rocked dangerously. ‘Still!’ Though the commander spoke English, his voice was not English. There was something cold about it, and I sat rigid, the automatic thrust a few inches nearer.
But it was my life and possibly Big Logan’s against the lives of many others. On me lay the responsibility for action. I hesitated. Then suddenly I made up my mind. I would jump on the side of the boat. It was bound to capsize. Then anything might happen. I tensed my muscles for the spring.
And at that moment I heard the roar of a powerful engine. A searchlight suddenly stretched out a white pencil of light across the water. It swept round in a short arc and came to rest on the rubber boat, blinding us completely. The drone of the engines grew louder and then came the rattle of machine gun fire. Little spouts of water flew up all round us. One of the men at the oars slumped into the bottom of the boat, almost capsizing it.
The searchlight bore rapidly down on us. The boat’s intention was obvious. It was going to ram us. Close behind us came a sudden ear-splitting explosion. A huge spout of water flew up white in the searchlight. Another flung spray right over the advancing boat. It veered away and I saw the grey lines of a British torpedo boat flash past our stern, the water swirling up from its bows. Before I had time to do anything the steel bows of a submarine nosed alongside.
The commander jumped out on to the deck, which was half awash. In an instant I found myself hauled out of the boat and bundled towards the conning tower. I passed the for’ard gun just as it fired again and my ears went completely deaf. As I was thrust down the conning tower hatch I saw the torpedo boat swing in a great arc. Its searchlight suddenly went out and everything was black. The commander dropped down beside me, shouting a string of orders so fast that I could not understand them. Immediately the submarine’s engines came to life and she began to swing sharply to port. I knew then that the commander was afraid of being torpedoed and I felt a sudden emptiness inside me.
Logan’s great body, still unconscious, was thrust down the hatch almost on top of me. We were pushed out of the way and the crew scrambled down, two carrying the man who had been hit. The hatch closed with a bang. The sound of the engines immediately seemed like a great throbbing pulse. It was very warm and there was a strong smell of oil. We were bundled into two bunks out of the way. Every man was at his action station.
The boat seemed to shudder as she gathered way. A bell sounded, and a few seconds later the floor took a decided tilt. We were diving. It was a crash dive and the roar of the electric motors took the place of the diesels. We were no sooner on an even keel than I sensed rather than actually felt the boat turning. I had read enough about submarine experiences in the Great War to know what the commander was trying to avoid. The muscles of my face contracted in anticipation and my hands were clenched so tight that the nails bit into the palms.
A second later it came—a terrific crash. The U-boat bucked as though it had hit a rock and there was the sound of breaking crockery. The lights went out and, with the fuses blown, the motors stopped. There was a sudden deathly stillness. And in that stillness it was just possible to hear the drone of the torpedo boat’s propellers on the surface of the sea above us. The emer-gency lighting came on. The shock of the depth charge had rolled Logan out of his bunk into the gangway. He picked himself up, fully conscious now. Then he saw me and said, ‘My head feels bloody. There are sort of explosions going on inside it. It feels as though it will burst.’
I was about to enlighten him when a second depth charge exploded. It was not so near as the other, but even so the U-boat rocked violently for the trim was bad. The bows seemed to dip and then there was an ominous jar for’ard. Logan took one look round the place and understood. He was like a drunkard that has suddenly been sobered up by danger. His eyes cleared and he was instantly alert.
The commander shouted some order. Two seamen dashed down the gangway, pushing Logan to one side. They were followed by the man who had knocked Logan out. He was the first-lieutenant. For a moment everything seemed pandemonium. Orders were shouted and men rushed aft. Then there was quiet. Water was flooding in from the contro
l room. The crew were on the hand gear for everything to save noise. The only sound was a gramophone playing ‘Deutschland, Deutschland über Alles.’ For the second time that night I found myself thinking of the Thetis disaster, but there was little comfort in Professor Haldane’s assurance at the enquiry that the men would not have suffered greatly.
The regulating tank had been flooded and the submarine was now on an even keel. I found I had scrambled out of my bunk. The Number One came back along the gangway shouting, ‘Die Kammer achtern ist unter Wasser, nud Wasser dringt in den Maschinenraum.’
‘Do you understand what he said?’ asked Logan.
‘He said the stern compartment is flooded and water is coming into the engine room,’ I told him.
Then there was a report of water coming in for’ard. But by this time the leak in the control room had been stopped. Two more depth charges boomed in the distance. The commander came out of the control room and was met by the engineer officer. He reported engine room leak stopped, but port motor damaged. One of the watchkeepers who was down with ’flu walked dazedly past along the gangway in his pyjamas. ‘What’s happened?’ he asked.
‘Plenty—your temperature is a hundred and two,’ came the answer. ‘Report to your bunk.’ Then to the engineer officer, the commander said, ‘What about the starboard motor?’
‘Propeller shaft fractured.’
‘Well, see if you can get the port motor working.’
The commander then had a long talk with his second. Part of it I could not catch. But the gist of the second’s remarks gave me some idea of what had happened following the first depth charge. The explosion had apparently blown open the engine-room hatch allowing a huge volume of water to enter. Then the pressure of water from outside had sealed the hatch completely. Moreover, it appeared that the boat was now far too heavy and bobbing about between fifty and sixty feet. ‘We’ll have to empty the bilges,’ the commander decided suddenly, ‘even if the oil does give our position away.’
Wreckers Must Breathe Page 4