The Enemy Below

by D. A. Rayner

  A head and shoulders appeared above the conning-tower hatch. “Radar operator says it’s time to swing her, sir.”

  “Very well,” Kunz acknowledged the information. Through the voice pipe he ordered the alteration of course that would enable one of the quarter radar mattresses to cover the arc where the stern had been. Unlike a surface ship, whose radar aerial turned continually, the U-boats had “send and receive” radar mattresses that were fixed around the conning tower, each covering a certain arc. But because of the positioning of the antiaircraft gun there was no mattress that covered the arc that lay ten degrees on either side of the stern. Consequently when on passage the routine practice was to swing the boat twenty degrees to one side once every hour to make sure that nothing was astern—and when this was ascertained to turn back once more to their course.

  A moment or two later the head and shoulders reappeared.

  “Anything to report?” Kunz asked.

  “The ground returns from the sea are so bad that the screen’s cluttered up with false echoes, Herr Leutnant.”

  “Who is the operator?”

  “Bauer.”

  Kunz nodded. “Very well.” Willi Bauer was the signalman responsible for looking after the radar set. His report should be reliable.

  “Bauer said that there seems to be a ghost echo eleven thousand meters astern—very indefinite.”

  “Anything would be in this weather. There’re no surface ships here, and if there are—we can’t attack them.”

  “Shall I report to the Kapitän?”

  “No—no. He will be angry if he is disturbed.”

  “Zum Befehl, Herr Leutnant.”

  “Tell Bauer to see if it’s still there in an hour’s time.”

  The head and shoulders disappeared. “Bring her back on course,” Kunz said into the voice pipe, and he settled down to another hour of misery.

  An hour later the ghost was still there.

  “That proves it’s something in the set—that machine is haunted with ghosts. Tell the hydrophone operator to see if he can hear any asdic transmissions, and report to me.”

  “Zum Befehl, Herr Leutnant.”

  Five minutes later the messenger was back again. “No transmissions audible, sir.”

  “Thank you.” Kunz, satisfied that the radar had chosen this occasion to trot out one of the innumerable ghost echoes of which it was capable, continued to do his utmost to keep himself dry.

  And so it had gone on. From hour to hour and from watch to watch. The longer that the echo stayed just where it was, the more likely it was to be a “ghost.” For who had ever heard of an escort that, obtaining a radar contact, had not rushed at it full tilt?

  Kunz had been relieved at midnight by Oberleutnant Otto von Holem. There was no love lost between these two. Kunz considered von Holem a useless sprig of the nobility, and von Holem thought that Kunz was beneath contempt. The exchange had been as short as the necessity of duty permitted. At the last moment Kunz had paused halfway down the hatch. “Oberleutnant, there is a ghost echo on the radar eleven thousand meters astern. I forgot to tell you.”

  “You have reported it to the Kapitän?”

  “No. It was reported as a ghost and has been there for three hours. It can be nothing else.”

  Von Holem was about to suggest with some acerbity that the Kapitän should have been told when Kunz added from one rung farther down the hatch: “I thought you’d like the pleasure of stirring up a hornets’ nest.”

  “Verfluchter Kerl,” von Holem murmured and turned to duck as a solid sheet of water flung itself over the conning tower.

  Four hours later von Holem was relieved by the Executive Officer, Oberleutnant Heini Schwachofer.

  “The weather improves.”

  “It’s not quite so wet now.”

  The two officers stood side by side looking over the long bow as it creamed into a wave. But the wind was gone, and only a spatter of spray fell into the conning tower.

  “Anything to report?”

  “Nothing. A ghost echo turned up in Kunz’s watch. Dead astern eleven thousand. I nearly reported it to the Kapitän, but it’s so regularly there that I’m sure it is a ghost. It’s been there now for eight hours.”

  “I agree. It can’t be the enemy. He’s not the patient sort. Anyway there are no escorts in this part of the world. Sleep well, Otto.”

  Von Holem lowered himself down the hatch.

  The watch dragged on. A pale sheen flitted on the advancing face of the waves. The hull appeared darker and the phosphorescence paler—the dawn. Schwachofer stirred, easing cramped limbs.

  “Signalman, coffee.”

  The man disappeared.

  The cold light grew in intensity. The horizon of exact sight expanded, fifty meters—two hundred meters.

  The signalman thrust a cup of steaming coffee into his hand.

  “Ah!” The Executive Officer put salt-caked lips to the hot rim. The scent of coffee filled his nostrils. “Ah!” he said again with satisfaction.

  The dawn of a new day crept over the ocean. It was lighter to the east. He glanced at his watch—twenty minutes past six—and turned again to look over the bow. The wave motion fascinated him as the seas creamed along the U-boat’s circular hull and sucked at the long casing that ran up to the high bow.

  Putting the binoculars to his eyes, he began a routine sweep. Jagged wave tops ahead, long valleys on the beam, the smooth backs of retreating waves astern and—

  “Zum Teufel!” He lowered his glasses, wiped them hurriedly, and looked again. Then he stretched out his hand and pressed the alarm for emergency diving stations.

  The strident roar of the klaxon, that had not been heard for the last fortnight, filled the boat. In a moment the narrow central alleyway was full of men hurrying to their stations. They hauled themselves from their bunks, struggled into jackets, fastened trouser belts, grumbling and cursing. U-boat 121 had been caught with her pants down.

  “SUBMARINE DIVING, sir.”

  The cry was taken up by many voices.

  “Commence asdic sweep: steer two-four-oh: note the time, Pilot. Yeoman, get a position from the navigator and get that signal off right away, Johnson is expecting it. Number One, sound off action stations and let me know as soon as the seven minutes are up.” The Captain’s orders came crisply and with certainty.

  The telephone from the radar cabinet buzzed. The Captain raised the handset. “Forebridge.”

  “Echo’s faded, sir.” Lewis’ voice sounded tired.

  “Thank you, Lewis. We’ve seen the U-boat submerge—and thank you for your work. It’s been a dam’ fine effort.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Go and get your head down, man. I’ll send for you if I need you.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  The Captain replaced the handset. While he had been talking he had been conscious of many feet clattering up ladders; the clang of iron as some hatches were closed and clipped, and other hatches, up which the ammunition would be sent to the guns, were flung open. Now the apparent chaos had subsided to the quiet efficiency of a prepared ship. The Hecate had drawn her sword, and the naked blade was bright in her hand.

  From many places came the reports.

  “Coxswain at the wheel, sir.”

  “B Gun cleared away, sir.”

  “Depth-charge crews correct, sir.”

  “Asdic hut closed up, sir.”

  “Plot closed up, sir.”

  “X Gun cleared away, sir.”

  “Third boiler connected, sir.”

  It was, the Captain thought, an evolution that never ceased to thrill—action stations sounded in the presence of the enemy. The incredibly intricate ship coming under the control of one brain. Not that the one brain functioned alone: it planned the action but left the carrying out to trusted officers. Mentally he reviewed them. There wasn’t one who could not be relied upon to do his job.

  The First Lieutenant touched his arm.

  “Seven
minutes, sir.”

  “In one minute alter course to port to one-eight-oh. Use thirty degrees of wheel. If she does not turn fast enough I’ll stop the port engine. I want her on the new course in two minutes.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  The Captain moved apart from the other officers clustered on the bridge. He felt an immediate desire to be alone—for he looked fear in the face and wanted to meet this new adversary alone. It was not so much the personal fear of death but the fear that his professional judgment might prove to be at fault. Somewhere on the port bow and hidden by the waves he was sure that there was a lethal enemy preparing to strike at him, and through him at the ship he commanded and at the men who trusted him. For the first time in the whole war he had had the time to seriously plan a meeting with the enemy. Previous engagements had been fought on snap decisions and intuitive actions. Parry had followed riposte into lunge with such speed that serious thought had been impossible. This carefully calculated action was foreign both to his nature and to his experience.

  The sun was breaking the horizon’s rim. Pale gold light dispersed the last of the dawn’s shadow.

  “Port thirty, steer one-eight-oh.” He heard the First Lieutenant’s voice giving the incisive order, and he moved toward the standard compass. The Hecate began to heel, to lean over to starboard as her rudder bit into the water. Looking astern, the slick, satin smooth, was seen to be already growing from her port quarter.

  The telephone from the asdic cabinet broke the silence. The Captain’s arm shot out, and then remembering that he of all people must remain calm, he slowly raised the handset to his face. “Forebridge.”

  The asdic officer’s excited voice came to him: “Strong hydrophone effect on port bow.”

  “Bearing?” the Captain snapped.

  “Difficult to say, sir. It covers quite a large arc. I’d say red three-oh to right ahead.”

  The Captain looked at his First Lieutenant. “How’s her head?”

  “Passing two-one-oh, sir.”

  Captain to asdic cabinet: “Bearing now?”

  Asdic cabinet to Captain: “Seems to be crossing the bow, sir. Approximate center bearing red oh-five to green one-oh. Getting much louder, sir.”

  Captain to First Lieutenant: “How’s her head?”

  “Passing one-nine-eight, sir.”

  Captain down voice pipe to the wheelhouse: “Stop port.”

  The voice pipe answered: “Port engine stopped, sir.”

  Captain to First Lieutenant: “Half ahead port engine as soon as you’re round to one-eight-five.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  Captain to asdic cabinet: “Bearing now?”

  “Green oh-five to green six-oh.”

  By the record of their instruments the torpedoes had crossed their bows and were speeding into the barren wastes of the sea, where they would sink to the bottom and lie on the ooze, to the astonishment of the deep-sea fish. But one could never be quite certain unless one’s eyes could confirm the tale told by the clever electrical machines.

  “Captain, sir! Captain, sir!” The bridge lookout on the starboard searchlight platform was pointing desperately toward the starboard beam.

  Hurrying across the bridge, the Captain leaned over the starboard side to follow the lookout’s finger. There, lying across the now blue and sparkling water, were two long white shafts that undulated as the waves crossed their path.

  He came back to the compass platform. “Two torpedoes passed down our starboard side—half a cable clear.” He felt good. He felt grand. He went to the voice pipe that led to the plot. “Pilot, give me a course to a position two-one-oh degrees three miles from where she dived.”

  A moment’s wait and then from the pipe the Scot’s accent: “Two-oh-eight, sir.”

  “Thank you.” The Captain turned to the First Lieutenant, who had just ordered the port engine ahead again. “Bring her back to two-oh-eight. We’ve drawn his fangs.”

  “Starboard thirty, steer two-oh-eight.” The order was passed, and then: “Worked a treat, sir.” His First Lieutenant’s smiling face was raised to his, the blue eyes laughing in the tanned face. “I bet the Herr Kapitän is hopping mad.”

  “I hope so too. It may get him rattled—but I doubt it. He’s the fighting type or he’d never have sent those kippers after us. He’ll give us a run for our money.”

  Willis, the yeoman, approached him.

  “Yes, Yeoman?”

  “Message passed, sir. Johnson told me to tell you ‘four minutes ten seconds dead,’ sir.”

  “Thank you, Yeoman. Pass the word to Johnson that I’m very pleased indeed with the time. It’s dam’ good.”

  The Hecate was heeling now to port as she turned back to starboard after her enemy. Astern, her wake showed clear—a gigantic S, the turns almost half a mile in diameter. Leaning against the voice pipe to the wheelhouse, the Captain could hear snatches of conversation not meant for his ears.

  “What I wants to know is how the Old Man knew the bastard was going to try to kipper us.”

  “ ‘Cos he’s got a head on, hasn’t he—same as you. The difference is that he uses his. That’s what he draws his pay for.”

  Laughing, the Captain flicked over the cover of the voice pipe, cutting off further chance of eavesdropping.

  The bell from the asdic buzzed.

  “Forebridge,” the Captain said.

  “Submarine echo bearing two-oh-eight, sir. Going away, extreme range.”

  “Nice job, Hopkins. Keep the plot informed.” And to the plot: “Asdic has a target bearing two-oh-eight degrees, probably submarine. Extreme range. Plot the target.”

  “Aye aye, sir. Plot the target.”

  OBERLEUTNANT SCHWACHOFER, after he had clipped down the heavy lower conning-tower hatch, jumped the last four rungs to the deck and steadied himself by holding onto the ladder.

  Already the boat’s bow was sinking and the deck inclined downward. The clatter of the diesels had gone, and in its place was the soft purr of the big electric motors.

  The Kapitän came from the doorway that led to the wardroom and thence to the engine and motor rooms. He was unshaven, had pouches under his eyes, and did not look well. His hurriedly donned coat was unfastened and the trousers, in which he had slept, were crumpled.

  “What is it?” He spoke in a voice that was louder than necessary, causing his Executive Officer to fear needlessly for his Kapitän’s nerve.

  “A British destroyer, Herr Kapitän.”

  “Nonsense! Did you sight her?”

  “Indeed I did. Between four and five miles astern.”

  “To the eastward of us up sun. It is possible that she has not sighted us.”

  “I fear, Herr Kapitän”—Schwachofer was going cautiously in spite of the obvious need to tell his senior everything that he knew—“that she has been tailing us since just after eight o’clock last night. We—that is first Kunz, and then the rest of us—thought that it was a ghost echo.”

  “Impossible.” The veins were standing out in the Kapitän’s neck. “Impossible!” The blood was coursing into his face. The Executive Officer had never seen such fury. “Impossible!” Schwachofer drew back as if he feared his Kapitän would strike him.

  The Kapitän shivered as, with a great effort, he fought for control and succeeded in achieving the mastery of his temper. But when he spoke the tone of his voice was unrecognizable for the friendly manner.

  “Blode Kerls. All of you. Almost ten hours. One hundred and forty miles you have brought the enemy. You know how important is our mission, and you lead him to our rendezvous. Is this how U-121 obeys the orders of the Grand Admiral?”

  “I’m sorry, Herr Kapitän.”

  “Mistakes cannot be rectified in war. Please God the Britisher makes a mistake. Four and a half miles. Bring the boat to ten meters at once. At once, you understand. I would use the periscope.”

  Both officers glanced at the depth gauge that already showed sixty meters. The Kapitän’s standing
order was that, on the sounding of the crash-dive signal, the boat should be taken down to eighty meters.

  The Executive Officer issued sharp orders. The bow whose dip had been growing less, now became level. The hiss of high pressure air stowed in the big bottles under the deck could be heard expelling the water from the ballast tanks. The needle of the depth gauge stopped, hovered, and began to retrace its steps—slowly at first, and then more quickly.

  The Kapitän buttoned up his coat as he watched the gauge. One hand stroked his chin. He wished he could have been given time to shave. He did not like the men to see their Kapitän looking disheveled.

  Twenty meters. The needle crept more slowly now.

  “Course two-one-oh. Four knots. Periscope depth, Herr Oberleutnant—and be prepared to dive deep.”

  The hiss of the hydraulic rods, that brought the big attack periscope from its well, sounded through the control room. The eyepiece with its handles appeared above the deck. Bending, the Kapitän seized them. His back unbent as the periscope continued to rise. His eyes were fixed in the rubber eyeshield.

  “Ten meters,” Schwachofer spoke crisply. Now that his Kapitän was taking the offensive, his own morale was returning. They’d sink the destroyer and then, in the rejoicing, they’d all be forgiven. He could even imagine that an unscrupulous Kapitän might claim to have lured the intruder along until daylight so that he could torpedo it. He wondered just how scrupulous von Stolberg was. A strong disciplinarian, a good fellow, but a real Junker. Schwachofer was a sailor, born and bred in the Baltic timber trade; he would not altogether trust a “von.”