by D. A. Rayner
The Hecate replaced her sword in the sheath, but she kept her right hand firmly on the hilt.
IN THE dim light von Stolberg peered over Schwachofer’s shoulder.
“What depth?” he asked.
“Hundred and ten—all the tanks are working correctly.”
“We lost thirty meters.”
“Ja, Herr Kapitän.”
“Keep her steady at a hundred and ten until we’ve checked on the damage. If there is nothing serious I’ll go deep to a hundred and fifty meters.”
Von Stolberg’s speech had not been made in his usual voice. Schwachofer noticed the change but made no comment. Even had he dared to make a personal remark to the very impersonal man who was his commanding officer, comment would have been superfluous. He wondered what his own voice sounded like, for his mouth was as dry as if he had marched across a desert.
Already the electricians were hurrying around the boat replacing the broken bulbs. The main fault in the lights was traced to a blown fuse on the main switchboard. When this had been replaced, the lighting was back to normal.
Most men in the boat were more upset by the sudden return of the light than by the thought of remaining in the dim emergency lighting, which had engendered a cozy atmosphere. In the return of current to the main bulbs, they were at once made freshly aware of the power of their enemy—for now the full extent of the ordeal through which their boat had passed could be seen and assessed. The cork insulation had been stripped in great irregular-shaped pieces from the plating. It covered everything—bunks, floor, and the men themselves. Strips of it hung festooned among the pipes and valves that surrounded the control room. As a sample of what could happen to them, it was almost as unnerving as the explosion itself had been. There was not a gauge glass that had not been shattered, and the broken shards were everywhere, even on their own bodies.
Von Stolberg, turning sharply from the depth gauge, slipped on the glass-strewn deck. “Get this mess swept up,” he spoke to Kunz, who put his head into the forward torpedo room and called to the petty officer there to send a man with a brush.
Slowly the Kapitän felt his nerves, which had seemed to turn to vibrating piano wires, relax. He had to admit that it was the most devastating blow that he had ever felt in his three years in the submarine service. Had he been able to realize it, there was no cause for surprise in that. The depth charges had exploded only just outside the critical distance. Six feet, even three feet closer, and mortal damage would almost surely have been done.
He went to the door of the hydrophone cabinet and looked in. “Your ears were not damaged, Braun?” he asked.
“No, Herr Kapitän. I had warning. When the first charge exploded I removed the headphones.”
“That is good.” It was not unknown for the hydrophone operators to have their hearing seriously impaired, for their instrument greatly magnified all sounds in the water. The Kapitän was therefore as much interested in his operator’s ears as he was in the correct functioning of any other instrument in the boat. His query had been made solely for this reason. It was not that von Stolberg was a cruel man—he was just insensible to the feelings of others. He detested the thought of the cruelties that his brother Germans, the Nazis, were daily performing in the prison camps. It never crossed his mind that their activities were in any way connected with the von Stolbergs; and if anyone had suggested to him that he shared the responsibility, he would have been angered at such an insult.
“Can you hear anything?”
“Ja, Herr Kapitän. The destroyer is in contact astern. It is difficult to tell her range because she is blanketed by our own propellers. I fancy that she comes closer.”
Otto Kritz, the engineer, was waiting for him. “Well?”
“No material damage, Herr Kapitän.”
“Safe to go to one hundred and fifty meters?”
“As far as I can ascertain, yes.”
The Kapitän turned to Schwachofer. “Take her down to one hundred and fifty.” It was unlikely that the British ship was in any way aware of the near-success of her last attack. The oil tanks, which at that depth would have immediately registered any puncture, were undamaged: thus there was no clue that would provide the destroyer’s Captain with confirmation of the accuracy of his guess. However, now that the destroyer was attacking up von Stolberg’s tail, the longer the margin of time the German could seize, the safer he would be. Depth charges took three times as long to sink to four hundred feet as to two hundred. Unlike an object falling through the air, they fell more slowly as the depth increased, because the water was denser at the lower level.
In diving to one hundred and fifty meters he had gone as deep as he cared to go in his present boat, and even at that depth she creaked alarmingly. The new U-boats could go quite comfortably to two hundred meters—six hundred feet, and one had reported returning to the surface from as far down as seven hundred and fifty. U-121 was an early boat of her class and had been chosen for her present mission because, being slightly larger than the more modern boats, she had greater endurance.
She was not now tilted at an angle. Schwachofer was taking her down gently on an even keel, because at the greater depth any momentary loss of control could not be so easily corrected.
The hydrophone voice pipe was calling:
“Destroyer astern—closing rapidly.”
The propeller beat could now be heard in the boat. Von Stolberg listened carefully.
“What is your depth?”
“Just coming to one hundred and fifty, Herr Kapitän.”
“Good.” Then to Schrader the quartermaster: “Port twenty, steer two-one-oh.”
Breathlessly the crew waited. The rumbling detonations sounded above them. One bulb went out. There was nothing more.
“He fires too shallow,” von Stolberg said, and a cracked smile twisted his lips. Schwachofer noticed it. It was the Kapitän’s first attempt at a smile that day. Perhaps it boded well. Perhaps they’d get out of this somehow. “Steady on course and depth,” he reported.
Kunz noticed it too, and his young heart leapt. He had not enjoyed the bad shock. Not at all. Von Holem saw the smile too, and was relieved.
Schwachofer broke the silence. “Herr Kapitän, breakfast for the men?”
“Yes, of course. Have some food passed around, but nothing heated. We must conserve electricity.”
Very soon tins of sardines and biscuits smeared with butter were being passed round the boat. The butter, real butter, at once assumed the taste of U-boat. So did the bread, which absorbed the taint most readily. Even the newly opened tins of sardines tasted of diesel oil, mold, and sweat. The atmosphere was already becoming foul by ordinary standards, and they had only been submerged for three hours. The smell was part of their arduous duty—something all accepted and must learn to overcome. The boat sweated terribly. Clothes would not dry properly, and leather garments mildewed green over night and added to the unmistakable smell of U-boat.
Von Stolberg, stuffing a sardine into his mouth, called down the voice pipe to the hydrophone cabinet. “Well?”
“Enemy transmissions on our beam, drawing aft. I think he’s going astern of us again, Herr Kapitän. His engines are turning very slowly.”
The Kapitän finished his breakfast and asked again: “Well?”
“Still astern of us, Herr Kapitän. He’s just sitting on our tail at the same course and speed.”
“Zum Teufel,” the Kapitän murmured. What was the mad Britisher up to now? To trail him as a detective trails a criminal? To creep continuously behind him? It was not war, it was annihilation! The books said that the British always attacked, and went on attacking wildly, until their ammunition was exhausted—then they went away. Suppose the destroyer should stay there all day? And all night too? The U-boat would have to be brought to the surface about six o’clock tomorrow, her endurance exhausted, and then the swine would get him without the expenditure of one single depth charge more.
And the Cecilie? Was the destro
yer going to come all the way with him to his rendezvous? Had she already told the British Admiralty that there was a U-boat in the area? What did the naval information say on that score? It said that the British always made a sighting report immediately they were in contact with a German aircraft or a U-boat, but that thereafter they kept silence unless they achieved a victory. Only then did they break wireless silence again. He must assume that the British Captain would have reported at once. That was when? Eight o’clock on the previous night. Mad this particular pest might be, but he would hardly be so crazy as to disregard the rules of authority. Trying to put himself in the position of his opponent, he could not bring himself to believe that the sighting report had not been made at least twelve hours before. The message would have contained a geographical position, and that position would have been at least one hundred and fifty miles away to the northeast, and would be over two hundred miles from the position of his rendezvous with the Cecilie. He thought that there could be no possible chance that the report would bring a hornets’ nest about the ears of the ship that he was going to meet.
If he could not sink the destroyer himself, and he had by no means given up hope that he would yet be successful, he was sure that the Cecilie would be only too pleased to do so when she arrived. At that late hour any further report the destroyer could make would be too late to prevent the transfer to him of the valuable documents. It was true that such a report might put the Cecilie herself in some jeopardy. But unless superior enemy surface forces were very near at hand, her chances of a safe return to the Fatherland were not likely to be greatly diminished. The sea was so vast, and her own disguise would be so good.
Looking at his watch, he saw that it was half-past ten. He went again to the hydrophone cabinet.
“Braun, where is she now?”
“Just the same, Herr Kapitän. She is coming slowly along behind us.”
“I am going to see if he is asleep or not. It is just possible that he behaves so because a part of his machine is broken, and he waits like this while his men mend it. I am going to turn ninety degrees to port. You will tell me exactly what happens. I want to know if he follows me or not—you understand?”
“I understand, Herr Kapitän.”
Von Stolberg went back to the control room.
“Alter course to one-two-oh degrees.”
Feeling his boat begin to turn, he wondered whether the destroyer would follow him around. He prayed that she might go on. Not only because if she did so he might slip away from her but so that she would not be hanging on his tail any longer. It was a sensation that he particularly disliked. His analogy between detective and criminal had been an apt one. He felt just as a fugitive from justice might feel; and he was quite unable to appreciate the irony of the situation.
He tried to appear nonchalant, but so great was the effort that he was forced to give it up and go back to the hydrophone cabinet. He hated himself for thus giving way to weakness, and laid this as a further charge against the accursed Britisher.
There was a repeater from the gyrocompass on the bulkhead above the complicated instruments. Looking at it, he saw that his boat was steadied on her new course.
“Well, Braun?”
“Nothing further to report, Herr Kapitän.”
“You mean that he is still there?”
“Ja, Herr Kapitän, as before.”
Von Stolberg felt that the hair on the back of his head was rising. He smoothed his hand over his close-cropped head and retraced his steps to the control room.
“Alter back to course two-one-oh.”
It was possible that another turn might yet catch his tracker unawares. Those in the destroyer would be so pleased with their first success that they might miss the second turn.
But it was to no purpose. The destroyer followed him around as confidently as before. There was evidently nothing the matter with her instruments, and this unwelcome knowledge was the only gain to set against the waste of a further fifteen minutes.
THE HECATE, barely making steerageway through the glittering tropical waves, followed the enemy below. It was a strange cortege.
Lulled by the gentle motion, the sailors basked in the sun—at any rate those who were not tending to the essential chores of food and keeping the ship clean. Flying fish, when disturbed, broke from the blue waters. They traveled airborne a short distance and then fell back skittering into the water. A few small clouds chased themselves in a circle around the horizon. Above the ship the sky was clear blue.
“What a wonderful day for it.” The Doctor joined the Captain on the bridge.
“You’ve always been screaming for an action ever since you joined—now you’ve got it. What do you think of it?”
“All right as far as it goes. I must say that I’d expected more excitement—more e/a/i.”
“Actions vary as much as men. We’ve a very peculiar one on our hands here. I need another ship to be really effective. But on the other hand I’ve got no convoy to worry about, and no fear of another U-boat trying to sink me while I deal with this one. He can’t stay down for much longer than twenty-four hours. If I can keep on his tail, he’ll have to come up, whether I blow him to the surface or just wait. Of course I admit it’s a bit of a nervous strain on the asdic team and the plot. But we’ve got a damn good crowd.”
“I’d like to see him blown up, please.”
“What bloodthirsty fellows you medical men are—I’d much rather catch ‘em alive-oh.”
“Just so that you can ask him what he’s doing?”
“That for one reason anyway. He’s obviously going somewhere. That somewhere is important to the German war effort or he wouldn’t be here. My job is to jam it sooner or later, and I’d just as soon have it later because we might be able to learn what it is he’s after. We have already accompanied him for one hundred and fifty miles.”
“Good God! As far as that?”
“It’s that far since I took your unguarded queen.”
“Don’t remind me.”
“Want your revenge?”
“What—now?”
“I don’t see why not. It’s probably a little against the usual custom of the Navy for the Captain to play chess while his men are at action stations, but it’s hardly against the tradition. Go and get the board. It will help to prevent me from becoming a giggling lunatic, which I might well do if I have to sit on this joker’s tail for twenty-four hours.”
So the Captain and the Doctor sat down on the platform round the standard compass, and the chessmen were set out.
“My turn for white,” the Captain said.
“I hate playing black against you, sir. You’re hard enough to beat anyway, without giving you the advantage of a start.”
“Stand by for action then,” the Captain answered, moving his queen’s pawn two squares forward.
The bell from the asdic hut buzzed. The Captain was at the voice pipe in one bound. “Forebridge.”
“Submarine altering course, sir. Bearing red one-oh. Range decreasing.”
“Port twenty,” the Captain called to the wheelhouse.
“Target still drawing left, sir.”
“Who is it on the set?”
“Macnally, sir,” and a new voice: “Thomson speaking, sir. I’m here and Mr. Hopkins is just coming.”
“Well done. I’m turning to port after him. The bearing should steady soon.”
“Still drawing left, sir. Red four-oh.”
The submarine, half a mile ahead and turning, was forty-five degrees on the bow. As the destroyer came around after her, the target would draw ahead once more.
“Bearing now?” the Captain asked.
“Bearing steadying,” Hopkins’ voice replied. A pause, and then: “Bearing drawing right. Red three-five.”
The Hecate was swinging more quickly now. The bearings came down steadily. Red two-oh. Red one-five. Fine on the port bow.
“ ‘Midships,” the Captain ordered, “how’s her head, Number One?”
“One-two-five, sir.” The First Lieutenant had glanced at the standard compass.
“He’s done a ninety-degree turn to port. Steer one-two-oh.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
“I bet he won’t stay long on this course. It’s just a wiggle to see if he can shake us off. He’ll be turning back as soon as he finds out we’re still behind him.”
“Forebridge,” from the asdic.
“Forebridge,” replying.
“Submarine altering course—drawing right.”
“Starboard twenty,” the Captain said.
Dutifully the Hecate turned back to two-one-oh following the submarine. The Captain reseated himself before the board. “Your move, Doctor.”
The sun still shone and the Hecate ambled after her prey.
“What beats me is how they get the men to do it.”
“Do what?” the Captain asked.
“Go and sit there in that coffin ahead.”
“This might be the coffin,” the Captain said. “They sink a lot of ships—escorts too.”
“What I’ve never understood is the ethics of the submarine game. If you ask any layman, he’ll tell you that the Germans have U-boats that are utterly loathsome but that the British go to sea in submarines which are somehow quite another thing.”
“Good God! You’re not falling for that old one are you?”
“What do you mean, sir, falling for it? Isn’t it true?”
“Of course it’s not. Have you never been in touch with a submariner’s mess in operational waters? No, I don’t suppose you have. If you had, you would know the answer. There are very, very few areas where a ‘sink-at-sight’ policy is allowed. The Admiralty is most terribly strict about it too. Often our chaps have to risk their lives and their ships when they surface to tell the crews to get into the boats, knowing that the verified target will make an enemy report and that in a few hours the area will be most unhealthy. There are just a few sink-at-sight areas, but the enemy is informed of those, and if he sends ships into them—why then it’s his own funeral if he gets them sunk. But believe me, unrestricted submarine warfare has never been part of British naval practice—except of course against enemy warships. That’s quite a different matter. Your move, Doctor.”