by D. A. Rayner
So the forenoon wore on.
At half-past eleven the Hecate drew her sword again. The Captain explained his plan to the team. “I’m going to steam over her to get some idea of depth. Probably he’ll think I’m attacking and he’ll turn to port or starboard. When I come round again I will attack, but because I fancy he’s wedded to this course of two-one-oh I think he’ll turn back to it. So I’ll keep that side of him. We might get him that way, because he’ll turn into the pattern. Now get to your stations.”
As a plan it had every chance of success. Shivering in every fiber of her slim body, the Hecate’s speed increased. One run over the target provided an estimated depth of four hundred feet, and the U-boat turned to starboard. The Hecate, attacking up her enemy’s stern, kept, as near as could be judged, seventy-five yards on her port bow. The charges were fired and the Captain went to the view plot.
“Contact astern, green one-six-oh. Range four hundred—double echoes,” announced the asdic.
The bearing and range at once suggested to the Captain that his enemy had double-bluffed him. Instead of turning to port and directly back to his course, he had turned a complete circle to starboard, and would have been far away from the bursting charges. The normal procedure would have been for the Hecate to turn to starboard too, but if he turned the other way and went straight for the target there was a possibility of having a beam-on shot at the U-boat instead of this wretched creeping-up-the-tail business. The double echoes almost certainly suggested that one was the U-boat and the other her wake.
“Port thirty.”
He explained the supposition to the navigator on the plot.
The Hecate swung round. The target was on the port bow, the bearing steady. Her Captain had not meant to fire another pattern so soon. He had only sixty charges left and in less than five minutes there would be only fifty. At the last moment he had the sensation that the U-boat, surprised, was trying to take some violent evasive action—but he could not be certain. She was still there after the attack. Still on her course of two-one-oh.
The plot when consulted suggested that the firing of the charges had been a little late, and that with a crossing target they had passed too far ahead of the enemy. But it did suggest that the charges from the port thrower could have hit the enemy full on the nose.
Dutifully the Hecate took station astern of her quarry once more.
THE BRITISH Captain was quite right. Von Stolberg had tried a double bluff. He had turned a full circle to starboard, and he had expected the Hecate to follow him round. He was so certain that this would be the course of events that Braun’s anxious report: “Destroyer approaching from before the starboard beam,” had taken him completely by surprise. A surprise that was so deep that his immediate reaction was to think Braun’s report wrong, and even when this had been confirmed, to force himself to believe that another surface vessel had joined the hunt.
It is axiomatic that a Captain must believe his own deductions to be correct—otherwise he is bound to lose confidence in himself. What is an obvious virtue can, in certain circumstances, become a source of the greatest danger. The strain of war tends to fix intentions—if only because to reverse orders already given may lead to more confusion than new instructions can right.
Three precious minutes were lost while the German confirmed his worst fears. Had he acted at once, he would still have had time to have swung his ship away from the attacker. The three lost minutes could never be regained. The only remaining course was for him to turn toward the enemy, in the expectation that the destroyer would have anticipated him turning away, and she would then fire late rather than early. “Starboard thirty,” he ordered.
“Starboard thirty,” Schwachofer replied.
A minute later the charges began to explode. This time they were correctly set for depth—that much was apparent.
White-faced, with beads of perspiration on his forehead, the German waited. Then there was a shattering explosion that produced just the same sensation that would have been expected if the boat had run her nose into a rock. As an experience it was awful enough, although not to be compared with that endured earlier in the morning. Those of her crew that were standing up were flung forward, clutching desperately at anything that they could. Although the main fuses remained intact, all the lights in the forepart of the ship were broken once again. It was obvious to all aboard that the charge had exploded ahead; and that since, by her shape, the boat was best able to stand a shock from that direction, she had suffered far less than if the explosion had been on the beam or beneath her. What her crew could not know was that the shock had damaged the delicate mechanism in at least two of the torpedoes in her forward tubes. And although the Hecate had not, in this attack, done any material damage to her enemy’s hull, she had in fact saved herself.
Von Stolberg was coldly furious, and basically his anger was directed at himself. Success in naval, as in any, warfare was often attributable to the mistakes of the other side. He had made a mistake, and the effect had nearly been disastrous. It was not even a big mistake. No one could have found fault with his decisions. It was only in the procedure. The three lost minutes had proved to be of paramount importance. The cold rage that possessed him made him determine to sink his adversary. But to do that he must come up from the depths. The destroyer, Braun informed him, had taken station astern once more. He supposed that she was enjoying an interval for lunch. It was just the sort of crazy action that he would expect from this particular ship. Already he was forming a very clear mental picture of the character of his foe. She was efficient certainly, sometimes brilliantly so, as when she had regained contact after losing it early in the morning; but at the same time he had a feeling that she could be tricked by cunning. She was no plodder, but an improviser. Surely Germanic thoroughness should be able to defeat the British originality?
He bent over the attack table and called to Schwachofer to help him.
“The Britisher must be sunk. Let us consider how we may achieve that. We will assume that we have gone up to twenty meters from where we can fire our torpedoes. Then what happens? The destroyer will decide to attack. It will first pass over us without dropping charges as it did just now, probably to ascertain our depth. We will turn, shall we say, to starboard. So long as we decide beforehand which way—it is no matter. The destroyer will run on like this—”
The Kapitän took a pencil from the tray and sketched the turn on the paper. “You see he will turn the same way as we turn, and at a range of about one thousand meters. Very well. We will fire a spread of four angled torpedoes. Let us work it out, Schwachofer. There, you see. One hundred, ninety, eighty, and seventy degrees angling. He will be beam-on to us, and one torpedo at least is bound to hit. With luck two torpedoes.”
“But first we must come to twenty meters.”
“I think the British Captain has his lunch now. I know it will not be easy to blow the tanks without making so much noise that the destroyer will hear. But I do not ask you to carry out this delicate maneuver in twenty minutes. I give you one whole hour—perhaps more.”
“I will do my best, Herr Kapitän.”
“Good. Then let us go up. In any case, if it is reported to the destroyer’s Captain that we are blowing tanks, they will think that we come up because we cannot stay down—and they will not attack us then. The poor fools are too softhearted. They will wait in the hope of rescuing survivors. But they will be the survivors—not us. We shall not attempt to pick them up—except perhaps just one as a keepsake.”
Though Schwachofer did not relish being made the confidant of the Kapitän’s thoughts, the plan was a good one. They might indeed be successful in sinking the enemy ship. She was a warship and therefore liable to be sunk by an enemy. Also it was obviously impossible to stow all her crew in U-121. The facts did not make him feel physically ill—it was the mentality of the man who recited them. How could a real sailor such as he delight in the destruction of ships and sailors’ lives?
Thes
e thoughts did not in any way affect his efficiency as an officer of U-121. “Shall I start blowing now, Herr Kapitän?” he asked.
“Yes—very gently.”
“Jawohl, Herr Kapitän.”
“Muller,” the Kapitän called. “When we reach twenty meters prepare the four forward blast tubes for firing.”
“How long shall I have, Herr Kapitän?”
“How the devil should I know? When the accursed destroyer attacks, I shall require them immediately.” Muller scuttled forward. The Kapitän was in a bad temper and he was thankful to be out of the way.
In the forward torpedo room Muller found the crew lying about. They sat up when he came in—all except one, who still lay on his back. In harbor they would have jumped to attention, but in a submerged boat the use of energy was cut to a minimum in order to conserve the very limited amount of air: a man working used up twice as much air as one who was not. Even so, the reclining member of the crew irritated the recently berated petty officer. “Sit up, damn you,” he said, swinging a foot sharply to the man’s buttocks.
Slowly, stealthily, U-121 rose from the depths. In an hour and a quarter she was at twenty meters, and from that depth she could fire her torpedoes. It was then fifteen minutes past one, but she had to wait for a further two and a quarter hours before her intended prey made any move.
The atmosphere in the boat by that time was becoming foul. Breathing was nauseating, for all the air in the boat had already been through some man’s lungs—and they had only been submerged for some nine hours. Later they would be permitted to use a special breathing apparatus like a gas mask that would guard against the deadly carbon-monoxide fumes. It would be but a poor palliative, for the rubber mouthpiece tasted horrible. Already men were sneaking to their lockers for a tablet of pervitin or caffeine to stave off the awful soporific effect that the bad air had on their systems.
At last Braun made the long-awaited report.
“Enemy speed increasing.”
They could hear her now—moving up—very close above their heads at this lesser depth. The roar of the powerful propellers reached a climax.
“Starboard thirty,” von Stolberg ordered. “Course three-oh-oh. Stand by tubes one to four. Oberleutnant von Holem, take charge of the attack table. Target red nine-oh. Speed one-five knots. Range one thousand meters. Torpedo speed forty knots. Depth five meters.”
“Attack table lined up,” von Holem replied, making the switch that connected the table to the gyrocompass.
“Follow attack table,” he gave the order to the forward torpedo room. The constantly changing firing settings were then being transmitted automatically to the torpedoes and set on their firing mechanisms. The torpedoes would fan out so that one at least was sure of a hit.
Von Holem was watching the Kapitän, who in turn was watching the gyrocompass. The Kapitän nodded. The boat lurched.
“Torpedo running,” Braun announced.
The boat lurched again.
“Torpedo running,” from Braun.
A third lurch.
Silence.
Every man in the control room waited.
“Torpedo not running,” Braun said.
The Kapitän swore under his breath and the men swore aloud. The boat lurched again as the fourth torpedo left the tube.
“Torpedo running” and then in an excited cry: “Herr Kapitän, Herr Kapitän!”
“Yes, what is it?”
“I’m getting torpedo hydrophone effect on the starboard beam. Bearing growing aft.”
“Himmel! A rogue torpedo.” To Schwachofer: “Emergency dive to one hundred meters. One of our torpedoes is circling.”
The Hecate’s last attack had indeed saved her from disaster. The damaged gyro of the second torpedo had set it circling—more of a danger to the U-boat that had fired it than ever it would be to the destroyer. A fractured pipe in the engine of the third torpedo had prevented its starting at all. The deadly weapon was sinking harmlessly into the depths below. Only numbers one and four were running correctly. But as they fanned out on their diverging courses, there was space between their tracks into which a destroyer might turn—if she sighted them in time.
Mopping the sweat from their foreheads, the men of U-121 took her back into the depths.
THE SUN, that had been so welcome in the freshness of morning, now beat down mercilessly on the Hecate’s unprotected bridge. Intending to make it offer the greatest possible protection to the men who must man it in action, the designers had never assumed that a destroyer would conduct her warfare at slow speed under a tropical sun. The bridge was deep—shoulder-high to a medium-sized man; and above the metal sides were armored glass windshields a foot in height. Within its circumference there was only one spot of shade—at the front of the bridge, and projecting forward over the wheelhouse below, there was a narrow charthouse. The air within this space was unbearably hot, for the sides of the hut were so sun-heated that the hand could not be rested upon them. However, the rays could not strike directly into this retreat; and it was in there that the Captain sat on the deck, using a duffle coat as a cushion.
It was, as the Captain had suspected, going to prove a long and weary battle, and he had no qualms in seeking as much physical comfort as he could. For he was well aware that the rapid functioning of his own brain was as much a part of his ship’s armament as the depth charges themselves.
He had no means of knowing how near his attacks had been to his opponent. As far as he could be certain, they had achieved no result at all; and the last time, when the U-boat had turned a complete circle and had given him an opportunity to attack across her course, he had expended one more of his meager supply of patterns. He had now only fifty depth charges left. He looked at his watch. Three o’clock. In nine hours he had used half his available ammunition, and it was quite possible that the underwater battle would go on until the following dawn.
Feeling the need of air in the heat of the little charthouse, he yawned and wished for the cool of evening. The steady ping of the asdic, with its satisfactory pong, told that the target was still held, but it had an effect that was immensely soporific. His head felt heavy and his eyes closed, fluttered, and closed again. It was pleasant to shut his eyes and think. To imagine himself back in an English garden, with sunlight filtering through the leaves of the trees. His wife would be there, and the children, two dogs, a cat, and the tame rabbit in the wire pen that was labeled “Daisy’s End.” Possibly there would be many other little Daisies by now. It had seemed an event that might be expected at any moment when he had last been on leave. On the other hand it could possibly be the result of overeating. Daisy was an unpredictable brute, and as likely to lash out at grownups as to allow herself to be mauled by children.
It was funny what peculiar desires came to one in far-off places. He would like to hear the crisp sound of a ball on a bat, although he was no cricketer and never had been. But here, miles at sea, and in contact with the enemy, he wanted the sounds that had been bound up with his own youth. He wondered if the Herr Kapitän down below had ever played cricket. He thought not. There was something about the British games that passed other nations by—even when they tried to play them. Would Junkers be Junkers if their forefathers had been able to play cricket on the village green with their tenantry? Probably not.
He imagined that the Germans below—the Germans in the pong that came back from the asdic—were held there by an iron and inhumane discipline. Terribly efficient they might be, but could a ship, a city, or a country be run without compassion? It had looked at one time as if Hitler and his minions could do so. But now the thing seemed to be breaking up. Cracks were appearing in the façade—but not yet in the U-boat arm, where discipline was strongest if only because the common danger was greatest.
“Captain, sir. Captain, sir.” It was his First Lieutenant’s voice.
“Yes, Number One?”
“Five minutes to fifteen-thirty, sir.”
“Thank you.” He rose sl
owly from his hard couch and went out into the sun.
“Everything just the same?”
“Just the same, sir.”
“Your turn to have a rest after this attack—I’ll take her in the ‘dogs.’ Don’t be ashamed of dropping off. This isn’t ordinary routine.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“God, it’s hot! Tell the depth-charge parties to stand by, and warn the asdic and the engine room.” He turned to look at the apparently empty sea ahead. The Hecate’s flaring bow moved slowly over the waves. It rose and fell purposefully. The gun crew below him were whistling a tune in unison. It was, he noticed, really rather well done. Many of them had been closed up at the gun, except for short dashes to the “heads,” since six in the morning.
“Coxswain at the wheel, sir.” His Coxswain’s voice sounded metallic, reaching him through the voice pipe.
“Thank you, Coxswain.”
The Hecate, gathering speed, crept up on her quarry. Her Captain had expected to find the U-boat still deep. He was surprised to find it so near the surface. “Artful blighter,” he remarked when it was plain that the enemy had turned to starboard as he had swept over her. Very well, he’d play the same game. Turn to starboard too. It would force the German to go full circle again and he might, by bluff, be able to get across him once more. He was shallow too, and that gave less chance of error in the depth-charge settings. They might even blow her to the surface, and he’d see her again. He’d like to see her. After more than nine hours of knowing her only as an echo, he needed confirmation that the whole thing was not a mare’s-nest. A glimpse of a gray hull among the exploding depth charges would be a rewarding sight.