‘Too big for my boots is the expression I recall, sir.’ Taken by surprise, and trying to make light of it, but Winter hadn’t been standing for that, had added, ‘Arguing the toss with men greatly senior to yourself. Eh?’
He’d sprung this on him on the fore-casing of U201, of which he, Winter, had just assumed command and would be taking out on patrol in a few days’ time. Standing on her grey steel casing with booted legs apart and hands clasped behind his back, head up, peak of his cap jutting skyward, jaw out-thrust. He was a head shorter than Otto: sturdy, gruffly self-confident, well aware of his own social disadvantages while still robustly certain of his value to – and future in – the U-boat arm, which in fact was all he cared about; and cautious in his personal relationships, typically would have given a lot of thought prior to issuing such a reprimand. While the last thing Otto had expected had been to be hauled over the coals like this. He’d been invited to a party, for God’s sake, a small celebratory shindig that Winter had been throwing, the guests mostly fellow COs but a few others too – shore staff and some of their wives. Otto’s feeling was that he’d been ambushed: was only thankful that no-one else was in range to hear any of it. Winter adding, having seen a group of late arrivals approaching his boat’s gangplank, ‘Point is, von Mettendorff, you don’t need any of that. Gets you disliked, certainly wins no-one’s admiration. You’re a talented, capable young officer with a sound future ahead of you, maybe even a great one – as long as you keep your head screwed on. Don’t ruin it for yourself – or for the Service, which is a hell of a lot more important, although – understand this – I’m drawing it to your attention in your own best interests.’
‘I appreciate that, sir. I’m grateful.’
The hell he was. Could guess where that ‘arguing the toss’ bit had come from, too. A kapitan-leutnant in the Flanders flotilla who didn’t know his arse from his bloody elbow… Winter now waving him away: ‘Go on down. My first lieutenant, Neureuther, is looking forward to making your acquaintance. I have to greet these friends.’
Friends who included a sensationally attractive girl in an orange summer frock. Glossy chestnut hair, wide-set blue eyes, at this moment on him, Otto von Mettendorff. She was with an older woman and a grey-haired Wehrmacht captain, and was looking now in what might be mock trepidation at the narrow gangplank with its single rope handrail. Winter calling laughingly, ‘The handrail’s especially for you, Helena. We don’t usually provide one, we simply run across. Frau Lukesch, Captain, how splendid that you could come…’
Otto had rattled down the ladder from the torpedo hatch and turned aft. In Wilhelmshaven, submarine crews were accommodated in barracks, and there were only a few duty-men on board. The party in the wardroom, spilling over into other accommodation space and the control-room, was already noisy, and there were several familiar faces, including those of one or two particularly good friends. Neureuther, who’d got him a brandy and soda from a sailor acting as barman, he hadn’t met before; nor Kantelberg, Winter’s young navigator. But Max Valentiner – very much an ‘Ace’ – was there, and greeted him pleasantly; also Otto Steinbrinck, another close friend of Winter’s. Steinbrinck had built up his impressive score mainly in command of UBs, but was driving a minelayer now, and professed to be enjoying it. And Hans Dittrich of U42 with his wooden-looking countenance. There’d been plenty to talk about – other men’s achievements as well as their own – and Otto had made a point of being modestly reticent when questioned about his own successes – which he could see went down well, and was something to bear in mind. To thank old Dutch-uncle Franz Winter for, maybe. Speaking of whom – well, it must have been thirty or forty minutes and several brandies later that Otto found himself virtually alone in the crowd with Helena Becht, who’d been practically glued to Franz W. all that time, in a group which had included Valentiner and Steinbrinck. Otto had exchanged glances with her more than once, over the heads of others – but no more than that, and not sure what he could do about it, in all the circumstances, until to his surprise Winter had brought her to him, hauling her through the crowd with an arm around her and telling her as they reached him, ‘Otto von Mettendorff here was once my first lieutenant. Now he has his own command and he’s been knocking ’em down in heaps. Otto – Fraulein Helena Becht – a very special friend of mine. But Helena, if you’d excuse me…’
Face to face and very close, they had a sort of privacy by virtue of the crowd itself, having to duck down and speak close to her ear, then offer her one of his, and so forth. After a few minutes of this he’d taken her arm: ‘More room next door. The central control-room, it’s called.’ She’d acquiesced, and they’d edged through, Otto getting a wink from Hans Graischer as he passed him. Telling her – as if conducting a tour – ‘There is also the CO’s control-room – up there in the conning-tower, up that ladder. Above that, up a second ladder, is the bridge…’ She’d stopped and turned to face him, he guessed not all that riveted by what he’d been saying. He smiled: ‘End of lecture. So. If I heard you correctly, you’re special assistant to a brigadier by name of Hartmann and you’re based in Oldenburg. May I ask what it is you do?’
‘Intelligence liaison. My section is concerned with links or – well, known contacts – between certain elements in the Hochseeflotte – High Seas Fleet – and individuals and groups in – oh, military units, primarily.’ She shook her head. ‘I’m not supposed to talk shop, though.’
‘Something to do with last year’s mutiny?’
A smile: ‘Don’t you mean last year’s strike?’
‘One of the few “strikes” ever to have been settled by a firing-squad!’
They’d shot two men – a youngster by the name of Reichpietsch, and another – Kobis, Albin Kobis. Pour encourager les autres. Helena suggesting, ‘Perhaps we should avoid that subject, anyway?’
‘I only asked about your work because I’m interested in you, Fraulein. To be completely honest with you, I’m indifferent to what brings you here. All that matters is you are here – the most beautiful girl I ever met in my life – may I tell you this?’
‘I hear you say it, Herr Oberleutnant zu See—’
‘Say it and mean it. How did you meet Franz Winter?’
‘Through Brigitte and her husband – Captain and Frau Lukesch – the couple with whom I arrived? – and he met them through the deputy to Kommodore Michelsen – Kapitan zu See Schwaeble. Hans Lukesch is in the same field that I am, you see.’
And Kommodore Michelsen was U-boat chief in Wilhelmshaven. Short title FdU, the ‘F’ standing for Fuhrer, ‘U’ for Unterseeboote. Otto had been introduced to him on one formal occasion, but he’d never met the deputy. He told her, ducking closer to that small ear again, ‘I’d bet a lot of money you’d find no subversion amongst U-boat crews. Wasting your time – or his. We have the best, the crème de la crème. I’m sure Schwaeble would have told him so – it’s a fact, always has been.’ He touched her arm: ‘I’m sorry – talking shop. When all I really want to talk about is you. You’re by far the most beautiful girl I ever stood this close to, d’you know that?’
‘I know when I hear that kind of thing to tell myself hey, watch out!’
‘When you’re paid a little compliment reflecting nothing but the truth? Tell me – Franz Winter – is it as he says a very special friendship?’
‘Oh, he’s – a character. And such a lonely man. Don’t you think so?’
‘I’m sure – if you say so… But – not all that special?’
‘Well – it’s conceivable that from his point of view…’ Looking for him in the throng around them and not seeing him. Eyes back on Otto: ‘I don’t know what you’re asking, really. Did you say your family’s from Dresden?’
‘Between Dresden and Leipzig. Hundred and fifty kilometres south of Berlin, say.’
‘Brothers, sisters?’
‘One sister. Listen – will you dine with me tomorrow night?’
‘I’ll be working until late in Oldenburg. But in
any case I’m not sure—’
‘We could meet at Rastede, perhaps?’
‘No – thank you.’ She began to laugh. ‘Thanks very much, but—’
‘What’s wrong – or funny? They say the food’s superb – huh?’
‘It may be. But it’s not called the Snake Pit for nothing, is it? Although to me I must say it’s a new slant on snakes.’ She thought this was funny. Laughing, shaking her head: ‘Thank you again, but no.’
‘Happens to be on the road between us, is why I suggested it. But if you have something against it—’
‘As if in our innocence we didn’t know. Simple sailor-boy, uh?’
‘What?’
‘Simply stunned, is what. You are absolutely lovely!’
‘Not a complete idiot, anyway. What’s that?’
‘That machine?’
‘Oh, that. A calculator – for the aiming and firing of torpedoes. The navigating officer works it during an attack. Have you ever been to the Snake Pit?’
‘Once, yes. Downstairs only. Someone told me – or hinted – what happens upstairs. You’re not the first who’s asked me, I may say. Although – well, never before on such very brief acquaintance. It’s usually some time before they try it on.’
‘I thought the dining-room was upstairs. Am I wrong? I’ve only been downstairs myself, stopped there for a drink – oh, an age ago.’
‘We have restaurants in Oldenburg – in case that interests you. If all you wanted was for us to have a meal together. One place called Kramer’s, for instance – if ever you should be passing through—’
‘Dine with me at Kramer’s tomorrow night? Would eight-thirty suit you?’
Gazing up at him. The tip of her tongue visible for a moment, as if taking a crumb from her lips. Fascinating lips – in memory or dream – shaping to ask him, ‘How would you get there?’
‘Why, borrow a motor. But the day after tomorrow, you see, I’m off again, so – will you?’
‘You’re very persistent, Herr Oberleutnant. But I’m not certain. I half-promised Brigitte Lukesch I’d make up a four. She and Hans will want to be on their way home at any minute now, incidentally.’
‘You could ask to be excused. From tomorrow’s arrangement, I mean. Tell her that since it’ll be my last night in Wilhelmshaven – you’re certain they’ll understand – and that it might be tactful not to mention it to Franz Winter?’
‘Perhaps it might be. Yes.’
‘“Yes” that you’ll dine with me?’
‘Would you collect me at my apartment?’
‘If you’ll give me the address – of course!’
‘The house is owned by an elderly couple who never go out in the evenings. I just have two rooms, and live – well, cheek by jowl with them, you might say.’
‘So?’
‘So no Snake Pit business, is what I think I’m saying.’
‘Still don’t follow you on that. I must make enquiries, catch up on what you know and I don’t. But at this Kramer’s, would you book the table in my name? Since you know the place?’
‘All right.’ She nodded towards the ladder that led up into the tower. ‘You were telling me what happens up there? Is it the conning-tower?’
He nodded. ‘And in it, the CO’s control-room. Above that, the bridge. Like to see it?’
‘Well—’
‘Lovely night, breath of fresh air after this fug?’
Small smile, and a second’s hesitation: ‘If it doesn’t take too long. It is smoky, isn’t it. Although as I said, Brigitte and—’
‘We’ll be quick.’ They were under the hatch by this time, looking up. ‘We’ll go straight up into the bridge, I think. You don’t have any great interest in periscopes and so forth, do you?’
‘Not all that much.’
‘Well, then.’ Glancing round as he put a foot on the ladder and reached up, he found old Graischer’s eye on him again. Or on them. Graischer had some medical problem, was on the Staff now. Otto nodded to him – letting him know that everything was normal, under control – and smiled at the girl. ‘Follow me?’
Through the tower, continuing up into the bridge and then crouching to more or less lift her out. The September evening was cool, already darkening but not cold. Helena gazing around, breathing deeply; the dress was close-fitting and distinctly décolleté.
‘Lovely cool!’
‘Why I thought to bring you up here. Helena—’
‘Oh…’
‘Meeting you has made this the night of my life. Truly, I swear it. Here I was just killing an evening – thought that was all—’
In his arms, first allowing and then returning his kiss – and more… Otto stooping to her, nuzzling, murmuring her name, kissing her throat, the hollow inside one shoulder, the swell of her breasts. On this side of the bridge the bulk of the periscope standards shielded them from anyone on the dockside, while from the basin’s other side, across water reflecting the first stars – well, distance as well as fading light…
‘Otto, pet, we mustn’t—’
‘Mustn’t what?’
‘Mess me up. Or – heavens, what they’ll—’
‘You are exquisite!’
And not unwilling. Making as it were a bit of a joke of it – as was natural enough in the circumstances and her innocence – well, the place, and the speed of it, her surprise – all that. And not wanting to be ‘messed up’. Although given a few minutes, and if one had dared and she’d got over being scared—
‘Otto – enough. Please. Please?'
Pushing at him: her elbows up between them, and twisting her head away. ‘We must be sensible, now…’
An echo of that, a repetition of sensible, now… Dreamlike, or had become so – deliberately sought, provoked by memory – all right, self-indulgence, a dream out of memory. Lost in it now – in the warmth and the motors’ hum – the dream losing both its own origins and his control, the focus on a different girl entirely. Taller, darker, hair not up as Helena’s had been, but long and loose, she’d been naked but trying to cover herself with a négligée or nightdress, whatever. Hair so dark he remembered it as blue-black, silky blue-black, glorious… Pale, oval face, well-shaped nose, mouth rather wide and full for the narrowness of her face, magnificent breasts. Gasping, telling him – a long forefinger pointing – ‘Otto, you are shameless!’
He’d got it suddenly. The English girl.
‘Captain, sir!’
Male voice – urgent tone, loud – and a hand on his shoulder, shaking him, Claus Stahl telling him, ‘Propeller noises ahead of us, sir – fast, reciprocating, more than one of them…’
* * *
Not easy to make out – even in high power. UB81 at eight metres, back in trim with her crew at torpedo action stations, motors at slow speed now he had the big ’scope up. Although in such a disturbed sea there was no likelihood of being spotted; at this range in fact virtually none. Target fine on the bow to port, no more than five degrees off – own course being 087, which it had been since dawn – and making no more than – oh, three knots, say. UB81 must have been very slowly overhauling this lot, which consisted of – he said it aloud for the benefit of those around him, where he hung with his arms crooked over the spread handles of the periscope while making sense of the picture in its lenses – ‘Large ship in tow of a small one – tug, most likely. Two destroyer escorts – one to starboard, other’s ahead at times and out of my sight, otherwise out to port. Yep, one on each bow. Enemy course is within a degree or two of ours. Set it as 085 degrees.’ This instruction was for Hofbauer at his plotting diagram and calculator. Continuing, ‘Masthead height, say, thirty-five metres. Vertical angle is – that!’
The signalman, Wassmann, read figures off the little window displaying that angle, and after a few seconds Hofbauer interpreted it as: ‘Range two thousand metres, sir.’ Otto told him – circling, searching – ‘Start your plot. Set enemy speed three knots… Down periscope.’ Addressing that to the mechanician, Boese.
To Stahl and others then, ‘Fifteen metres. Full ahead both motors. Steer 090 degrees.’
All of it happening then, and all logged by Beyer, ginger-headed wardroom messman, diminutive on his stool beside the helmsman, mouth twisted in concentration as he scribbled. Such a grimace, it could have been pain. Helmsman Riesterer, who was also the gunlayer, reporting, ‘Course 090, sir.’ For’ard hydroplanes with ten degrees of ‘dive’ on them; the coxswain, CPO Honeck, who apart from having short legs was built like a prizefighter, had used his after ’planes to put angle on her but had them levelled now. Depthgauge needle circling as speeding propellers drove her deeper. In the motor-room, LTOs (electrical ratings) Schachtschneider and Freimann would be watching gauges – volts, amps and revs – in the hot stink that electrics conjured up; while up for’ard in the tube space, Leading Seaman Bausch muttered, ‘Thought we was ordered not to attack the swine?’, and Stroebel, torpedo CPO, told him, ‘Maybe won’t, lad. Depends what we got there, don’t it. Only merchantmen we was to leave alone – right?’
The question was in other minds as well, including Stahl’s and Hofbauer’s, Hofbauer having on the skipper’s instruction got out the German-language edition of Jane’s Fighting Ships 1914 and opened it at the Royal Navy section; Otto telling him, ‘Depot ship of some kind. Single funnel, I think. Can’t be sure from this angle, but – think so.’ Hearing Stahl’s report of ‘Depth fifteen metres, sir’; Hofbauer pushing the book’s pages over hurriedly. ‘Depot ships. Here, sir.’ Depot ships could be motherships either for submarine or destroyer flotillas, those for destroyers being listed as ‘Torpedo Depot Ships’ for some reason. Pointing at the photos, with the skipper at his elbow: ‘Here’s some single funnels, if—’
‘Neither of those. Nor these.’ With a brush of fingers he’d dismissed Tyne, Woolwich, Adamant, Maidstone and Electo. Shake of the head: ‘Bigger than them.’
Stark Realities Page 2