Stark Realities

by Stark Realities (retail) (epub)

  A nod – meaning he’d check. Gasse was pale, with light-coloured eyes which when he was drunk were said to turn pink like an Angora rabbit’s. Did look a bit rabbitty anyway. Good man for all that, knew his job, both as a telegraphist and hydrophone operator. Fiddling with the knob that turned a pointer in the dial in front of him, also trained the receiver in its housing on the after casing. Looking up from it now: ‘Bearing’s steady, sir.’

  ‘Distance, at a guess?’

  ‘Got louder. Closing still. Still about a hundred rpm, so—’

  ‘Closing fast then.’ Staring at Gasse, thinking critically, Wouldn’t have known if I hadn’t asked, would I… ‘Bearing what, Gasse?’

  More knob-twisting…

  ‘Right astern of us, sir.’

  ‘Is it.’ Right astern and steering UB81’s own course – so it must have altered again, which was a bit damn much of a coincidence. Unless – Otto’s eyes on the deckhead as he thought this – unless we’re towing something or leaking oil or blowing bloody bubbles…

  Impossible. Depthcharges caused oil leaks on occasion; and some of those a few days ago had been damn close, but –

  Forget it. What’s real is his bloody hydrophone.

  He told Claus Stahl, ‘Stop the starboard motor.’

  ‘Stop starboard…’

  Stahl had whispered it and Wassmann had passed the order aft. You didn’t use the telegraphs, which were noisy, in circumstances like these. Stahl’s upward glance showed that it was as clear to him as it was to Otto that within a minute or so the destroyer would be passing overhead. While stopping the one motor you’d had running meant there’d be no motive-power now, she’d hang pretty well as she was as long as she still had way on, then either rise or sink as she lost it – rising or sinking according to whether he, Stahl, had her trimmed slightly light or slightly heavy.

  Gamble, really. There’d be nothing for the English to hear – that was the great thing. If the trim did hold her reasonably well, at least for the next few minutes, there was no reason they shouldn’t pass over and carry on… If it didn’t – if the trim was wonky and you had to restart a motor to hold her—

  Avoid that. At all costs, avoid that.

  ‘Starboard motor stopped, sir.’

  Not even a hum now. In the silence you could hear – distinctly, getting more so all the time – the regular thrashing of the destroyer’s screws. All hearing it. Glancing at each other, and at him. He – Otto – shrugging, pointing upward and astern, hand movements then explaining his intentions – enemy passing over the top and continuing, thrashing on while 81 turned away to port, sneaked off that way. Some of them were catching on too, nodding as if they were buying it, at any rate only a few of them looking as if they might be seeing the snags, such as the fact that without motive-power the boat couldn’t – wouldn’t – (a) hang motionless for long, (b) alter course and depart eastward without going ahead again on at least one motor. ‘At least’, because if she lost trim now to any large extent she might need more power, not less, to return her to the depth she’d left; and as likely as not need to run a pump to shift internal ballast between trimming and/or compensating tanks. Pumps were noisy things – as Otto was of course keenly aware and had taken into account before deciding on this move; a subsidiary decision being to play it off the cuff, see how it went, and react suitably.

  Stahl telling him now, ‘We’re a touch heavy, sir.’

  She was at thirty-one metres, the gauge showed, and bow-down, heavy for’ard therefore. Thirty-one-and-a-half. Thirty-two… Otto looking upward as the destroyer’s propeller noise still grew from astern, urging it, Come on, come on… Wanting it to pass on over and distance its bloody self. He was actually desperate for this, while showing only a modest degree of impatience. The boat now at thirty-three metres with something like a five-degree bow-down angle on her, and the destroyer’s screws beating drum-like but still not overhead, still bloody coming… Gasse making a show of counting the revs, and the coxswain glaring round at him – CPO Honeck as after ’planesman being impotent now, as was Klein on the for’ard ones, since without any way on, hydroplanes couldn’t function.

  Depthgauge showing thirty-five-and-a-half metres: angle still increasing. The depth did not pose any immediate danger in itself; these UBIIs were tested to fifty metres, and most, including this one, had been deeper than that when being hunted and driven deep by depthcharging – which admittedly was not the most pleasant of experiences.

  Screws thrashing over now.

  ‘Beyer.’ Otto spoke with his eyes on the deckhead, as if he was watching that narrow, slicing hull and the pounding screws. ‘Tell CPO Stroebel I want him to send Bausch and Socol on their bare feet to the after ends.’

  ‘Aye, sir…’

  Those two torpedomen weren’t needed up for’ard now. All they might be wanted for at some later stage could easily be accomplished by Stroebel himself and the man Otto was letting him keep – Wernegger, who was a skinny little fellow – whereas the other two were on the heavy side; shifting their weight from right for’ard to right aft would have a positive effect on trim. He’d stipulated bare feet to drive home to them the need for total silence.

  Beyer had passed the order. Otto called softly, ‘Engineer Officer…’

  ‘Sir?’

  Hintenberger – instant appearance in the watertight doorway, currently latched open, between the control-room and the crew’s accommodation spaces. Engine-room was abaft that, then came the motor-room and the after ends. At action stations as they were now, all that after part of the boat was the engineer’s domain. Odd-looking creature that he was – monkey-sized, black-bearded, eyes like black holes in a face carved out of bone. Otto told him, ‘Two torpedomen on their way aft, for purposes of trimming. Let ’em through quick and quiet, see how it goes and if necessary send some of your men aft.’

  ‘Aye aye, sir.’ She had something like a fifteen-degree angle on her now – which was a lot, and felt like it too – and the depthgauge was showing forty metres. Bausch and Socol arrived bare-footed from the fore ends, Hintenberger backing out of their way, beckoning them through. Otto told the signalman, ‘Wassmann, we can spare you too.’

  Propeller noise thrashing away southward was still audible but fading rapidly, leaving an impression – expressions of relief here and there – that the worst was over. As it might be – or might not. There was good news in any case in the coxswain’s growl of ‘Bubble’s moving back, sir.’ He’d addressed this to Stahl, who looked round to see that the skipper had heard it too. It meant the angle was beginning to come off her – effect of the shift of human ballast. It had been twelve degrees when the coxswain had spoken, was now ten. Stahl observed quietly to Otto, ‘Trouble could’ve been the compensating gear again, sir. If you remember, we did wonder—’

  A nod. ‘Look into it when we get back.’

  When, not if… But when you fired a torpedo, a system of automatically opening and closing valves admitted sea water to what was called the torpedo intermediate tank, to compensate for the loss of the torpedo’s weight. They’d guessed it might have been out of order a few days ago when they’d sunk a Dutch collier off Castletown Berehaven in southwest Ireland. It and two smaller colliers had had an escort of American destroyers, who’d been on to 81 like a pack of hounds, several patterns of depthcharges coming uncomfortably close at one stage. There’d been no lying doggo as on this occasion, but the trim had needed a lot of adjustment afterwards.

  Propeller noise fainter now. You could almost forget that fellow – for the moment. Could not live with a continuing bow-down angle of six degrees, however, nor the depth of forty-six metres. Would probably be safe enough using the motors now, from the audial point of view, but if you went ahead while there was still this angle on her you’d drive her deeper.

  Otto – on his feet – told Stahl, ‘Better pump some out of A.’

  ‘Aye, sir.’ Reaching up to the electric order-instrument on the curve of deckhead above and
between the ’planesmen, telegraphing to stokers in their respective machinery spaces to (a) open trimtank ‘A’s suction and inboard vent, then (b), pump from for’ard.

  ‘Pumping on “A”, sir.’

  You could hear it. He thought it was unlikely that either of the listening destroyers could. Depthgauge now showing fifty metres, but the angle was coming off her. Would have been disturbing if it hadn’t. Pumping water out of that for’ard trimtank would be lightening her bodily as well.

  ‘Bubble’s amidships, sir.’

  So you could move now. He said quietly, ‘Slow ahead starboard.’

  ‘Slow ahead starboard. Starboard motor slow ahead, sir. Bubble is one degree for’ard.’

  ‘Thirty metres. Hands who went aft, return to their stations.’

  ‘Bubble’s a degree-and-a-half for’ard, sir. Depth forty-seven metres.’

  ‘All right. Stop the pump, shut off “A”.’

  Done it. Creep away southeastward now…

  ‘Captain, sir?’

  Gasse. Otto told him, ‘Wait’, and asked Riesterer, ‘Ship’s head now?’

  ‘One nine five, sir. I’ve starboard wheel on.’

  ‘Port your wheel, steer 160.’ He looked at Gasse then, who burst out with, ‘On green one hundred, sir, closing! Loud as—’

  ‘Damn.’ A whisper. Other murmurs too, and hard looks at Gasse, who should have been watching both of them – listening all round – and could not have been. Otto blaming himself for not having asked him ‘Where’s the other?’ Re-assessing now: rising through forty metres, starboard motor slow ahead, under port helm, ship’s head passing through south towards SSE. Rising quite fast – might be a touch light now – and this swine somewhere on the quarter, close and getting closer.

  Hearing them? Heard the pump running and the start-up of the motor maybe, started the run-in then?

  To Gasse: ‘Where now?’

  ‘Green 120, sir. Closing. Down to one hundred revs.’

  In touch, therefore, straining its damned ears. ‘And the other?’

  ‘Faded south, sir.’ Checking that: and an alarmed look suddenly. ‘Moving right to left now, sir. Revs increasing. Two hundred, could be…’

  On the turn and hurrying to join the fun, not bothering for the moment about listening out. This other one having signalled him to come and help. He’ll run over and drop charges, with number two by that time ready to take his turn.

  Turn and turn about.

  You could hear the one that was attacking now. About that same speed – six knots, maybe. Thrash, thrash, thrash…

  ‘Course 160, sir.’

  And depth thirty-four metres; slight bow-up angle. Thinking, Going to have to splurge more bloody ampères. With the battery very low already and as they say in the song, a long, long way from home. This is the time to do it, though – get out from under before they cripple us; any later’d be too late. He was in the centre now, against the ladder with his arms up on it as high as they’d reach, leaning against the slant of it, hearing Gasse say thinly, ‘Coming up astern like the other did, sir. That other one’s—’

  ‘Never mind him for the moment.’ Anyone who wasn’t stone deaf could hear this one closing in: and it was not like last time – for the simple and unwelcome reason that this one had a bead on them. Glancing to his right as Stahl cleared his throat, muttered, ‘Depth thirty metres, sir’; he told them all, ‘Depthcharges coming shortly. They’ve no way of telling what depth we’re keeping, remember. Soon as they’ve stirred the muck up we’ll see if we can’t dodge away in it.’

  Hardly original: in fact a standard tactic. But nods of acceptance, confidence, and the coxswain growling, ‘Gotter let ’em ’ave their fun, sir…’

  Coming over now: a rushing, roaring sound like the passage of a train surrounding the propellers’ beat. You tended to look up, at the curve of white-enamelled deck-head, as if seeing as well as hearing. Reminding oneself that the English up there in the daylight and fresh salt air not only didn’t know at what depth to set their charges to explode, but couldn’t know the precise moment that they were overhead or for how many seconds then to run on, on what they reckoned to be the U-boat’s track, before sending the barrel-shaped charges rolling out of the racks on their ship’s stern and others lobbing out from the throwers. The noise of it passing over was like sandpaper scouring the brain: charges would be on their way down now. Hofbauer leaning over the chart making pencil doodles on its margin, Otto with his hands in his pockets, his back against the ladder, expression once again showing nothing much more than impatience – to have this over, be in a position to make his move.

  First explosion – ahead and to port. The crash of it like a roof falling in, metallic echo bouncing off the hull: they’d set it too shallow – from their point of view. Might also have misjudged, passing not quite directly over the top. Two more now, one right on the other’s heels and both to port, one closer than the other, shaking her. There’d be two more coming – off the things stern, one in the centre of the pattern and the last of them completing the diamond shape. One – rather close, but wrong depth again. Otherwise – he checked that thought. No point in that kind of speculation – but also a mistake to relax too soon, even though it was a fact you’d had them a lot closer. Even those just the other day, when they’d sunk the collier. Another due now, though…

  Hell, why wait for it?

  ‘Full ahead both motors, hard a-port!’

  In order to use the very considerable sub-surface disturbance from all that, the stirred-up ocean and – last of them now, ahead somewhere, last of the pattern of five. He told Riesterer, ‘Steer north.’

  ‘North, sir…’

  Passing through east – turning fast, under the burst of power. Otto pushing himself off the ladder, hands still in pockets, amending it to ‘Stop port, slow starboard.’ Which wouldn’t slow the rate of turn by much, and should as it were clear the hydrophone’s ears for it. Glancing questioningly at Gasse – who was adjusting his headset, having removed it during that explosive period. One hand back to the knob on the ’phone control, fiddling the pointer in the dial a little this way and that, round eyes blinking as he listened.

  Might have worked. Just might…

  Gasse had shaken his head. Getting nothing. Maybe they’d be getting nothing on theirs, either.

  Stay like this anyway. They don’t know which way I’ve turned.

  ‘Course north, sir.’

  Stahl whispered, ‘Could’ve lost ’em, sir.’

  A shrug: it was the hope, but too soon to think it – even though he himself just had – certainly much too soon to express it.

  What one could say – murmur – was, ‘She’s light, isn’t she?’

  ‘She is, sir.’ Coxswain, nodding. He had a small angle of ‘rise’ on his after ’planes, lifting the stern to hold her at one degree bow-down, countering the effect of that lightness. Which was all right. This was no time for tinkering with the trim.

  Gasse had grunted, moved suddenly, reacting to – surprise, shock? Right hand jerking to that earphone, left hand’s fingers on the training-knob.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘One’s bearing green 170, other’s’ – pausing, shifting it some more, and back again – ‘green nine-five. Both closing. Ah – one astern’s also closing – bearing steady, and – other’s right to left, cutting revs now…’

  Dismay: the sound and look of it. Otto sighed, said, ‘We’re lucky there aren’t three of them’, and won some grins. Mind at work, though: telling Riesterer, ‘Starboard fifteen, steer 120.’

  ‘One-twenty. Fifteen of starboard wheel on, sir.’

  Putting on helm gave her a tendency to rise and Klein was meeting that with dive-angle on the fore ’planes. Otto with the picture in his mind of one destroyer about to make a new attack from astern – present distance-off uncertain, but closing anyway – and the other coming in on roughly a ninety-degree track from starboard. Otto’s aim being to turn short of that one, anticipat
ing that the one astern would have to put on a similar amount of starboard wheel if he was going to stay with them and in a position to attack, but in doing so might well find himself in danger of ramming his colleague. Who’d presumably turn away. At least confusing the issue: and might not be in a position to pick you up on his hydrophones after the first had dropped charges, and that one might at least not be able to use his throwers.

  Glancing at Gasse, as ship’s head passed through northeast. Gasse looking strained, telling him, ‘One from starboard’s crossed ahead, turning away – on red three-five… Other’s on – green 110. Closing – green 120 now—’

  ‘How close?’

  ‘One on the quarter – very close. Loud—’

  ‘Here we go again, then.’

  And audible to them all by this time. UB81 continuing her turn to starboard and the Englishman coming in – over – on that quarter. Under helm, obviously; give it half a minute or less he’d be over you and dumping more explosive. Not so clever, Otto me lad… Riesterer easing his wheel as she approached the ordered course: whereas the destroyer had to be under a lot of wheel.

  ‘Forty metres.’

  ‘Forty metres, sir…’

  Because that last lot had been set shallow and hadn’t brought results, so they’d put a deeper setting on this batch, but probably not as deep as forty. Might guess they’d have set thirty – the depth one had been at. They of course measured depths in feet, not metres, so they’d be calling it ninety – between ninety and a hundred, say.

  Propeller noise building: and the boat at thirty-five metres, nosing down, fore ’planes at hard a-dive. Could have driven her down faster by putting both motors half ahead, say, instead of only one at slow ahead, but you had to think of the battery and more high jinks of this kind, then more hours submerged before – touch wood – surfacing in the dark and—

  Nice to envisage, but no time for it here and now. Enemy thrashing over, and Riesterer reporting matter-of-factly, ‘Course 120, sir.’ Depth thirty-eight metres, and still bow-down.