‘She wouldn’t want to think of it. Any time she’s let out of London all she wants to do is hunt. And as we’re at the start of the hunting season, Sam—’
‘Someone else, then. Hope said you have three German interpreters in your outfit now, and the other two could handle your work between them easily enough for – well, a fortnight, maybe. But one of the other women – one of those you call typewriters, for instance—’
‘A fortnight…’
‘We’d go by rail to northeast Scotland, place called Thurso, embark in a destroyer at – oh, Scrabster, just across the bay from Thurso; land an hour or two later at Stromness – which is right on the edge of the Flow, on an island they call Mainland. You’d travel on first-class railway warrants – only condition being you’d have to wear uniform, being an officer in your women’s naval service, even though you don’t exactly advertise it?’
‘Wrens – WRNS, Women’s Royal Naval Service. And no, I don’t. It was only that to work in ID I had to be given a commission and a rank – and 3rd officer, which is what I’m supposed to be, is the lowest. I never wear the uniform, if I can help it. Never even did what they call the basic training course – two weeks at the Crystal Palace learning to march and salute and all that. I’m an impostor, really – simply because the admirals prefer people to look as if they belong… But you’re bullying me, Sam, I don’t want—’
‘I’d never bully you. Never. Let me explain, though?’
‘All right.’
‘What I’d get out of it is I’d get to meet your mother – which I’d like very much, for reasons that must – well, how or when she and I would meet otherwise… See, when they surrender or there’s an armistice – if that’s what it’s to be called – well, heaven knows, but I could be sent off somewhere or other at no damn notice at all. To a sea-going job – which in other respects would be just dandy – or back to the USA, even. And if it so happened that you were giving me the answer I crave – well, if I had met your mother she’d know the sort of guy I am, might not necessarily throw a fit when you told her. Huh?’
‘I dare say we will be all at sixes and sevens. But – I don’t know, Sam—’
‘Oh! D’you mean—’
‘I mean about the rest of it. I don’t want to be committed, or feel I am, and have you – or my mother, either – assuming—’
‘Wouldn’t be like that. I guarantee it wouldn’t. And up there – in Argyll – I wouldn’t hang around, I’d like to meet her, tell her of my hopes and then clear out. Where we’d get out of the train on our way south – having landed back at Scrabster, see – is some small station called – hold on, I have a note of it—’
‘Crianlarich.’
‘That sounds about right. You’d know your way around up there, of course. There’s a branch-line from there to Oban, but—’
‘Oban, Sam, not oh-ban.’
‘Oban. Right. But it’s no great distance, and if the connections aren’t all that frequent, I was studying the map and I thought maybe I’d have a car meet us. My personal contribution to the expedition. Then depending on how it worked out – time of day or night, whatever – I’d leave you there, with or without your chaperone – after coming so far you’d want at least a few days with your mother, I guess—’
‘Want but might not get. If we’ve been away a fortnight—’
‘I was including a stay in Oban in that estimate. In the Orkneys I’d want no more than a day or two days. Unless one had to wait, if they weren’t in harbour when we got there. But on top of that, say two days’ travel in each direction?’
‘Your fish is getting cold, Sam.’
‘Ah…’
‘It amazes me that Commander Hope should even have listened to such a wild idea!’
Sam nodded. ‘Because I’m one of these Yankee fellows. Liable to have crazy notions. Best to humour ’em, don’t you know?’
‘It’s still extraordinary.’
‘Then again – and your forgiveness, please – I told him in the strictest confidence that I’m desperate to marry you, you won’t give me a yea or nay until it’s over, and – the chance to meet your mother, only opportunity I might have. He kind of liked it, I believe. Bit of a romantic – uh?’
‘I’d never have imagined so.’
‘Thinks well of you, I might say. Mentioned that you’re far from work-shy, and – well, I deduce that he has a soft spot for the beautiful young widow. Incidentally, I made it clear you did not have the least notion of this scheme, I wanted to know might it be feasible at all, and if I found it was I’d see how you might feel about it. As I now have done.’ He sighed. ‘I don’t blame you for your hesitance – especially for your determination not to appear committed. But—’
‘You’re so patient, I’m ashamed of myself – taking such advantage… But – may I think about it – the Scapa thing – let you know tomorrow?’
Slow smile and a couple of blinks. Then: ‘I’m patient because I know what I want. But you’re saying you might agree to this crazy proposition?’
‘I’d like to sleep on it, and—’
‘Sunday, tomorrow. Sleep late on it, and—’
‘It’s my duty Sunday, and I have to go down to Portsmouth. So I’ll have plenty of time in the train to ruminate. Call me in the evening, at the flat?’
4
He would have wirelessed his estimated time of arrival at Wilhelmshaven, giving it as noon 26 October – today, Saturday – when he’d surfaced on Thursday night after groping his way blind through the Dover Strait. Not sooner than that because he couldn’t have been anything like certain of making it, for various sound reasons including blindness, i.e. having no periscope; and in point of fact he hadn’t been able to transmit even then, for the additional good reason that the boat’s wireless had been defunct. Explaining this to Kapitan zu See Schwaeble, in Kommodore Michelsen’s office – Michelsen, the U-boat chief in Wilhelmshaven, being away in Kiel and Schwaeble being his deputy – Otto added that amongst other action damage the two wireless masts and the aerial they carried had been shot away – along with most of the after part of the bridge and the periscope standards. Schwaeble, a hard-faced man in his early forties, hair greying at the temples and a duelling scar on one cheek, had broken in with: ‘As I saw. My first thought was how astonishing, the punishment a UBII can stand up to. Then, von Mettendorff, what about the punishment her captain and crew endured – and despite it brought her back!’
Otto blinking at him, as if he barely understood the interruption. Head swimming at that moment. He got it together again, though, finished with ‘and although my telegraphists had rigged a jury aerial during our first hours on the surface – Tuesday night – they were to discover later – Thursday, as I was explaining – that the set itself had packed up, was not repairable.’
Hence he’d been unable to send an ETA or other report. So this morning he’d called up the signal station on Borkum by light, identifying himself and adding, Request inform FdU Wilhelmshaven that my ETA Schillig Roads is noon today 26th. Proceeding on surface with considerable damage from gunfire and depthcharging to bridge, conning-tower and after-casing, battery containers cracked and periscope will not rise. This followed the sinking by torpedo of British destroyer depot ship Hecla, six thousand six hundred tons, at 1258/22nd in position 50 degrees 05' N, 4 degrees 40' W. I also had five men killed and seven with broken bones and suspected skull fractures.
In the same message he’d given the names of those killed – Leutnant zu See Hofbauer, Torpedo Chief Stroebel, Signalman Wassmann and Stoker Reihl. Stroebel had died only this last night, having never recovered consciousness. He, like the others, had been buried at sea, lashed in a weighted hammock and launched from the fore-casing. One prayer, and finish.
Schwaeble frowned at a copy of the message, which had been passed from Borkum by land-line. ‘Your third officer amongst those killed. So you and your first lieutenant – Stahl – have been sharing watches these four days.’
‘Together, mainly. Wasn’t much chance of sleeping.’ A shrug: ‘None, for me.’
‘You are very much to be congratulated, von Mettendorff, and I have no doubt your achievement will receive the recognition it deserves.’
‘I had a great deal of luck, sir. But on the subject of – as you say, recognition – may I suggest that my entire crew, every man of them – and foremost among them I’d say my engineer, Hintenberger—’
‘Include all relevant details and recommendations in your patrol report, and have it ready for the Kommodore first thing Monday morning. That gives you all of tomorrow to draw it up, the rest of today for catching up on sleep, no doubt. And a square meal or two – uh?’
In response to the message telephoned from Borkum they’d sent a minesweeper to meet him and escort him into the Jade – passing the buoyed western limit of Schillig Roads, in which he’d been interested to see battle squadrons of the High Seas Fleet at anchor – and finally he’d berthed his noticeably misshapen submarine, with new victory pennants flying from a makeshift flagstaff, in the inner Ausrustungshafen shortly before two p.m. Not bad, in the circumstances, in relation to the ETA he’d have sent two days ago if he’d been able to; but as far as he himself was concerned, there’d been one thought predominantly in mind, nothing to do with the crowd of cheering submariners and phalanx of senior officers including this Captain Schwaeble – whom Helena had said she’d met, or knew. Helena, whom he’d had in mind and had been looking for, scanning the crowd and the surroundings for, while a brass band blared and ambulances were parked with their rear doors open, medics and stretcher-bearers as well as the brass-hats waiting for a gangway to be thumped over by the shoreside berthing party.
They’d seemed awed by the extent of the damage – bridge with most of its after part shot away, periscope standards shattered, jagged shell-hole in the conning-tower, port side, and half the after-casing gone. To the repeated question from his distinguished visitors as to how on earth he’d managed to bring her back – with no periscopes and the conning-tower flooded, all that – he’d found himself almost tongue-tied, as surprised by the daftness of the question as they seemed to be by his achievement. His answer to them – if he could have put it in some way that might not have seemed rude – being simply that as the boat’s commander, it had been his duty as well as natural inclination to bring her and her crew back, and – that was it, he had. Although one of them, a korvetten-kapitan who was an Ace and had recently been appointed to command one of the new U-Cruisers, had commented that many a commanding officer in a situation such as von Mettendorff had found himself in might well have not been able to confront the problems this young man had licked. So what would they have done, Otto had wondered – sat there on the bottom and bloody died? Oh, he’d had luck, for sure – on the heels of extremely bad luck – bad management even, might have been arguable. But in terms of sheer achievement – actually, his own pressing need, all he was really thinking about once the wounded had been carted off and Claus Stahl had taken over other administrative details – was having managed to extricate himself from that circus by about two-thirty, aided and abetted by Hans Graischer, who’d shown him to a dockside office with a telephone in it so he could ring Helena. All Graischer or any of the others knew was that it was an extremely important private call he had to make – maybe to his family – so having showed him in there he’d left him alone to do it.
Fairly desperate by this time, having expected her to be on that quayside: he’d actually prayed for her to be, during the long but suddenly so much easier escorted passage up around the islands. After Borkum, Juist, then Norderney – where the minesweeper had met them, passing close alongside before taking station ahead, her men on deck cheering and waving – then Baltrum, Langeoog, Spiekeroog and Wangerooge, finally Minsener and Oog, around which they’d turned into the Jade. Hintenberger had come up into the bridge at that stage to ask for special weekend leave in order to visit his old father in Bremen – the old man being more or less bedridden and alone except for half a dozen cats. Otto had told him yes, of course, ask Claus Stahl to fill in an authorisation for a travel warrant and he’d sign it. But he was thinking of Helena every other minute, knowing she’d be there. She did after all have contacts in the base – had mentioned Schwaeble, for instance, but knew Franz Winter too, must surely know others; and since they’d have had the news of him from Borkum by no later than say 0700, there’d have been plenty of time for her to have heard it and rushed to meet him.
It had taken him a while to get through, having first to get an outside line from the exchange, but eventually he was connected, and was informed by some male colleague of hers that she’d gone to Hamburg for the weekend, wouldn’t be back until Sunday night or early Monday. No, they did not have a number at which she might be contacted in Hamburg. At least, this fellow – a soldier of some sort – didn’t think so. He added that he was the only one there and would shortly be locking up.
It would have been surprising if she had not had an engagement of some kind on a Saturday night, but he’d counted on persuading her to get out of that and come with him to the Snake Pit. But – Hamburg, for God’s sake: and the question in mind then, Who with? He’d hung up clumsily and leant across the table, folding his arms on it and resting his head on them. Lunch had been biscuits and hard cheese washed down with what passed for coffee – which was all right, was what they’d more or less lived on these last few days, but wasn’t exactly strengthening, and he hadn’t slept for more than seconds at a time.
In fact if she’d been there and had agreed to break her date, it might have been questionable how he’d have made out. Except that he’d have had a few hours’ rest. And if anything could have galvanised one… While definitely non-galvanising was having to submit himself to debriefing by Schwaeble – now, immediately, in advance of the usual patrol report which he’d be submitting when he’d had time to get it down on paper. One usually prepared it in rough form on one’s way back from patrol, and this of course had not been possible. Apart from that – well, other priorities were to visit the men in hospital, and telephone the couple in whose house Helena had rooms. Might in fact do that right away: they might have a contact number for her.
Probably would not. Since even her office didn’t. Which seemed odd.
A covering of tracks?
Graischer burst in, looking anxious. He knew about the Schwaeble meeting, had queried whether Otto shouldn’t be getting that over before making private calls, however urgent…
‘Get through all right?’
‘Yes. Thanks.’ Still sitting there, on this stool with the telephone in front of him. No time to ring those people. Made no difference: if she was in Hamburg, that was where she was. Out of reach. Schwaeble first, then call them. Hands flat on the table, pushing himself up. Graischer began, ‘There’s a room allocated to you in the Mess block, main building. Secretary’ll give you the key. He’s having your gear put up there – if it’s amongst the load that’s arrived. Most has, but some not. Coming by rail and road from Bruges.’
‘Never thought of that.’ Tapping his forehead. ‘Christ, my brain…’
‘Probably is there.’ Graischer smiled: ‘The gear, I mean, not your brain.’ Otto thinking that whoever had organised all that so quickly – the recall signal 21 October, and one’s stuff shipped from Bruges to Wilhelmshaven by today or maybe yesterday – had to be more on the ball than he was, at this juncture. The evacuation of Bruges and the surrounding area must have been ordered several days before the 21st, of course. But how might he have dressed for a date with Helena this evening, if he’d had one? Well – in the sea-going uniform he had on now.
Shabby, but adequate. And he’d have borrowed what else he needed – including a razor, which with a few other items he’d left in the boat. Just hadn’t bloody thought of it: thoughts had all been focused on Helena, not on himself. Abrupt release from the fairly considerable tensions of the past few days could have had that effect, he
supposed, shutting out everything but her. Blinking at Graischer – who looked as if he was worrying about him, his state of health and/or the undesirability of keeping Schwaeble waiting. Both concerns were valid enough. Standing up suddenly, as he just had, had left him feeling dizzy for a moment. Telling Graischer, while adjusting the raked angle of his white U-boat CO’s cap, ‘Thanks for the help, Hans old man. I’ll go see Schwaeble.’
‘Know your way?’
‘Kommodore’s office. Well – know where it is, sure. More or less.’
‘I’ll take you along. You look a bit groggy, to be honest.’
‘Tell me, though – Franz Winter, U201 – he back yet?’
‘Not as far as I know. No, he can’t be.’
So she wasn’t spending the weekend with old Franz, at least… Graischer was saying, as they clattered down an iron fire-escape-type staircase to the roadway, ‘Boats have been flocking back, those from the nearer billets, and the first – oh, ten or twelve, I suppose, mostly your own flotilla mates – have already been fuelled, re-armed and re-victualled and pushed out again. Shouldn’t talk about it, but the rumour is of impending action by the High Seas Fleet, so we’d be setting a trap for the British, presumably.’
* * *
Schwaeble was making notes from time to time in pencil on a signal-pad. He’d just scribbled 69 1/2 metres. Frowning at those figures: ‘Less than forty fathoms, although you were to seaward of the forty-fathom line?’
‘Unmarked shallow patch, it must have been. Can’t swear to our position within a couple of thousand metres, I’d been dodging around quite a bit, but – colossal piece of luck, nothing short of hitting the bottom would have stopped us.’
Raising one hand open, then closing it as if crushing an egg in his palm, the by-now rather over-worked symbolism for a submarine imploding, squashed by sea-pressure well below her tested depth.
Schwaeble agreed. ‘Rated to fifty metres and stopped at seventy, where there should have been no bottom much short of a hundred.’
Stark Realities Page 7