‘Ten days from now, heaven knows how things may be. Here and now, I need the control-room log and Hofbauer’s navigational notebook – for the patrol report.’
‘In the safe. I’ll get ’em.’
Otto got out a couple of charts that he’d also need. He had the shape of the thing in mind, based on his oral report yesterday to Schwaeble; only in order not to bore them all to tears he’d pare it down to short paragraphs of bare facts, times, positions, actions and reasons for decisions taken. He’d expand only on his crew’s exemplary conduct under difficult and hazardous conditions. And stress the part played by old Hintenberger. He told Stahl when he came back with the logs, ‘I intend recommending all hands for gallantry awards. Including you, naturally.’
‘Very decent of you, sir. Krieger Verdienstredaille for you, if there’s any justice.’
‘Never know, do you. But I shan’t be counting on it.’
‘First Class in gold, I’d say.’
‘Now that’s not likely!’
He was looking forward to Monday evening more than anything else. Sunday night or Monday morning, even, to hearing her voice and – he hoped – her pleasure at hearing his. Trying not to envisage disappointment – change of mind or heart or whatever you might call it. That degree of disappointment would be positively shattering, the possibility needed to be kept right out of mind… Snake Pit, though – didn’t have to be only Monday night. If Monday came up to scratch – and one would make sure it did – make it all the evenings she could spare. Funds were adequate – it was a long time since he’d spent a penny, except on Mess bills – and anything could be happening by next weekend. Flottenvorstoss might have been a victory, defeat or non-event, the war itself – well, armistice, surrender…
Sickening – almost literally so. Unbelievable, hard to convince oneself this was how things were, what they’d come down to; but all of it was either happening or imminent. Anything on the cards. What on earth one would do thereafter…
Think about that when the time came. At least one had a home to go to. Even land to work. Might do something of that sort, at least for a while.
If the family were able to retain their land?
Glancing round at Stahl – he himself working at the chart table – ‘Thought I’d visit our lads in the hospital this afternoon. Like to come along?’
‘Yes. I would, sir.’
‘Start from the Mess after lunch, then. Two-ish. The walk’ll do us good.’
Back to his report: winding up detail of his sinking of the Dutch collier off southwest Ireland and the depthcharge attack by Yank destroyers. Two torpedoes expended on the Dutchman, leaving the two re-loads for the depot ship near Eddystone.
‘Oberleutnant von Mettendorff – sir?’
‘Uh?’ Looking to his left – at a sailor, messenger, whom he recognised as the leading writer from Schwaeble’s, or rather Michelsen’s outer office: smart, intelligent-looking, he’d recognised him too.
‘Kapitan zu See Schwaeble’s compliments, sir, he’d be glad if you’d join him in the bar of the officer’s Mess at twelve forty-five.’
A nod. ‘Thank him, say I’ll be there.’
Better get a move on, get this done with. Still hadn’t telephoned Gerda or the parents. He’d muttered, ‘Wonder what that’s in aid of.’
‘Wants to buy you a drink, I’d say.’
‘Or invite me to volunteer for the death-ride. Listen – on the subject of recommendations, I’m putting you up for the command course. Although whether or not there’ll ever be another one…’
‘I’m immensely grateful, sir.’
She wouldn’t have belted off to Hamburg on her own, he thought. On the other hand, having only met her twice and taken her to dinner once, he could hardly claim exclusivity. Would like to – would give his right arm to, but—
Best of all would be to discover she hadn’t gone there with anyone at all. But, he warned himself, Don’t count on it…
* * *
He finished the report in time to make his telephone calls before the lunchtime meeting with Schwaeble. Went up to the Mess to find a telephone he might use, ran into Paul Deuker, the paymaster, who’d very kindly unlocked the staff office from which he’d rung Helena’s landlady last evening.
‘Service call, is it?’
‘Not really. Long-distance to my people.’
‘Well, if you’re asked, give ’em your name. But they don’t usually bother.’
There was no reply from Gerda’s flat in Berlin. No reason there should be, of course, on a Sunday. She might even be at work, but she didn’t like to receive private calls there. He got back to the exchange and gave them his home number – longer-distance still, but the operator obviously didn’t give a damn.
Ringing. Longish silence then. Another ring… Then a rattling sound, harsh breathing, and old Drendel, Papa’s long-time butler, piping up with: ‘The Mettendorff residence, who is it that’s calling?’
‘Otto von Mettendorff, Sergeant – calling long-distance. Still fighting fit, are you?’
‘Why, Herr Otto! Yes, I’m in good health. And you?’ Wheezy chuckle: ‘Still sending the swine to the bottom in short order, I hope?’
‘Doing my best to, Sergeant. But is my mother—’
‘Yes. Please hold, I’ll—’
‘Either of them, if—’
He’d gone.
Papa commanded a remount depot and riding-school near Halle, in the rank of lieutenant-colonel. In his mid-sixties, it wasn’t bad to have got a war job of any kind, and he was good at it; as Gerda had remarked not long ago, he got on better with horses than he did with people. While old Drendel, known to the household as Sergeant Drendel, was close to seventy. He’d lost a leg at St Quentin only a week before the French surrender in 1871, had stumped around on a wooden one ever since.
‘Otto?’
Slightly quavery high tone, and an impression of astonishment, as if she’d thought he might be dead. As indeed he might have been. And it was a long time since he’d been in touch with them; communications out of Bruges hadn’t been all that good. Telling her now, ‘Splendid to hear your voice, Mama – and sounding strong, you’re obviously in good health and heart. Listen – in case we’re cut off – this is long-distance – I’m only calling to ask how you both are, and let you know I’m in good shape. Happen to be on dry land and near a telephone that works, for once… You are well, are you?’
‘I am – quite well, thank you, Otto. Your father too. He’s at his depot, of course. Have you sunk more English since we last heard from you?’
‘Two in this last week, as it happens. Got slightly dented in the course of it, so for a while I’m land-bound. I’m so glad you’re bearing up, Mama – and the Sergeant sounds his usual self—’
‘We’re fortunate, of course, in that we have our own produce – eggs, poultry, cereals and – you know… The ice-house is well stocked. But the country as a whole, in the towns especially—’
‘Turnips as the staple diet, so I heard.’
‘Thanks to the damned English! And we hear now our so-called government’s begging for an armistice! Going on bended knees to the Americans!’
‘I don’t know about bended knees, but – yes, I gather… Mama, is Gerda all right?’
‘You didn’t hear, then.’
‘Hear what?’
‘Heinrich – the week before last—’
‘What? Shot down?’
‘Killed, anyway. He used just to laugh when I told him how frightfully dangerous—’
‘Poor old Heinrich.’ Gerda’s husband, Heinrich Hesse, when Otto had last heard of him, had been leading a squadron of Albatross fighters. ‘Or rather, poor Gerda. Damn it all. I tried to call her a few minutes ago. Oh, really, that’s too bad!’
‘She’s devastated. Devastated. Otto, you look after yourself now. We want you home safe and sound. And soon. Isn’t it time you had leave? Look, take some, go to Berlin, give her a shoulder to cry on and then bring
her home. Those things you go about in – submarines – why, they’re worse than—’
He cut in with an assurance that the modern submarines were as safe as houses. Safer, in fact. But that if the armistice negotiations got anywhere he’d be home the first minute he could in any case. And yes, would see poor Gerda. But he had to run now. He’d try to get through to her this afternoon. If by chance she spoke to her before he did, please give her his love and deepest commiserations. And love and respects to Papa, of course.
He hung up. Glad to have heard about Heinrich before speaking to Gerda, who’d be lost without that fellow.
* * *
‘Ah – von Mettendorff.’
The group around Schwaeble opened up to let Otto through. There were a dozen or fifteen officers in the bar, all with glasses in their hands – a few had beers but it was mostly schnapps. Schwaeble said, ‘I’m in the chair, what’ll you have?’
‘Well – thank you, sir. Schnapps, I think.’
He’d gestured to the steward, now looked back at Otto. ‘Any particular reason to look so damn miserable?’
Smiles and chuckles all round. Glasses all full but no-one actually drinking yet. He nodded to Schwaeble. ‘Heard only a minute ago that my brother-in-law was shot down – killed – week before last. I don’t know where. He was commanding a fighter squadron.’
‘I’m extremely sorry, von Mettendorff.’ The steward came with Otto’s drink on a silver-plated tray. There’d been a general murmuring of sympathy. Schwaeble held up his glass: ‘Our first toast then, to that brave man. What was his name?’
‘Hesse. Heinrich Hesse.’
‘To his memory and honour!’
They drank to him, Otto restraining a sudden and unexpected urge to weep. The schnapps’ fire in his throat might have served as cover for such a lapse, but in fact the excuse of it wasn’t needed: he’d regained control and Schwaeble was raising his glass again.
‘Gentlemen! We drink to Kapitan-Leutnant Otto von Mettendorff!’
Shouts of applause, before the glasses were emptied. Otto hearing it all, of course, but with Gerda’s misery still in his mind needing a second or two to catch on to what Schwaeble had just told him, that he’d been promoted from senior lieutenant to lieutenant-commander. Schwaeble booming now, ‘Well deserved, at that.’ Signalling to the steward, this time indicating only his own glass and Otto’s. ‘Your promotion comes with Kommodore Michelsen’s personal congratulations. I had him on the telephone this morning. Incidentally, what about your patrol report?’
Otto took the wad of foolscap from an inside pocket. ‘Haven’t access to a typewriting machine, unfortunately.’
‘I’ll get it done. Drop by the Kommodore’s office tomorrow forenoon to sign the copies.’
‘Aye, sir. Your health. With your permission, the next round’s mine.’
Helena would be entertained at the Snake Pit by a kapitan-leutnant, he was thinking, not a mere oberleutnant. That shouldn’t exactly spoil one’s chances.
6
Helena called Otto at the Mess on Sunday evening. He’d had a few brandies by then, with a bunch of brother officers intent on celebrating his promotion. Wanting some damn thing to celebrate. These included Stahl, with whom he’d spent an hour or so at the hospital during the afternoon, chatting with crewmen who’d had bones broken – ribs, legs, arms and collar-bones, one fractured skull, other less serious head-injuries – and in the early evening he’d managed to get through to Gerda.
Contrary to what his mother had said, she seemed to him to be taking the loss of her husband very well, phlegmatically acknowledging that she was only one of thousands in that situation. ‘And you can’t have half the female population sitting round moaning and wailing.’ It was a situation which simply had to be accepted and coped with; one had also to remember that Heinrich had been doing a job he’d enormously enjoyed, that he’d have chosen to be killed in the course of it rather than to have survived in some less hazardous occupation.
‘So who am I to pity myself, disgrace him?’
‘I don’t see any disgrace in natural grief – or any advantage in suppressing it. Better for you to shed tears, Gerda.’
‘Oh, I have done. A lot of them, and I expect I’ll shed more. No-one else will see them, that’s the point. I’m deeply saddened, I mourn him and miss him, I dare say always will. Well, my whole life is changed. Like roots pulled up is how it feels. But it goes on – as he’d have expected it to – even if it’s privately miserable for a while – or for ever.’
‘Mama said you were distraite. No – “devastated” was the word.’
‘I was. Am. Taking myself in hand now, that’s all. As I think most of us do, after the first shock. What’s your news?’
‘I’ve been promoted. This morning, actually. I’m now a kapitan-leutnant.’
‘You should have started off by telling me that!’
‘No I shouldn’t. But certainly, it’s good.’
‘It’s wonderful! I’m so glad for you!’
‘Although the way things are shaping—’
‘Not to be spoken of, I think. Best to talk and think of now – and yesterday – maybe tomorrow at a pinch, but not much further. Beyond that, blind eyes and deaf ears, and – hope?’
‘You’re a great girl, Gerda.’
‘Always was. Didn’t you notice? How’s the love-life these days?’
‘Exciting. At least, very promising. In fact—’
‘Wedding bells in prospect?’
He’d snorted.‘Not on the cards at all. Not even thought of it. At this of all times one would be crazy to. Even if she—’
‘Bet you she is thinking of it. So watch out. Pretty, is she?’
‘How many guesses d’you need?’
A laugh. ‘Never a spiritual exercise exactly, was it!’
‘Oh, I don’t know. Always was a degree of – spirit… Believe me, there certainly is now!’
‘Spirit like a stallion has, you mean. That’s hardly what…’ She’d checked that. ‘Anyway, who or what is she?’
‘I’ll tell you when I see you – which I look forward to very much. For the time being I’ll only say that she’s irresistibly attractive and absolutely charming. Intelligent, amusing – this amuses you?’
‘Otto – those very words and identical tone of voice about a certain other young lady – to whom I had introduced you a few years ago?’
‘Really. Well – it’s possible. Only a certain number of words to choose from, eh? Similar emotions involved, too… But – as I say, let’s save it till we meet. It’s amazing we’ve talked this long already without being cut off. Gerda – however things turn out, take care of yourself and let’s see each other soon. Before long we may all be at loose ends – you realise that?’
‘Of course I realise it. So we’d meet chez nous. There are worse fates… Where does she live, this paragon?’
‘Actually, I’m not sure.’
‘Don’t know where she lives?’
‘I know where she’s living and working at the moment, but—’
Chck, and a dead line. He swore, put the receiver up on its hook, thought of trying to get through again but decided against it. It had been a satisfactory call: he was fond of his sister, always had been, and now was proud of her as well.
Might write her a note, tell her so.
A lot of the talk in the Mess later on was about the projected fleet action or Flottenvorstoss. Schwaeble with a loosened tongue at lunch this morning had divulged that the Hochseeflotte’s battle squadrons that weren’t there already would be assembling in Schillig Roads on Tuesday, and that at some time or other there was to be a conference of admirals and captains on board Hipper’s flagship, the Baden. Michelsen as FdU had been summoned to attend. So it seemed it was going to take place, the so-called ‘Death Ride’.
Louis Farber was saying – speculating – ‘Sailing at dusk on Tuesday, say – having by then raised steam for full speed – this is really most likely, from
what you say Schwaeble told you – then action would follow in the early hours of Wednesday, maybe. Or in the course of Wednesday. If the British have taken the bait and come storming out as they’re supposed to – eh?’
Farber’s boat was currently in dry dock getting a new propeller-shaft fitted. He was a korvetten-kapitan and had recently got married.
Walter Bohme asked him, ‘Excuse me, but – if they take the bait and come out where?’
‘Well, nice question, and I can propound my theory. Simple, but logical enough. There was a large-scale fleet operation planned two years ago, latter part of ’16, after the Skaggerak imbroglio. Von Scheer’s plan – he was still C-in-C, of course, and Hipper had the battle cruisers. The scheme was dropped, for some reason that I forget – if I ever knew it – and all we heard thereafter was how splendid it would have been. The entire fleet was to have been at sea – battle squadrons, battle cruisers, cruisers and destroyers – and ourselves, of course. Attacks by light surface forces, cruisers and destroyers would have been made on the Flanders coast and in the mouth of the Thames; this would have provoked a sortie by the Grand Fleet into the southern part of the North Sea, into newly-laid minefields and – all of us, of course, we’d have been sitting there waiting to greet them with our torpedoes, the Hochseeflotte then only having the trouble of finishing a few off. Well, it’s odds-on, I reckon, that this must be what Hipper’s planning now. Having a ready-made plan, so to speak, in his bottom drawer – some detail requiring alteration here and there, no doubt…’
‘Excuse me, sir.’ A steward, low-voiced at Otto’s elbow. ‘Telephone call for you.’
‘Oh. Good.’
Thinking as he put down his brandy glass, Helena. Then warning himself against disappointment: might be Gerda ringing back; or their father, if she’d called him with the news of the promotion. But no – couldn’t be, for the simple reason he hadn’t told Gerda – or his mother – where he was. Before the door clashed shut behind him he’d heard the steward call after him, ‘Telephone in the Mess secretary’s office, sir!’
No Mess secretary in it, anyway. Door standing open and the ’phone with its receiver lying on the desk beside it. He went round the desk to a swivel chair and pulled the thing closer, back-handing a basket of paperwork out of the way.
Stark Realities Page 10