Stark Realities

by Stark Realities (retail) (epub)

  ‘Dishonoured. This mutiny on top of everything else is an appalling thing!’

  Michelsen nodded. ‘I agree, of course. And obviously my immediate concern is for the U-boat arm. To start with, while recalling some and re-deploying others, I’m stipulating that any ship flying a red flag is to be treated as an enemy. We can preserve our honour—’

  ‘May I suggest another way we might do that, sir?’ Shake of the bison’s head. ‘My apologies – interrupting – but—’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Action by the High Seas Fleet was to have saved the Navy’s honour, and influenced the terms of armistice. Since it’s not now to take place, we might replace it with action of our own. You might, sir – by authorising the targeting of the British fleet in Scapa Flow. I request the privilege of doing so, sir. It hasn’t been attempted since von Hennig’s attempt in U18 in November of ’14 – and this is not the first time I’ve thought of it—’

  ‘The Grand Fleet is now based in the Firth of Forth, Winter.’

  ‘But Scapa Flow’s still being used. As mentioned in an Intelligence summary only a few weeks ago.’

  ‘Detachments of the Grand Fleet deploying in support of the North Sea Barrage and Norwegian convoys, etcetera.’ A nod. ‘Quite so. But although we’ve probed up that way quite recently—’

  ‘Valentiner and Forstmann both drew blank. I know that, sir. But what I’m proposing—’

  ‘You’d try to get inside.’ Gazing at him, thinking about it – or about him, Franz Winter. Both, maybe. Motives, chances… Asking him then, ‘By the Hoxa entrance, as von Hennig tried it?’

  Hans von Hennig in U18 had got inside, but finding the great anchorage empty – Grand Fleet out on a sweep of the North Sea – had turned to make his way out, given himself away by showing too much periscope, and been rammed first by an armed trawler and then by a destroyer. Damaged and out of control, he’d got U18 out of the Flow but had been swept on to the Skerries, where he’d scuttled her. He and others were picked up and taken prisoner. Winter was saying, ‘Hoxa’s the obvious entry point. Von Hennig followed some small supply vessel in. But I wouldn’t just poke my nose in and if the Flow’s empty come right out again. If the targets are there, I’d go for them, but if not, wait for them. I’d bottom, lie quiet and wait. Knowing they do periodically use the place, and being inside – well, one’s there, in position.’ He raised one hand with thick fingers crossed: showed his teeth. ‘I think I’d stand a good chance, sir.’

  ‘The risks would be enormous.’

  ‘So would the triumph be. What the Hochseeflotte can’t do—’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And since the Flow’s only in occasional use, no longer the fleet base it has been, don’t you think its defences might have become less efficient?’

  ‘Conceivable.’ Michelsen leaning back in his chair, eyes slitted, staring at Winter down his nose. ‘Perhaps especially now, when they’re thinking the war’s as good as finished, that we’re finished.’ He nodded. ‘Very well. But – when would you—’

  ‘Sooner the better. Immediately. If a so-called armistice is truly imminent—’

  ‘Yes. I agree. We’d be bound by its terms from the minute it’s announced. You’re right, sooner the better. Your requirements therefore – tonight, immediately – fuel, fresh water, stores, torpedoes—’

  ‘I have four in the bow tubes, none aft. Need four reloads for’ard therefore, and—’

  ‘You’d hardly have opportunity to re-load, surely!’

  ‘Perhaps not.’ Thinking about it. Having fired those four, would not be left in peace to lie on the bottom for the couple of hours it took to re-load. He nodded. ‘Just two in the stern tubes, then. And as you say, bunkers, fresh water, provisions—’

  ‘Ammunition?’

  Shake of the head. ‘Didn’t use the gun, this last patrol. Can’t imagine I would on this task, either.’

  ‘No.’ Michelsen checked the time. Getting on for six-thirty. ‘I suppose not. But – all right. I’ll have the departments concerned alerted. Say an hour before any of it gets under way – you’ve got to get your crew back on board, for a start – but then with most of it happening simultaneously, and allowing let’s say another hour for unexpected hold-ups, might sail you at 2300, say. Important question, though – how will your crew react to this?’

  ‘They’ll be astonished, furious, despondent. But they’ll respond to my explanation of it. One other thought, sir – I’d like to take with me a – call him an alternate commanding officer. Then if I should crack up – I’m not expecting to, no such thing, but I could use some sleep on the way up there, to be on top form when I need to be—’

  ‘Anyone in mind?’

  ‘Yes.’ A brisk nod. ‘Von Mettendorff. His boat’s out of action, isn’t she; he’s a first-class man – professionally – he was my first lieutenant in U53, we know each other well enough. If he were invited to – volunteer, I suppose—’

  ‘I’d guess he’ll consider it an honour.’ Michelsen looked towards his outer office, called, ‘Hillebrand! Here a minute!’

  10

  The LMS night express from Euston rocking northward towards Glasgow, from time to time shrieking into the sleet-laden dark, and in its first-class dining car, Sue remarking to Anne – while Sam Lance was scribbling in his little notebook or diary – ‘Fairly conclusive, what Bertie had to say about von Whatsit’s U-boat, in any case. Good idea to ask him, wasn’t it?’

  They’d asked Bertie Hope yesterday whether the destroyers’ claim to have sunk von Mettendorff’s UB81 could have been erroneous, and he’d said he’d look into it. This had been an extension of Sue’s request to be allowed to make the Orkneys trip as chaperone to Anne. He’d said yes to that immediately, even snappily; there’d been a lot going on and he’d been closeted with Blinker Hall all forenoon, obviously hadn’t thought Sue’s temporary absence would bring the Department to a halt or affect the outcome of the war, exactly. In fact Sam Lance might already have cleared it with him – which would have accounted for the rather testy manner. But the UB81 question did interest him; he’d made a note of it, later telephoned someone on the staff at Devonport, had a reply from there this morning, Tuesday 29th, and had conveyed his own view of it to them before they’d left the Old Building this afternoon. Overall conclusion being that UB81 had been sunk. He’d told them, ‘Ninety-nine percent certain. And if by some extraordinary fluke she was not sent to the bottom there and then, she couldn’t have got away; she’d have had to have surfaced – if she’d been capable of it – for her crew to abandon ship. And as she didn’t, you can take it she couldn’t, she was finished. Well, look – unequivocal statement here – at least one shell penetrated the conning-tower, several others exploding in the bridge and on the periscope standards – as well as scoring hits aft – blasting off half the after-casing – and as likely as not puncturing the pressure-hull. No certainty of that, but – hell, I definitely wouldn’t have wanted to have been inside her at that stage! And a four-inch shell – shells, plural – exploding on the standards – well, her periscopes would have been smashed and/or jammed. They’re delicate instruments, for one thing; for another they’re a very close fit in the tubes that house them. Have to be – obviously, uh?’

  Anne had nodded. If Bertie said that something in the naval technical field was obvious, you could assume it was.

  ‘The lower end of one periscope, anyway, in that class of U-boat – a UBII, or Coastal – is in the flooded tower. Manned from there by the skipper or officer of the watch, presumably. Inaccessible, even if it hadn’t been wrecked by hits on the standards – because the tower was holed, so it’d have filled as soon as she dipped under. The whole boat would have filled, unless they’d evacuated the tower and shut the lower hatch. And as I say, the pressure-hull may well have been cracked open abaft the bridge in any case. Conclusion, therefore: they sent her down with holes in her, dead duck absolutely.’

  His telephone had buzzed, and he�
��d put his hand on it, telling them, ‘You can take that as read, anyway. Enjoy your Scapa trip.’ Lifting the ’phone: ‘Hope…’

  Sue had made a rhyme of it on their way back to Chester Square: ‘Take it as read, Muttondorff’s dead.’ Repeating it now in the train and adding a new thought: ‘Couldn’t have got a signal off, I suppose, in the minute or two they were on the surface? That’d solve the mystery, wouldn’t it.’

  ‘Doubt they could have. Saying what, anyway – Nos morituri te salutamus?’

  ‘I rather doubt if Huns talk Latin.’

  ‘Of course they do. Properly educated ones. But if they’d made any signal at all, it would have been intercepted, we’d know!’

  Sam asked, in the train’s lurching, yellowish-lit dining car – which earlier had been packed, but during the last half-hour had been emptying, grey-faced stewards relaying tables for breakfast – ‘What mystery is this?’

  He’d put the question to Sue, who’d glanced sharply at Anne, reproving her for having mentioned wireless interception. She told him, ‘Pre-war friend of Anne’s – a Hun, no less, and now a U-boat captain – or rather ex U-boat captain, as it seems he’s now feeding the fishes.’

  ‘You having me on?’

  ‘Well – perhaps more likely crabs than fishes, at this stage—’

  Anne cut in with: ‘All true, Sam, except he wasn’t a friend of mine. Acquaintance, yes – brother of a girl I shared digs with when I was at the Berlitz at Frankfurt, the year before the war. She was studying French. He was on some U-boat training course at the time, I think transferring to them from surface craft. I remember she was very full of it, thought he was frightfully brave. Well, a year or so ago that name – von Mettendorff, not a very common one – cropped up in an Intelligence report identifying the captains of various U-boats, including von Mettendorff and UB81 – which according to C-in-C Plymouth was quite recently sunk by destroyers somewhere in that area.’ She shrugged. ‘But then ID cross-referencing raised a doubt as to whether that one actually had been sunk – and as a matter of interest we asked Bertie Hope, who looked into it and came up with an answer just this afternoon.’

  ‘That the guy is feeding the crabs.’

  She nodded. ‘Seems fairly certain.’

  ‘Well, we all want as many U-boats sunk as possible, but – heck – when it’s a friend – which is somewhat unusual, least I certainly never heard of anyone actually knowing one of them!’

  ‘Hardly did, either. Gerda and I were quite good friends, though. As I said, we shared digs, and the summer of that year – 1913 – I spent – oh, I suppose a week or ten days at her family’s place in Saxony. Big old house, oodles of land. And her brother turned up for – again I don’t remember exactly, but maybe a couple of days, and his name was Otto, which matched him more or less unquestionably to that ID report. Might have come from an interrogation, I think – it listed quite a number of boats and their COs’ names.’

  Sue put in, ‘Would have been passed on to your people anyway.’ Glancing at Anne again. Room 40 – or ‘OB 40’, standing for Old Building, room 40 – still didn’t exist, as far as Americans were concerned; they received summaries of all Intelligence received, but items were attributed to agents’ reports and ‘reliable sources’, never to wireless intercepts. Sam had just muttered, poking at his half-empty cup, ‘Not the finest coffee I ever had. Not a bad meal, though.’ This being the ‘second service’, the selection had been limited, all three of them making the best of soup followed by liver-and-bacon and apple tart. Sam continuing, ‘But I suppose, seeing the number of U-boats that’ve been sunk in recent months, any individual commander’d have had something like an even chance of what you call feeding the fishes, by this time.’

  ‘Crabs.’

  ‘Fishes and/or crabs.’

  Sue told him, ‘When I saw that sinking report, my words to Anne were “Cross him off your Christmas card list!”’

  ‘But from what you say – the slightness of your acquaintance with him—’

  ‘He wouldn’t have been on any such list.’ A shrug. Sam did tend to take quite inconsequential remarks or statements for serious consideration: obviously hadn’t had all that much to do with girls, Anne thought. Adding, ‘If I had one anyway – which I don’t. No, my only feeling of – well, slight sadness – was for Gerda.’

  ‘The sister.’

  ‘Right. She adored him.’

  ‘Tell me, honey.’ His eyes wandering over her face and the back-swept blue-black hair, the length and slimness of her neck. ‘I don’t think I asked you this before – what persuaded you to make a study of the German language?’

  ‘Well – I felt I should do something or other that might help me to earn a living – and I already spoke French adequately. I thought the combination of French plus German might be useful. Not for any cut-and-dried purpose, but – you know, wanting to be able to earn my keep. One obvious possibility was the Foreign Office, which as it happened was where I ended up.’

  ‘French just happened because your people went to live there?’

  ‘Well, it did, really. Although I worked at it. Went to school there – French school, in France. But I think once you get in the way of picking up other lingos – well, you know you can, so—’

  ‘Like falling off a log.’ The train had shrieked. Sue added, ‘So what’s next? Chinese?’ She was edging back the window blind, but seeing only blackness laced with smoke and stinking of soot: and the noise had changed; she guessed they might be in a tunnel. Sam had just asked Anne, ‘What attracted your parents to France?’

  ‘To save on tax. He had an inheritance – not much, actually not enough, so he gambled – well, to supplement it, but as my mother puts it, without conspicuous success. There was a lot of gambling – this was at and around Dinard, in Brittany; there was a whole colony of English – and Americans, by the way – and – well, what you might call the social game was Mahjong, and plenty of heavy gambling in that, but Papa also went in for poker and backgammon, and bridge, of course. And he had a heart attack and died. That’s it, in a nutshell.’

  ‘Did you leave France then?’

  She nodded. ‘Grandparents – Mama’s, the Verities, not Garniers – more or less looked after us. Then she met Angus McCaig, and they married – well, she’d known him before, slightly, he was a friend of friends; anyway, they fell in love, etcetera, and married, and I finished school in England – I’d taken German and done passably well in it, and went to Frankfurt.’ She opened her hands: ‘Which is where we came in, as-they say.’

  ‘Might your determination to become self-supporting’ – Sam, continuing the interrogation – ‘might it have sprung from the years in France, your father’s lack of – ah – conspicuous success?’

  ‘Might well.’ She nodded, smiling at him. ‘In fact – yes, I’m sure it did. Although my mother poo-pooed it, rather. In her book, marriage was the thing. A “good” marriage, of course.’

  ‘I kind of like the sound of that.’

  ‘You’re certainly a good man, Sam, we know that. Anne mentions it quite frequently.’

  ‘Does she, though!’

  Anne asked him, ‘If eventually we did marry, and went to live in Virginia, would I find any use for French and/or German?’

  Brown eyes on hers, serious and thoughtful. Small shake of the head then. ‘Can’t see it, tell you the awkward truth. Could be, I suppose, but…’ He brightened: ‘Teaching, maybe?’

  ‘I don’t think I’m cut out for that.’

  ‘Well – we’ll see. I could do a little research by mail, maybe. Although you’d have no need to earn a living, honey.’

  ‘From my angle I think I would.’

  ‘Like a lifebelt you’re clinging to, daren’t let go of?’

  ‘Oh, Sam—’

  Sue cut in with: ‘Would you two mind if I left you to it? Been a long day, one way and another – and early starts tomorrow, I imagine. Also chaperones shouldn’t have to sit in on pre-marital disputes.’ T
o Anne then, as Sam moved to let her out, muttering that there was no dispute he was aware of, but that he enjoyed her company and knew Anne did too, ‘Give me fifteen or twenty minutes and I’ll be out of your way. What time should we meet for breakfast, Sam?’

  * * *

  It was half an hour before Anne arrived back in their two-berth compartment, entering very quietly in order not to wake Sue if she’d happened to be asleep already: which of course she wasn’t, had her bunk-head light on and a copy of Mary Webb’s Gone to Earth propped on her chest.

  ‘Hello. Settle our little tiff, did we?’

  ‘Tiff?’

  ‘The tone of that “Oh, Sam” is what stampeded me. And I admit, his lifebelt analogy had a bit of an edge to it. Prelude to calling it all off, I thought to meself.’

  Anne hung her navy-blue WRNS jacket with its single light-blue stripe on each sleeve in the little closet beside Sue’s khaki-coloured FANY suit, then sat on the lower bunk to remove her shoes. Shaking her head: ‘You can’t “call off” something that’s never been called “on.”’

  ‘And won’t be – right? I mean, with a difference as unbridgeable as that seems to me to be. Sam wanting Memsahib chez soi, Memsahib with notions of pursuing a career of some sort – as well as being as obstinate as a mule?’

  ‘Well. Apart from that difference in general outlook – which on its own might I dare say be negotiable – there’s a more specific problem. The night we went to the Ritz, he let me in on this. His father has a boat-building business; Sam’s worked in it with the old man all his life, and now in his absence there’s a brother-in-law who’s horned in and Sam thinks may try to keep him out of it – or at any rate keep him somehow subordinate to him when the Navy finally releases him.’