Stark Realities

by Stark Realities (retail) (epub)

  ‘It’s lovely, Otto!’

  ‘You are lovely. You truly are. The most beautiful girl I ever went out with. As well as all the enthusiasm you display, your so charming personality. It shines out of you, my dear… And what a glorious evening they’ve laid on for us!’

  She’d been wearing a cream-coloured cotton dress, she remembered, with its hem an inch above her ankles, and a striped jacket, and carrying a sequinned evening bag that went well with it. Rather nice French shoes on her small feet. Oh, and the hat she’d travelled in, but without its feather. He kept telling her how attractive she was, and actually she could distinctly remember feeling that she was, catching sight of herself in shop windows and not at all disliking what she saw. The wine must have helped, of course. She was being looked at by other young men as well, once or twice actually smiled at, Otto noticing this and keeping her close to him, most of the time arm-in-arm, and chatting twenty-four to the dozen, making her laugh and taking no notice of pretty girls giving him the eye.

  Part of the technique, she’d guessed afterwards. As if he’d been advised, Don’t waste your time. Concentrate on the one you’ve got…

  Guessing this through having concluded that he’d worked it all out carefully in advance, although it might have been a symptom of how he’d genuinely felt. Came down to much the same thing, anyway. And the truth was, they had been flirting, she as much as he; the difference being that as far as she was concerned, flirting and fun was as far as it would have gone. Dancing on air was a phrase that came to mind: he’d tried to convince her that they were both under the influence of the famed Berliner Luft, the magically heady air that was supposed to affect everyone, making them feel quite tipsy. Which they were – or she was anyway, by the time they’d begun prospecting for a restaurant with a dance-floor, a cabaret, something better than a café or Weinstube, but not one of your stuffy restaurants, stuffed shirts and ridiculously high prices. They’d looked into two or three places before settling on one that suited them. Suited him; she’d probably have settled for any of them. In each of them he’d scanned the menu and enquired as to whether the band was up to playing tangos – which they all were, it was currently the rage – finally settling on this small, darkish basement café-restaurant with banquette seating and a quartet playing a tango even as they arrived.

  They’d drunk champagne – the real stuff now, not the local fizz – but she’d forgotten what they’d had to eat. She’d been left with the notion that his choices were based mainly on price, presumably to offset the cost of the wine, and she’d been in sympathy with that. His father did make him a small allowance, he’d told her at some time, but on a leutnant zu see’s pay – that rank being the equivalent of an RN sub-lieutenant – well, it helped, but didn’t go very far. They’d tango’d like mad, also danced the foxtrot: she didn’t remember much of it in any detail, only that it was all hilarious and that she must have been fairly reeling by the time they left. It wasn’t a tremendously long walk, fortunately, back to his aunt’s apartment; he’d have needed to have supported her even on the flat, let alone when it came to climbing stairs. What she did remember was his offering her what he called a ‘sleeping draft’ of Cognac – his aunt’s Cognac, presumably – which she hadn’t wanted, and then telling her that he was going to take a bath. ‘But I’ll be quiet, don’t worry. Never sing in my bath, never, never!’ She was alone in the bedroom then, humming ‘La Cumparsita’ and actually falling down while tangoing around with a pillow in her arms as partner; he’d gone off to what he called his kennel to undress. She’d been about to disrobe too, but went back to the bedroom door first, to lock it, and – no key. There’d definitely been one in the door earlier. Fallen out, maybe. She searched for it – on hands and knees – then gave up, thinking, Oh, why bother? Get undressed quickly and into bed, covered up, before he puts his head in to say goodnight. Which he may well do – knowing him… Oh, except that he’d be assuming the door was locked. Be fast asleep by then, in any case. It really had been an absolutely spiffing evening. She was naked and shaking out her nightie when she heard the door open, whipped round and saw him also naked except for a towel round his waist, exclaiming something like, ‘Oh, my darling Anne, forgive the intrusion but you’re even more beautiful than I’d dared dream!’ He’d come on into the room – dropping the towel, for God’s sake, stark naked, and that thing…

  ‘Otto, you are shameless!’

  How much actual memory in the years of reconstruction, analysis and shame? For instance, had he bathed, or only expressed that intention so she’d think she had so much time? To what end, though – seeing that he must have removed the key, could as easily have found her in the bed as on her feet? The efforts at reconstruction – recollection – had stemmed from her need to know to what extent she might have co-operated, or whether it actually had been rape – not just the trickery but actually overpowering, forcing. She had been drunk. And had slept heavily, woken in the quiet of the Sunday morning to hear his heavy breathing within inches of her face, taken a few frightful moments to remember, realise, her sudden movement – to escape – then rousing him. She guessed this had been the sequence of it, did know for sure she’d had to fight him off, fight free of him and of the bed, while he’d protested, ‘My darling, why? Anne, darling – please—’

  ‘Don’t “darling” me, you foul pig!’

  The blood on the sheets then: she remembered that well enough, and his moan of ‘What’ll I do, heaven’s sake? Never thought of—’

  ‘Of my being a virgin? Bet you didn’t! Thought of every other damn thing, though!’

  ‘Can we wash them, or—’

  ‘Maybe you can. Or tell your damned aunt you had some girl here who was so inconsiderate as to bleed all over them!’

  She’d felt ill. Recalled locking herself in the bathroom and being sick, and that when eventually she’d come out he’d gone back to bed and was asleep again. She’d taken her clothes into the sitting-room and dressed in there, then made herself tea, which was all she could face – as it turned out, had been more than she could face, she’d had to be sick yet again; worse, had somehow to drag herself across Berlin to that other station.

  ‘Anne, are you asleep?’

  Sue’s voice, effectively telling her, wake up. Opening her eyes, for a moment not sure where she was, then focusing on Sue standing at the window and thanking God that she wasn’t in Berlin, facing that ghastly journey and feeling like something it would have been kinder not to have dug up…

  Telling Sue as relief flooded her, ‘I was. Almost. I mean—’

  ‘Ought to see this, anyway. We’re somewhere past Inverness. Moray Firth, or Cromarty, snow on the ground but the sun’s filtering through, it’s really beautiful!’

  ‘Hang on.’

  She was right, it was beautiful. Ruggedly so: although in duller weather one might have called it bleakly so. Cromarty Firth, with Cromarty at its entrance and Invergordon on this side where it widened. The Grand Fleet, or parts of it, used Invergordon quite a lot, of course. And to the north of here, after a while you’d have Dornoch Firth, quite a long stretch along that coastline. Sue was saying, ‘It’s not going to last long, though, the picture-postcard look of it. Black as your hat there where it’s coming from. North or northwest, I’d guess. Orkneys weather coming up, one might say. Sorry I woke you.’

  ‘I wasn’t really asleep. Sort of – day-dreaming…’

  He’d insisted, she remembered, in a tone that made it plain – or would have done, if one hadn’t by then known him to be a twister – that he actually did think she was treating him unjustly. ‘You wanted it as much as I did, Anne. Allowing me to spend the night here with you in the first place, in the second leaving the door unlocked, and most of all, my darling, the way you – hell, how you were! Like some – I don’t know – wildcat, or—’

  ‘You set out to get me drunk – and you’d taken the key, damn you, I went to lock it and—’

  ‘No, that’s too much! Wait, I
’ll…’ He had the towel round his waist again: shot into the bedroom, returning immediately with the key, holding it up as if in triumph. ‘Lying there plain to see! And accusing me—’

  ‘I searched for it and it wasn’t – was obviously wherever you’d hidden it.’ She’d shut her suitcase and managed to lock it – with some difficulty, her hands shaking so much – dropped that little key into her bag, hefted the damn case. ‘Out of my way, please.’

  ‘Can’t I take you to the station? That thing’s much too heavy for you. Give me a few minutes – please, and—’

  ‘Out of my way!’

  * * *

  She’d pushed past him, he remembered, using the case as a threat and looking as if she hated him. In defending himself, he’d felt very much the injured party. All right, so it had been the first time for her: maybe he should have given thought to that possibility – probability, even, when one remembered that she’d been a very young nineteen. Not physically, but every other way. One should have. None the less, it had been a riotous evening: the lake trout in cheese sauce had been delicious, the bubbly had been first class, and as to the dancing – well, Kaiser Wilhelm might have found the tango somewhat lubricious – and it was – but she’d fairly revelled in it. Well, they both had. And certainly they’d had a lot to drink, but – got her drunk?

  When one’s guest kept emptying her glass, and one wanted to keep the party spirit going, one kept the glass topped up, did one not?

  Hadn’t needed to get her drunk, for God’s sake!

  Besides which, a wildcat was what she had been. Truly sensational.

  After which – condemnation. Contempt, even. To assuage her own conscience, he supposed.

  Nodding to himself as he straightened. This quite lengthy reminiscence had been prompted by Hintenberger asking him – here in the wardroom, only the two of them, Franz Winter being at the chart table studying Scapa Flow and/or its southern approaches, and Neureuther sleeping – which was something he did a lot of – ‘In our musings in those dark hours in UB81, you were on the point of confessing how you once tricked some dolly into opening her legs. Then you back-tracked, or we were interrupted—’

  ‘I thought better of it.’

  He’d been semi-snoozing, forehead resting on his forearms on the table. Checking the time now – three-twenty. Had come off watch at two p.m., having had only an hour-and-three-quarters of it, after a period of silent running while destroyers had been coming up on the quarter and overtaking, eventually to everyone’s relief fading ahead – in the direction of Scapa Flow, incidentally, which might be indicative of big-ship movements being imminent. Might not, too: they could have been heading to pass through the Pentland Firth en route to Scotland’s west coast or Ireland; alternatively to leave the Orkneys to port, heading for Shetland or Norway.

  No telling where, or what for. All that mattered was they’d gone thrashing on.

  He focused on the engineer again.

  ‘We were in what looked like a somewhat hopeless situation, if you remember. Jabbering as one does at such times, to keep spirits up. That reference was to something that happened years ago – when I was very young and – you know, on the lookout for experience of that kind.’

  ‘Are you telling me you’ve stopped looking for experiences of that kind?’

  He nodded. ‘I did tell you I’m getting married.’

  ‘Oh – so you did…’

  Tone and expression still vaguely disbelieving. Otto ignored it, told him, ‘That other business – I was not only young, I was also – well, on the wild side. Irresponsible. Drinking more than I should have, too – consequently don’t recall much of it. Actually prefer not to, although rather oddly it’s come back to mind a couple of times in recent days. Stirrings of guilt, maybe – what one might in the course of time be answerable for – eh? Did think we might be coming up hard against the buffers, in those hours, didn’t we – only a fool would not have… But’ – wide-eyed suddenly, and pointing at him across the table – ‘Great heavens, man – I’ll tell you something else instead. Should have told you sooner, but I forgot. You’re to receive the U-boot-Kriegsabzeichen for making yourself as useful as you did on that occasion.’

  The chimp’s small, round eyes had begun a rapid blinking. ‘You serious?’

  ‘FdU told me, last evening. In all that rush, I clean forgot. They’re giving me a Krieger Verdienstredaille First Class in Silver. Much more than I deserve, but since by some fluke or misjudgement I already have the Kriegsabzeichen, they probably felt obliged to cough up something grander.’

  ‘I’d say every bit deserved.’ Monkey’s narrow, hairy paw extended: ‘Congratulations!’

  ‘Same to you.’

  ‘Result of your recommendation, I suppose?’

  ‘Well.’ A shrug. ‘One gives ’em the gist of what went on and who did what, that’s all.’

  ‘Anyway, I’m very much obliged.’

  ‘Please your old father, won’t it?’

  ‘I’ll say it will. My God, the Kriegsabzeichen! I’ve always hoped for it, begun to think too damn late now, missed the bus!’

  Neureuther rolled to the edge of his bunk, reached to shake first Otto’s hand then the engineer’s. ‘My heartiest congratulations. Mind you, after this trip – why, heavens above—’

  ‘Krieger Verdienstredaille First Class in Gold, no less – for all of us!’

  Laughing. Otto thinking that Franz Winter might get something of that kind. If anyone got anything, except dead.

  But – not necessarily. Winter, when sane, did know his onions, and had an experienced, well-trained crew – whom incidentally he wouldn’t be taking into this if he didn’t think he had a reasonably good chance of bringing them back out of it.

  At least, one might sincerely hope he wouldn’t.

  ‘Von Mettendorff.’

  Speak of the devil: Winter, looking around and summoning him from the chart table. A jerk of the head: ‘Take a look at this.’

  Chart of the North Sea, its upper western edge showing the east coast of Scotland from Berwick to Duncansby Head and the Orkneys, with U201’s track pencilled on it, transferred to it from the point at which she’d dived this morning at 0830 – by dead reckoning fifty-five-and-a-half degrees north, four degrees forty minutes east – and extended northwesterly at the dived speed of six knots to a new DR for 1600, four p.m.

  ‘We’ll surface then, or perhaps as early as three-thirty. Up to periscope depth three forty-five, say, surface by four. Your watch then – right? So – 420 revs and a running charge one side, say fourteen knots average over sixteen hours and diving at 0800 – here. Full day’s run at six knots, again 0800 to 1600, call that another fifty miles. This time tomorrow, therefore, we should be ten or twenty miles short of Duncansby Head, but I’ll take a squint up top at about two, for shore bearings, a good fix, and adjust course here – between the Head and the Skerries – in order to pass between Swona and Barth Head. Fixes by periscope then – we’ll be close enough and still have daylight.’

  ‘Into the Flow well before midnight, then.’

  ‘Well – sooner, but not rushing it, exercising economy with the battery, since it’ll be lower than I’d choose by then. Can’t be helped, there’s no way we can get in there with the battery well up, as I’d very much prefer. Ideally, to have it right up. But look here, now…’

  He’d transferred the last DR position from the North Sea chart to the Scapa one, which he’d had underneath and now pulled out and spread on top.

  ‘See. Skerries to starboard, then Brough Ness, and inside Swona here—’

  ‘Gap of about two sea miles.’

  ‘If that. And tide rips to watch out for. Very careful periscope fixing therefore, and passing closer to Swona than to Barth Head on a course of about 345. But – well, from that point midway between Duncansby Head and the Skerries to – here, Hoxa Head – that’s less than ten miles. So we can come down to as little as, say, three knots, if the tides permit – in the int
erest of saving amps. It’ll be good and dark by then, of course, but at such close ranges’ – Winter glanced at Otto – ‘given weather conditions no worse or not much worse than they are now – huh?’

  ‘You wouldn’t think of breaking through on the surface – if it’s that dark and did blow up to a gale?’

  ‘No. The Sound of Hoxa here’ – his pencil-tip touched – ‘which is our true point of entry – see, only a mile wide, and they have searchlights and gun emplacements both sides – on Hoxa and Stanger Heads. And logically, along this coast. One thing to be glad of is we don’t have to concern ourselves with mines – the British are using this entrance pretty well every day, FdU’s Intelligence reports show – and he impressed on me that dived entry’s our best chance.’

  ‘Settles it, then.’

  ‘In point of fact, there was a boom – buoys supporting anti-submarine nets – here, between Flotta and Hoxa. But that’s been removed. That’s positive information derived from recent Zeppelin reconnaissance. Guns and searchlights only now.’

  ‘And after Hoxa Head?’

  ‘Off that headland we’ll come round from 345 to 040 – here – two-and-a-half miles on that, then 020. Half a mile of that, and we’re damn well in. Huh?’

  ‘That’ll be the moment.’

  ‘It will, won’t it. I’ll come round from 020 to – well, 340, say. Another two-and-a-half miles – by log, playing safe as far as periscopes are concerned – were in the middle and – see this sounding – forty metres? As good as we’ll get. Bottom, and wait for daylight.’ Throwing down the pencil, turning to stare at him: ‘Any reservations, or alternatives to propose?’