Submerged

by Thomas F Monteleone

  “Man…okay, I hear you.”

  “Let’s deal with it tomorrow, okay?”

  Tommy nodded, hung up his suit in the salon locker, pulled on a sweatshirt. The sun westered across the bay, and the temperatures were dropping pretty fast. Belowdecks, the big Detroit diesels kicked in, and Don leaned on the forward levers as the big crew boat surged through the bay water chop.

  “Hey, c’mon, Dex,” said Tommy. “I deserved what I got from you. No hard feelings, okay?”

  “There better not be…you acted like a complete and total jackass.” Dex reached for a thick turtleneck sweater, pulled it down over his head.

  “Yeah, I gotta agree with him on that one,” said Kevin, not bothering to open his eyes or look up. He said it with a wry grin, which was his usual demeanor, no matter what he was talking about.

  “Okay, okay. Gang up on me, why don’t yas.”

  “Just remember it, okay?” said Dex. “Nobody has any idea how easy it is to die down there. Till it happens.”

  Nobody had anything to add, and to be honest, the silence was just fine with Dex. He needed the break to get himself calmed down. There was a moment back there, if Tommy had pushed him, when it could’ve gotten ugly. He watched the kid break a Bud out of the cooler and go back to the stern rail to drink it by himself.

  Then it was just him and Kevin sitting there.

  “This is the first time he’s ever been on a real wreck dive, right?” said Kevin. “Not the ones that’ve been staked out and marked on maps”

  “Yeah, so what? He’s been on plenty of training dives. He oughta know by now.”

  “I mean, he’s never done the whole drill, with teams and all that. He’s a rook in that regard.”

  “No excuse for his antics,” said Dex. “I’m not sure he should be part of the group after that stunt. “He’s a wildcard.”

  “Okay, just checking…”

  Dex nodded, then changed the subject. He nudged him with his elbow. “I saw a number down there—on the inside of the hatch. 5-0-0-1. You think it might be the designator?”

  “You mean the name? As in U-5001?” Kevin continued to lean back, looking straight ahead as if studying the horizon.

  “Yeah.”

  Kevin sighed. “I don’t know. When Don and I did a quick look on the internet, we didn’t see any numbers that high. Could be a new class or something, right?”

  “Well, it’s obvious it’s different from anything else the Germans ever had.”

  Kevin nodded. “Yeah, that’s true. How about I run it through the network at the lab and I check with some Navy people in DC?”

  “Yeah, definitely. Call me if you get wind of anything on U-5001.”

  “You got it. I’ll check Monday morning.”

  As Kevin moved off to get a beer from the cooler, Dex looked past him to where Tommy was leaning against the rail by himself. Kevin walked right by him, saying nothing.

  It was times like this when Dex could see why people didn’t warm up to Tommy Chipiarelli, why so many people thought he was a loose cannon.

  Which made Dex wonder why he put up with the kid himself. Well, it was no secret Dex saw a lot of himself in Tommy. Certain guys had a streak of weirdness in them that most people could never understand. Weird because it made you look for a challenge, if not trouble, at every turn in the road. Guys like that ended up doing a lot of the jobs nobody else wanted to do—cops, firemen, boomers, and soldiers. Stuff like that. Most of them Dex had known over the years liked their women plenty, but never enough to marry any of them, and they had a knack for doing something that sooner or later kept them from enjoying a nice, restful retirement and reflective, elderly years.

  Death wish?

  Nah. Dex wasn’t big on pop psychology. Nobody wanted to die. But some guys just didn’t seem to be afraid of it. Regular life bored the hell out of them, that’s all. Traditional women, jobs, kids, families, and most of the stuff the rest of society broke their ass to obtain. None of it was all that appealing to guys like Tommy, who was: Get drunk. Get laid. Get your ass in trouble, then get your ass out of it.

  A great life, but Dex was smart enough to realize nothing lasted forever. Too many guys had told him how things start changing real fast once you get past a certain point in your forties. It was funny how it happened—you grew up out of your teens and your body and your mind just kind of slipped into this rhythm, this high-energy routine, and everything seemed to run like a finely-tuned engine. An engine that ran for a quarter of a century without so much as a warranty check. For twenty-five years, you look in the mirror every morning and everything looks the same. Everything feels the same; everything works the same. Nobody can tell if you’re twenty-two or forty-two. And it is simply. Fucking. Great.

  Then one morning, you see some lines around the corners of your eyes. No big deal. But they don’t go away, and they get matched up with a few gray hairs in your sideburns or your mustache or even an errant strand on your chest. That’s your first step onto the slippery slope. At first you don’t realize the lack of friction is so severe, or the angle of descent so steep. You ignore it because you can still drink ten pints of strong ale, pee it out like Secretariat, and top off the night with a couple shots of Jack D. You can still pound your date like a tent peg, wait an hour and do it all over again. You can still fall out of a boat and drop like a sack of cement into a hundred sixty feet of water so dark it could be the ninth circle of hell. You can do it like most guys step into the shower, but then the time comes when your pulse jumps around like it never did, and your breaths don’t seem to come as even. And when you get back to the surface, and you start bending and twisting and contorting your way out of your gear, you start to notice a twinge in a muscle you never knew you had, or a sharp little needle of pain in a joint that goes away faster than you can think to describe it or remember it.

  But it will eventually come back, and it will bring friends.

  Dex smiled. Yeah, that’s the way it started, and some guys did everything they could to fight it, stall it, delay it. Some guys ignored it. Nobody stopped it. And although it hadn’t happened to Dex yet, there came a point when you looked in the mirror and you knew you were no longer going to be confused with being a young guy.

  That’s when you needed to ask yourself what you’re going to do with your new, less efficient and less functional you.

  As for Dex, he had no real clue.

  Chapter Ten

  Bruckner

  Off the coast of Greenland, April 30, 1945

  A giant hand grabbing the boat by its nose, and giving it a few snaps of the wrist.

  That’s what it felt like when the cans detonated on each side and directly above the U-5001. Erich’s knees buckled as the deck heaved upward, flipping him and the rest of the crew into the air toward the bulkheads above them. The steel fittings of the hull had stopped groaning—now they literally screamed as every rivet and weld was being pushed beyond their structural tolerances. Any second, Erich expected the hull to crinkle inward and the cold sea crush them like a sardine tin.

  “Damage?” he said as he struggled to his feet. The deck beneath him, surprisingly, felt more level than before.

  “Not here, Captain,” said the helmsman.

  “Bischoff!”

  The communications man fought to keep his bulky earphones in place as he climbed back into his chair. Reaching for a series of toggles and rheostats on his board, he squinted as if that might force his equipment into a higher level of performance.

  “Nothing, sir.”

  “That was so close,” someone said.

  No one had the nerve to agree or add their feelings. Everyone knew how true it was, and how helpless they all were to do much about it.

  Returning his attention to the dive attitude, Erich joined the men at the helm, now looking less terrified and more resolute. “Can you maintai
n bubble?” he said to the nearest crewman.

  “I think so, Captain. But I must tell you—it is difficult.”

  Erich nodded. His boat and his crew were in trouble. She was not in condition to make the kind of quick maneuvers needed to avoid the enemy during an attack. Until he reached Station One Eleven he could not even attempt any repairs. If he could not make the secret installation, the weather, treacherous coastline, and threat of further detection or attack could combine to make the idea of their survival ever more remote.

  And who knew if the secret Station was intact? Doenitz ordered him to affect “rescue and recovery.” That suggested there was trouble at the secret base.

  “Screws waning, Captain,” said Bischoff. “The destroyer is heading off to starboard. We may have lost him.”

  “Continue to level off,” said Erich. “Hold course. Engines ahead ten percent.”

  Still too early, he thought. The American captain might be playing cat-and-mouse. By breaking off pursuit, north toward the shoreline, the enemy may be trying to set him up, to set a trap into which an unwitting and inexperienced U-boat commander might stumble. Erich was aware of this tactic because he’d been lucky enough to survive it in the past. Many fledgling submariners had not been so fortunate.

  But he had other problems as well. The damage to the diving planes might prove fatal. Despite the claims of the helmsman, Erich’s instincts and highly tuned senses told him the submarine was still experiencing a “down bubble” which meant it continued to angle, no matter how slight, toward the bottom. If he were not able to correct for this descent, the U-5001 was doomed.

  There was also the flooded hatch compartment, which would need addressing.

  In order to maneuver the 5001 through the undersea cavern entrance to Station One Eleven, he would need his boat responding smoothly. Considering his options, he worked through the most obvious ploy first—reduce the weight in the bow.

  “Herr Fassbaden,” he said to his friend, who had been standing at the ready. He was enough of a veteran seaman to know to remain silent until addressed when conditions were so critical. They now spoke in hushed tones.

  “Yes, Captain…”

  “If we had clear passage to aft torpedo room, we could move the bow fish to the rear of the boat—reducing our weight.”

  “No way to do that now.”

  “So,” said Erich. “I think we must fire off some bow torpedoes, then move the bow crew to amidships, do you think…?”

  “It might work,” said the Exec. “They cannot, of course, be allowed to detonate. They will need to be disarmed. The action is severe.”

  “In addition, if we survive this current situation, we will have less firepower out in front.”

  “That is correct, Captain. But I also know it is a choice of damned if we do not, and slightly less damned if we do.”

  Erich grinned. “Well said. I say we do it. Now.”

  “You want me to take care of it?”

  “Yes, I do. After I inform the crew personally.”

  Snapping off a salute, Fassbaden turned to head forward, when Erich stopped him with a slight touch of his sleeve. “I almost forgot, with all the other things happening—what about that troublemaker, Liebling? Did you get him out of that aft torpedo room?”

  Fassbaden shook his head. “There was not enough time. We came under attack, and—”

  “I understand. However, the longer those men remain cut off, the more of a potential problem that man becomes. That is not a good situation for someone who may be unstable in a crisis.”

  “I agree, Captain.”

  “Have Massenburg stay in touch with the aft gunnery officer by tube.”

  “Kuykendahl, from the U-387. A good man.”

  Nodding, Erich remembered the man as soon as Manny mentioned his name. “I will want to know if things worsen down there. I want Kuykendahl to know he has my permission to take whatever measure is necessary to maintain order.”

  “I understand,” said Fassbaden. “I will inform the Chief Warrant Officer.”

  “Very well,” said Erich. “Then meet me in the bow. We have some fish to unload.”

  After Manny left the control deck, Erich briefed his men on the plan. No one replied, nor hardly looked at him or one another. They all knew the gravity of the situation. You did not dump your torpedoes unless things were desperate, and they all knew this. Erich saluted them, and turned to leave the deck.

  “Herr Ostermann, you have the con,” he said.

  As he walked forward, he passed the galley where Hausser, the cook, was peering out into the central corridor.

  “Everything all right, Captain?”

  “Of course, seaman. Return to your station.”

  “Yes, Captain.” Hausser looked young, but there was an air of confidence about him. Still leaning past the threshold to the kitchen, he stared at his commanding officer. Then he spoke in a direct manner Erich both noticed and admired. “But, could I have a word with you first?”

  “Quickly.”

  “Herr Fassbaden informed me I would be getting an ‘assistant,’ and I should be watchful of him.”

  “That is correct.”

  “I know this fellow, Liebling. He is trouble, Captain. But I am here to tell you—he will not be trouble for me. I would gladly do…whatever might be necessary…to keep this boat safe from the likes of him.”

  As he said this, the young cook let his index finger and thumb gently touch the handle of the large knife tucked into the belt of his apron.

  Erich nodded. “I understand, seaman. Thank you for your concern.”

  “Aye, Captain.” Hausser snapped off a crisp salute, stepped back into the galley.

  Returning the salute, Erich headed forward along the corridor. Despite his grave concerns, he felt good knowing he had crewmen like Hausser. As he walked along, he imagined the young cook burying his knife in the chest of the hothead Liebling. Such horrific thoughts did not please him. He knew plenty of men who not only welcomed the gruesome demands of warfare, but actually hoped for it. Erich had always suspected his own father had succumbed to a touch of such madness. While not craven, the elder Bruckner had always recounted his personal wartime experiences with just a little too much relish for Erich’s sensibilities.

  He would do whatever necessary to retain the honor of his military office, but he did not have to like it. There was much men needed to do in their lives that proved distasteful. The real heroes were the ones who recognized the horror and who never surrendered to its call.

  Reaching the bulkhead door to the bow torpedo room, he opened it with a series of practiced moves he could have done in his sleep. In addition to the heavy, combined scents of sweat and burned tobacco, he was greeted by expressions of shock on the faces of the nearest two crewmen, and they appeared almost comical as they tried to stand at attention. The four remaining men, including Gunnery Officer Neil Schlag, quickly turned and saluted Erich as soon as they realized the identity of their unannounced visitor.

  “Captain,” said Schlag, trying to appear calm and in control. “Is there something wrong?”

  “At ease,” said Erich. He directed his gaze at Schlag, a thick-chested man with a heavy blue-black stubble of beard.

  “Aye, Captain,” said Schlag.

  “We have some work to do.”

  As the men gathered around, Erich detailed the procedure to be followed to dump as many torpedoes as needed to bring up the bow. He was especially careful to emphasize the need for caution. Before any of the fish could be fired, they would need to be disarmed and their targeting mechanisms disabled. The history of the submarine contained far too many chronicles of vessels being hit and sunk by their own torpedoes. Such things could happen—ranging from human error, to a mechanical malfunction, to dumb, bad luck—and there were definite precautions to perform to prevent them.
<
br />   “Our main objective is to get as much weight out of the bow as possible…as quickly as possible,” he said. “You must work fast, but you cannot sacrifice safety for speed.”

  “You can rely on us,” said Schlag. He was a tough-looking character who’d worked as a bouncer in a Munchen cabaret before the war. An ugly scar on the left side of his neck snaked down across his collarbone, and it was so striking, no one ever dared ask how he’d gotten it.

  At that moment, Manfred Fassbaden appeared at the open hatchway. “Herr Schlag,” he said. “I suggest you and I disable the fish personally.”

  “Yes sir,” said the Gunnery Officer. Turning, he began organizing his crew to handle the torpedoes as efficiently and rapidly as possible. Erich stood by long enough to see Manny and Schlag open the first torpedo with pliers and drivers, then carefully remove the magnetic detonator. After they resealed the compartment, two other gunnery mates placed the undersea missile on the conveyor, which fed it into the bow tube. Another crewman clanged the chamber shut and opened the outer hatch to fill the chamber with seawater.

  “Ready,” he said.

  “Launch as soon as possible,” said Fassbaden.

  Schlag nodded, then pulled the fire-control lever. There was a subtle shudder as the torpedo slipped from the tube. The entire operation had taken no more than four minutes.

  No way to know how many torpedoes would do the trick. Erich did not wish to do the calculations on how much time must pass before he would know if his gamble would pay off.

  Chapter Eleven

  Dexter McCauley

  Crofton, Maryland

  After the confrontation with Tommy and the cool-down over a few beers, Dex felt a little better. His advice had been for everybody to go home to their families and relax. Good advice for just about the whole bunch of them—except maybe Tommy and himself. Dex hadn’t had a “family” in so long, he hardly remembered what the word meant. Both his parents had died while he was in the Navy, and both times while he was on duty in some faraway port. He had an older sister, but she was off living her own life, raising her own family, none of whom had much time for “weird Uncle Dex.”