by Luke Duffy
“What about Bobby and the others? Should we go after them?”
Stan shook his head. The enemy were too strong in numbers and they had much more firepower. The team had used up most of their strength and weaponry in order to break contact. Charging forward now would be futile and would only result in them all being killed, but Stan very briefly considered the idea.
He was tired, and the struggle of surviving from one day to the next while his team steadily dwindled around him was bringing him to the point where he no longer cared and began to welcome death. He looked around. Taff was still by Danny’s side, speaking to his lifeless body in a whisper and still clutching his hand. The veteran was crouched beside Gerry, who still remained virtually unresponsive. Sitting amongst the long grass that flanked the track, Richard, the aging engineer, rested with his back to the embankment, shaking and clutching his puny handgun close to his chest.
At the end of the line was Paul, the communications soldier from the command centre. He remained crouched, keeping his head low and avoiding giving their position away as he kept a watch on the enemy troops to the east. He turned to Stan, his face and his eyes betraying his shock and fear. His features were smeared with dried blood, and his uniform looked tattered, making him appear more like a veteran member of the team. Stan nodded to him, and the young man nodded back, confirming that he was okay, and willing to do whatever was necessary in order to stay alive. He looked shaken, but it was clear that he was far from broken, despite it being his first taste of battle.
“What do you think?” Bull asked again. “We’re low on options, Stan, and it’s only a matter of time before another unit turns up, or worse, one of those fucking Apaches comes along to knock our dicks into the dirt.”
“Not exactly formidable, are we, eh?” Stan joked sadly as he turned back to Bull. “Gerry’s nothing more than baggage, Richard’s shaking like a Parkinson’s patient, and the rest of us are down to fuck all ammo.”
He leaned forward and rose to his feet. He stepped out on to the track and checked in both directions. From the east, there was still some sporadic gunfire as the nervous soldiers fired into shadows and swaying bushes, but there was no real command and control with someone seizing the initiative and pursuing the fleeing men.
“We may as well take advantage of this gang-fuck,” Stan finally announced as he began to creep along the track and towards the shore. “Prepare to move.”
Taff had ensured that Danny’s body would not reanimate. With a final farewell to his friend, he followed on after the others, taking up his position at the rear of the team as they headed towards the sea. He regularly glanced back over his shoulder, watching for the enemy, but more than anything, checking on Danny’s body. He did not like the idea of leaving him there, but they had no other choice. They still needed to make it to the western harbour and carrying his friend’s corpse along with them would only slow them down. Dragging Gerry and Richard over the next two kilometres was going to be a task in itself.
“I’ll see you, mate,” Taff whispered as they dropped from sight and followed the steep path that led down onto the stony beach.
The going was tough. Each and every member of the small band of survivors was physically and mentally worn out. They trotted along the ever shifting shale beneath their feet, their speed severely hampered by the terrain and the fact that they were needing to drag Gerry along with them. The man had to be pushed, pulled, and shoved. During one of their frequent and frustrating halts, Stan considered leaving him behind, maybe even putting a bullet through his head. It was Taff that convinced him to do otherwise. Exhausted, the team trundled on at a pace that was dictated to them by the slowest members.
Richard, although extremely unfit and terrified out of his mind, managed to keep up with the help of the veteran. It was the angry threats and shoves from Kyle, reminding the old engineer of what was likely to happen to him if he did not keep up that encouraged Richard to keep going. He coughed and sputtered the whole way, whimpering and groaning at the pain he felt in his legs and chest.
“Just you keep going, old timer,” Kyle growled behind him as he slapped his hand against Richard’s back when he noticed him beginning to slacken his pace. “I’m not fucking carrying you, so you’d better man up and dig in.”
The gunfire and hollers of the soldiers had faded now, leaving the battered survivors in silence except for the sound of the crashing waves close by and the blustering sea wind. They had to keep going, following the low cliffs around towards the west. Stan was in the lead, pounding away at the loose stones beneath his feet as he forced himself forward with Bull close behind, huffing and puffing as he dragged his immense frame along. Despite their exhaustion, Stan was determined to at least reach the harbour. If there was nothing there to use as an escape, then at least he had accomplished his mission.
The cliff face began to drop towards sea level, giving them a view of a number of buildings perched close to the bluffs. They had reached the most western built-up area of the island, a small fishing village with no more than a handful of houses and shops. Around each corner, Stan expected to see the harbour but every time, he was greeted with long stretches of shale and sand with the occasional decrepit hut or stall.
There was no sound or activity in the streets of the village as they passed, keeping themselves hidden by the long swaying dune grass as they attempted to bypass the small urban area. It seemed as though the houses had been evacuated or the inhabitants had taken cover, hiding behind their doors in fear of what would happen to them if they ventured outside. The only things moving were a number of shadowy forms that drifted aimlessly through the deserted roads. The team went unnoticed as they slipped by along the beach to the south and continued away from the village and the wandering corpses that littered its streets.
Finally, after navigating their way around a long outcrop of high ground that stretched out towards the water’s edge, Stan came to a crashing halt. His feet sent up a wave of loose stones as his heels dug deep into the beach’s surface.
“Fucking hell,” Bull grunted as he too came to a stop close behind him.
The others caught up and edged forward when Bull waved to them and pointed towards the harbour that they could now clearly see a few hundred metres ahead of them. They all came to rest beside Bull and Stan, panting heavily and almost at the point of collapse. It appeared that everything that could float had already been commandeered. Every birth was empty, explaining why the village was deserted. Only one vessel remained behind and it was definitely not a fishing boat.
“It’s Werner,” Taff gasped.
With renewed vigour, the seven battered men stumbled forward. They could see figures on the bridge of Werner’s U-boat, and hoped that it was the trusty captain himself, and not members of the invading forces. At that moment, they had no way of finding out, but with nothing to lose, they continued to drive themselves forward towards their only hope of salvation. The men in the conning tower had not yet noticed Stan and his team approaching, and it was not until the bedraggled band of men were no more than one-hundred metres away that the bobbing heads turned in their direction.
Suddenly there was a flurry of activity amongst the group on the bridge. Stan knew that at that moment weapons were being made ready and trained upon them as they limped and staggered towards the floating grey beast. His only hope was that Werner himself was present and keeping his jittery men under control until he had identified the approaching figures. Raising his arms above his head and lifting his face high, Stan began to wave, hoping that someone would recognise him before a burst of machinegun fire cut down the remains of his team.
After a few anxious seconds, a figure in the conning tower began to wave back at him, accompanied by a deep booming voice.
“Is that you, Stan? You may want to get a move on. We’re about to cast off.”
19
As the last of Stan’s men slid into the control room, Werner called down from the bridge, ordering the chief of the
boat to put the electric motors into gear and steer them out to sea and away from the island.
The chief passed on the commands as he eyed the tattered scraps of the team. They fell through the hatch without grace, and landed in a scruffy pile, slumping wherever they could from exhaustion and relief. They were a pathetic sight; far removed from the confident and lively bunch they had been when he and the boat had inserted them into London prior to the counter offensive.
The rest of the crew stared at the group, eying the smears of blood and their tattered uniforms. What stood out more than anything were the burning eyes beneath the grime and beard covered faces of the men. Their eyes shone wildly, like men who were balancing precariously on the rim of insanity and ready to spiral down into a raging chaos, filled with horror and madness. It was clear that the team had been through a lot and experienced too much hardship and suffering.
The chief looked from one to the next as the men sat gasping for breath and groaning with pain and fatigue. There were a few of them that he did not recognise, and a number of familiar faces that he had expected to see were now absent from the group. He did not need an explanation to their whereabouts. The expressions of the men told him all that he needed to know. He looked over at another of his crew and nodded, indicating the worn out and battle shocked men. The young sailor understood what the chief was saying, and disappeared through one of the hatches in the aft bulkhead, reappearing a minute later, his arms laden with bottles of fresh water. The grimy soldiers remaining sprawled or seated upon the deck of the control room gladly and silently accepted the cool fluid, snatching them from the wary looking seaman and gulping them down ravenously.
“Take it easy, boys,” the chief grunted to them. “We’ll get you out of here.”
Up on the bridge, Captain Werner turned to check on their progress as they pulled away from the dock. Normally, he would wait until they were well clear of the harbour and any potentially submerged hazards before starting up the main engines. However, despite the dangers, now was not the time or place for the crew of the boat to be leaning towards caution and following protocol. Ahead of them, far out to sea, a number of smaller ships had broken away from the attacking armada. They were headed for the island, and as yet Werner was unsure if the vessels were coming after him and his boat. He glanced back and worriedly watched the shore as they drifted away from it. At three-hundred metres, Werner’s patience ran out.
“Secure electric motors and switch to both main diesel engines, Chief. Left full rudder and steer to two-one-zero. Both full ahead. Let’s get some depth beneath our belly,” he urgently called down into the voice-pipe.
A moment later, and the whining hum of the electric motors stopped from within the pressure hull, quickly being replaced by the deep mechanical hammering noise of the diesel engines as they turned over and worked their way up through the revolutions. A light vibration rippled through the boat, and a foamy wake began to churn the sea beyond the stern. They were underway and headed for deeper water.
Stan had remained on the bridge. He stood watching the distant ships as they steadily grew larger through a set of binoculars. He could not tell what sort they were, but he could see that they were moving at a steady speed and did not seem to be in any rush to close the distance, and there was still no indication of whether or not the U-boat had been detected. He turned and checked on their progress. By now, they were roughly a thousand metres from the shoreline. He watched the skies above the island, expecting to see one of the many gunships or bombers to appear at any moment and put a swift end to their escape attempt. The skies remained clear for now.
“Chief, pull your finger out, and give me everything you’ve got,” Werner hollered and then raised his own binoculars to check on the advancing ships. He leaned across to Stan. “One’s a frigate, and the other looks like a mine-hunter.”
“Is that a good thing or bad thing?” Stan asked, keeping his binoculars focussed on the two distant shapes.
Werner shrugged and spat over the side of the tower and then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand before returning the binoculars to his eyes.
“Depends on what equipment and who they have on board. We need to get into deeper water before we can submerge. I just hope they don’t get here before that happens.”
“What happens then?”
“You’ve heard the term, ‘cat and mouse’?”
Stan nodded. He understood what Werner meant. However, he was only too aware that he was sailing on a vastly obsolete submarine. The ‘mouse’, in this case, would not be in with even the slimmest of chances.
Compared to modern types, the U-boat was slow and hard to manoeuvre when submerged, with virtually nothing in the way of defence. He remembered Werner bragging about the vessel when they had first seen it, telling them about how state of the art she had been when she was first built. That had been at the end of the Second World War, and technology had since far surpassed the capabilities of the German Third Reich in 1945. Modern anti-submarine weaponry and underwater locating technology would easily deal with the decrepit and sluggish Type-XXI once it submerged.
By now, the U-boat was up to full surface speed of sixteen knots and ploughing through the murky sea, headed south-west into the English Channel and in the general direction of the French coast. The two enemy ships were still headed directly for the Isle of Wight, ignoring or unaware of the fleeing boat. Werner refused to believe that they had not been seen either by the naked eye or on radar. He shook his head and growled. The longer they remained on the surface, speeding away from the smoke shrouded island, the more visibly uncomfortable the captain became.
“What’s beneath the keel, Chief?” he called down.
“Thirty-five metres, Captain,” came the reply.
“Bollocks. It will have to do,” he grunted and turned to the watch-crew. “Clear the bridge. Prepare to dive.”
Within seconds, everyone was inside the pressure hull, leaving just Werner and Stan remaining on the bridge. Thirty-five metres of depth would not leave them much room for manoeuvre, but Werner did not want to chance remaining exposed on the surface any longer. It was then that the two approaching ships abruptly changed their course, swinging their bows around, and headed directly for the U-boat. Within seconds they had increased their speed and were quickly closing the gap. Cutting across the choppy sea, the frothing white moustaches of the bow-waves could be seen glowing in stark contrast to the dark water.
“Down, take her down, Chief,” the captain barked as he hauled Stan through the small opening that led from the conning tower and into the control room. “Be quick, Chief. We’ve got two of them bearing down on us ready to cut us in half,” cried the captain as he began sealing the hatch to the bridge.
“Open all main vents and flood tanks. Switch to electric motors and ahead full. Dive-planes down full. Move, move…” the chief roared to the crew as the captain came plummeting through the hatch and slamming into the deck-plates with a clang.
With alarm bells ringing loudly throughout the boat and the chief barking diving commands, the crew instantly went into action, jumping from one station to the next, turning levers, and twisting valves without so much as a second glance to where they were putting their hands. Stan and his men remained motionless, watching the clean and fresh looking sailors as they nimbly and skilfully handled the submarine and its controls.
A few seconds later, and a long loud hiss joined with a chorus of bubbling growls, indicated that the air had been released from the diving tanks, and that they were now rapidly filling with sea water. Almost immediately, as the helmsman adjusted the angle on the dive-planes and the boat lost buoyancy, the bow of the boat took on a downward tilt. The momentum of the dive increased as the water gurgled around the pressure hull and the conning tower, leaving just the stern poking out from the water as the screws turned rapidly, driving the boat beneath the waves. Fifteen seconds later, as crew and passengers alike clung to whatever they could to prevent themselves from tumbli
ng through the interior as the boat took on a steep downward angle, the chief announced that they were fully submerged.
“Level her out at thirty metres, Chief. Seal all main vents and check all valves.”
There was a sudden and deafening deep metallic crunch, like a gigantic hammer being smashed against the hull. A violent judder rippled through the submarine, throwing men from their feet and tossing them from one bulkhead to the next as the boat rocked and swayed. Screams of pain and fear rang out as the lights flickered off and on. Bulbs burst while pipes and seals ruptured, showering the crew and passengers with glass fragments and cold sea water. Another jolt and the submarine listed heavily to starboard before forcefully swinging back across to port, jostling the men inside as they slammed against the numerous hard surfaces and jutting instruments within the cramped U-boat. A sickening grinding noise travelled the length of the hull, sounding like the claws of an enormous sea beast trying to tear open the boat. In the quivering light contorted faces, freeze-framed in moments of agony and terror, loomed from the darkness and were then quickly swallowed up and exchanged for a new face as the lights went out again and returned a moment later.
The chief was quick to act, knowing exactly what had happened. Hauling himself up from the deck, he seized the helmsman and tore him from his seat, flinging him into the chaos of tumbling men and equipment. He worked frantically at the helm as the boat threatened to burst at the seams around him. Within a few seconds, the boat began to rise from the seabed. As the high-pitched grinding subsided and the boat ceased its swaying motion, a semblance of order was restored by the lightning reactions and expert hands of the Chief Engineer.
“The boat is level at twenty-five metres, sir,” the chief sighed, wiping the sweat from his brow and turning to the heap of sprawled men clustered in the centre of the control room.
