by Stephen Ward
With a rumble and a squeak the ancient diesel started sending vibrations through the deck. As he throttled the little boat in the direction of the harbour, it seemed a long distance to land, and even further away from the hulk which had no power, so he decided he had better hurry.
The coastline came into view slowly. Moorhouse's attention turned to the problem of what he was going to find that could possibly tow something that was so large that even the tenders on the Talisman would have struggled. If he'd been back in Plymouth he could have pulled in some favours but being in France, his options were limited. Deep in thought he stared at his eventual destination. Racking his brain for a solution he wondered who'd be crazy enough to help him and still keep his mouth shut. Tourists would be all over it quicker than a flash and who knew what was within that steel tomb. He just hoped there were no remains or he'd be working late.
Just then he had a thought. It was a long shot but his only option. This was going to cost him big time but at this point he just needed a boat. GéGé, of course! He lived on an old tug moored in the worst possible area of the dockyard. If anything could move that submarine, that lugger could. Although to be honest, it had seen better days, and under normal circumstances, Moorhouse would've felt safer on the sub. His mind made up, he steered the boat in the general direction of the far marina. The quality of the boats that lined the quays dramatically decreased and Moorhouse wondered how many of them managed to stay afloat. GéGé was going to be difficult to convince. He was a jovial Parisian who enjoyed his wine but the last time they had met a poker game had left GéGé a little short as Moorhouse had cleaned up leaving old GéGé with only the clothes on his back. As he rounded a corner past a half sunken trawler, he could see a large black tug with a red plimsoll line. The French Ensign of red, blue and white flew from the back of the scruffy looking vessel. Yes, this was it. A short, deeply-tanned man could be seen painting the rail with a small paintbrush.
“Bonjour,” shouted Moorhouse. The man looked up and then went back to his painting. This didn't look so good. With a bump Moorehouse manoeuvred the fishing boat against the jetty and turned off the engine. Grabbing the bowline he jumped onto the worn wooden boards and tied it around the pile, then walked over to the ladder stretching up to the deck of GéGé's boat.
A voice came from above, “Moorhouse. What the hell are you doing here?”, his French accent making it difficult to understand. Just as he was about to step onto the bottom rung, the ladder began to rise slowly with a screech of an old pulley somewhere out of sight.
“What do you want, Moorhouse? You're not welcome here.”
He had expected this. “Oh, don't be like this, GéGé. You can't blame me for all your bad luck.”
GéGé snorted, “You don't play fair. You marked the cards. I know. I'm not so stupid as you think!”
Laughing, Moorhouse answered, “You mad Frenchman. Those were your cards. Have you been drinking?”
GéGé stopped the ladder rising and came to the edge of the rail, “You still didn't play fair and you didn't give me a chance to win my stuff back.”
“If we'd carried on playing, I'd have ended up being the owner of this fine luxury vessel,” Moorhouse teased.
“Fuck you, Moorhouse. What do you want?”
“I want your boat. I need to borrow it for an hour or so.”
GéGé snorted again. “Does it look like it is for hire? This is my home!”
“Well, it was a long shot,” groaned Moorhouse. “I didn't think it was able to move anyway.” He turned to walk away.
“Hey you! She can move and outrun that shiny ship you call your home.”
Moorhouse grinned. He had baited GéGé and now he had bitten. “Well, prove it to me, GéGé. I need you to tow something into port for me from just outside the breakwater.”
“Why would a British officer need me to pull something in for him? You've plenty of heavy machinery at the port.”
Moorhouse turned and raised his eyebrow, “Let's just say it has nothing to do with the Royal Navy. I have a friend who's in trouble and I need you to help me to do this without too many people being involved.”
“What's it worth to me?” shouted GéGé. Moorhouse paused, then he lifted his arm and pointed to a gold watch. “Remember this? If you help me I'll cover fuel costs and you'll get your watch back.”
These was a pause from on deck, then the screech recommenced and the ladder began to lower. Seconds later, Moorhouse arrived onboard the tug. “I guess we have a deal, GéGé?”
Shaking Moorhouse's outstretched hand, GéGé said, “Oui. But no tricks.”
“No tricks, GéGé. You have my word.” He unclipped the watch and handed it over. Reaching into his back pocket he pulled out his wallet and produced five fifty franc notes. “I trust this will pay for fuel?”
GéGé grabbed the money and placed it into his jeans pocket. “Very good, mon ami. Now what are we towing?”
“Nevermind that. You'll find out soon enough!” Gesturing towards a small door aft of the bridge, Moorhouse asked, “Shall we see if she runs?”
A few moments later Moorhouse found himself in a cramped engine room. In front of them, the large twin diesels looked surprisingly clean. “This would be the main breaker panel for the fuel heaters. Am I right? Ah and this is the pump primer,” he asked.
“I'm impressed, Monsieur,” nodded GéGé.
“I haven't always been a doctor,” laughed Moorhouse.
GéGé grinned, “How do you say in English, a pirate?
Moorhouse beamed in delight. He clicked some switches then tapped a large gauge and a hum broke the silence. Another gauge showed the temperature rising until the needle sat within the green zone. “Shall we try this?” asked Moorhouse.
GéGé pressed a button on the far panel and at the same time passed Moorhouse a fire extinguisher. “You have to be kidding me?”
“Hey! she is my houseboat. Just keep a look out.”
A whine and a splutter followed. Nothing. Then another whine and splutter, faster this time. Then the massive engine shuddered and the whine turned into a cough and finally the engine fired with a roar. After a few more moments the noise abated to a continuous drone. The two men climbed a ladder and emerged into the wheelhouse. Outside the stack belched black smoke and the deck hummed and shook.
“I'm sure your neighbours love you, GéGé!”
GéGé, now very excited and proud turned to him, “Well, I tend to start up at night, mon ami,” and began to bellow La Marseillaise.
“Er, I'll get the lines,” grimaced the other man heading out onto the deck.
The rumbling diesels pushed the large tug down the deep water Channel. It was tight. The sun was getting low in the sky as they made their way into open water. The sea was calm but that could change. It was vital that they reach Forrester before night fall and it certainly wasn't a good idea to be in one of the busiest shipping lanes with no lights or engines.
GéGé beckoned for Moorhouse to come into the wheelhouse. “I think i's time for me to know what we'll be towing. I've only a few ropes on board.”
Moorhouse knew that he couldn't keep GéGé in the dark any longer. “GéGé, it's a submarine. Forrester and I found it while we were fishing a few miles past the breakwater.”
“That's a hell of a catch but where is Forrester?”
“He boarded the sub. I came to find something to tow it.” said Moorhouse with a worried expression. “She's big, GéGé. We should be able to see them as we round the far edge of the breakwater.”
“You're crazy leaving him aboard a submarine that someone just left drifting.”
“No, GéGé. It wasn't drifting. It's been down there a long time. It just surfaced while we were fishing. God, I hope he's okay.”
After an astonishingly slow half hour the tug rounded the corner. Moorhouse scanned the horizon with binoculars. Nothing. Not a thing. Where the hell could it be?
“Are you sure it wasn't you who was drinking, mon ami? I don't
see any submarine.”
Minutes passed while the two men scanned the skyline in all directions. The sun was inches off the horizon. The current wasn't very strong so they couldn't have been too far away. Just then something small and black came into view far off in the distance. Moorhouse barked a direction and GéGé reacted accordingly. After five minutes the boat was stopped and Moorhouse left the wheelhouse to look over the side. His heart sank and his eyes closed. It was seconds before he could believe what he had seen. He remained transfixed as GéGé pulled a large boat hook from the wheelhouse wall and began to fish over the side.
“I'll need a hand,” he said quietly. Together they pulled and tugged until they managed to drag the black rubber mass onto the deck. It was the dinghy that Forrester had used. A large slice had punctured it along its length. Only the bottom section had retained air.
Moorhouse sank onto a pile of crates, his head in his hands.
Chapter 15
Keller switched on the light of his hut and sat on the corner of his bed. Untying his shoes he placed them together in readiness for the next day. As he began to unbutton his waistcoat he noticed that the small alarm clock read a few minutes before three. He was desperate for some sleep but problems from work continued to play on his mind.
Opening his wardrobe he pulled out a large box and placed it on the foot of the bed. Unbuckling three large leather belts which held the box closed he removed a large brass horn. Putting this to one side, he removed the other half of the top and attached the horn. The old gramophone was a wonderful, nostalgic reminder of happy times when he and Sabine had first danced to music playing on this machine. It was before Petra was born, carefree days and picnics by the river. Selecting a worn sleeve Keller removed a record from it and wiped off a thin layer of dust. Placing the record on the turntable he then cranked the handle and with a crackle the stylus dropped down. Moments later a sweet familiar sound filled the room and in an instant he was reclining in his comfortable chair with the sounds and smells so reminiscent of home flooding his mind. Coming back to his senses the grim reality of the dingy hut only heightened his terrible homesickness. It was not to be borne! Settling down in front of his desk he pulled some paper from the drawer and began to write My Dearest Sabine,
As I write this letter the days weigh heavily on me and I can find solace only in the fact that I will see you very soon. I fear that I have begun something that I may be unable to deliver and that my ambitions have put myself and others at grave risk. This undertaking must work but it is so difficult and I can't even tell you the nature of what I am tasked with. Feeling as I do, I felt the need to reach out to you tonight. Remember that I love you both very dearly and count the days until I can hold you in my arms …
As the bells of his small alarm clock sounded with a shrill clatter from the bedside table, Keller lifted his head from the desk, the half finished letter to his wife lying before him. He glanced over his shoulder at the clock – five minutes past five. Just then there was the click of a lighter and a familiar smell of cigarette smoke from the corner of the room.
“You're going to be late, Keller” said a voice. “You need as much time as possible. How can you sleep at a time like this?” Richter sat there, the cigarette glow lighting his chiselled features. A Luger pistol sat on the arm of the chair next to him. Holding up the photograph frame containing the picture of Sabine and Petra, he smiled, “Very pretty. You are a lucky man, Keller.”
“I thought you were in Germany, sir,” stammered Keller.
“I make it my business to be everywhere. You're running out of time. I would be working around the clock to make sure the task at hand is completed. After all, we wouldn't want anyone to be disappointed now, would we?” sneered Richter. “I'm watching you, Keller.” Rising to his feet the man replaced the photograph to where he'd found it. His other hand was behind his back as he paced slowly towards the desk. “You will become motivated I trust, or I'm sure I can devise a suitable reason for you to become so.”
Something in the way he spoke made Keller's blood run cold. At the same time, he felt a rising tide of anger as sweat began to bead on his brow. Rising stiffly from his chair, he faced Richter. “I don't like your tone. If you're threatening me that's fine, but no one threatens my family.” Keller lunged at Richter but without any effort at all the officer stepped out of the way putting him at a disadvantage, off balance and half fallen across his bed. Richter grabbed Keller's arm, forcing it up behind his back. A cold sweat ran down his spine as behind his ear he heard a click of the unmistakeable precision of the pistol.
“You aren't the only boat designer, Keller. Your mistake is in thinking that you're the only one who can pull this project off. You're wrong. After all, we have your designs and I have Huber. Goodbye, Keller. I'll make sure Sabine and Petra are well taken care of.”
At that moment, Bang and pain. “Is that it? Am I dead?”
The insistent clamour of bells filled the room from the small alarm clock on his bedside table. The clock read five minutes past five. Keller woke to find himself on the floor with his bedclothes tangled and a sore head. He rose to find his clothes neatly piled at the foot of his bed and a sealed letter sitting on his desk. An almost empty bottle sat beside it.
He remembered now but the dream had been so vivid! “My God,” he thought. Richter really was inside his head. Splashing his face at the wash stand, he made up his mind that no matter what, this boat would be completed. Pulling on his clothes and flattening his hair, he decided there was no longer any time to lose so shaving could wait. Kissing his finger and pressing it onto his precious photograph, he walked out of the door.
Chapter 16
Forrester rowed away from the old fishing boat, the waves lapping around the rubber raft. Ahead of him he could see the sinister-looking hulk. The craft's diesel engine idled and then lessened as it fell astern. All he could hear was the splash of his paddle and the ocean. His heartbeat increased with anticipation the closer he got. The sheer scale of the sub was unbelievable. An impressive conning tower stood high out of the water like a menacing wall of steel with its plates covered in a thick overcoat of rusty brown-stained fishing nets. Jagged holes edged with decay were on every port. How could she possibly still be airtight? A sudden fear swept over Forrester. What was he doing? An awful fear of being alone seized him as the fishing boat smoked off into the distance. “Get a grip, Forrester” he told himself. This was a chance to prove his true worth to everyone. If he could only bring the sub into port it would look great on his record.
His wife would think he was crazy for doing this, but it would show Wilkes and he could just see the smile on Turnbull's face as they toured the sub together.
Circling the boat he decided to scout her before committing himself further. The one thing he didn't want to do was to fall through a rusted deck and get stuck, or worse. He headed aft towards the stern which towered above. As the sub moved up and down in the water, Forrester could see a torpedo tube door – nothing unusual there. The barnacle-encrusted rudder lay slightly turned to port. Rowing on taking in every small detail that could potentially cause him a problem, he kept his distance so as not to get tangled in the nets or to allow the inflatable to be punctured. After a long check Forrester chose a spot just behind the forward bow plane to moor the raft despite the waves making his approach difficult. Even more awkward was the fact that the plane was stuck in the down position rising and falling in the water spraying white steaming foam. Tying off the raft to what Forrester thought was the most secure point, he carefully began to board. Slowly, hand over hand, he climbed onto the forward deck which seemed surprisingly solid. She looked rough but upon closer inspection, the rust was only on the surface and had not eaten further through the steel. That said, he still avoided the grated sections as he made his way towards the looming deck gun. Enormous multi-coloured fishing nets and line snagged his shoes as he walked. Had this been on the sea floor, it would have been a diver's worst nightmare.
/> The deck gun was still nested on its collapsible mount. The long hollow barrel was surprisingly clean and free of encrustation of barnacles or rust. Surprisingly even the breach steel appeared to be loaded and ready for action. Although having never seen one personally, he'd read a lot about them at the Academy and something told him this was no standard U-boat. As he passed, he stretched out his hand and ran it down the gun barrel. A sudden flash went through his body as he did so and then was gone. A sense of unease followed. Shrugging the feeling off, Forrester continued his journey taking in everything. Lines, markings and even writing was still intact. The sub looked like she just needed a fresh coat of paint and then she'd be ready for patrol.
The conning tower rose just ahead. After what seemed like ages, he came to the foot of some ladder rungs set into the wall of steel looming over him. Gingerly he tested the first rung before committing himself and only then did he begin to climb.
Partially obscured numbers came into focus – UX-505. Wondering about the meaning of the X, as he had never seen that before, he thought it probable that naval historians would be able to sort out its significance.
Reaching the top he ducked his head and slid under the rail. Pausing for a moment he looked around and far off in the distance he could see the small fishing boat carrying Moorhouse just rounding the breakwater near the harbour entrance. He was truly alone now. Keen to miss nothing, he searched the bridge. The large antennae and periscope jutted up like a flagpole behind him and the rails surrounding him were encrusted with sea life but in places the grey paint still stood out as clean as the day she was built. Walking forward he could see the huge expanse of deck before him. Far ahead, the little inflatable bobbed up and down still tied to the plane.
