by Stephen Ward
Walking down the hall, Weib emerged into a well-lit working area. At its centre, on heavy duty trestles sat two massive cylinder-shaped objects, roughly four metres in length. These were the torpedoes. Open access panels spread over their surface exposed internal wiring and pipes. The brass propeller gleamed under the bright lights. Over at the far side of the room, a man sat at a highly-angled desk checking the torpedoes over his shoulder and then referring to his papers before making delicate markings. This was Horst who acknowledged Weib as he crossed the room.
“How are the changes we discussed coming along?” asked Weib as he stood a few feet away from the desk so as not to obscure Horst's light.
A moment passed as the other man made a final flourish with his pencil and sat back on his chair. Turning, he faced Weib with a mild look of annoyance. As he did so, something fell from his pocket and hit the stone tiled floor. Weib bent down to retrieve the object finding a brown leather wallet lying open as it landed. Turning it over as he straightened up he saw two small photographs, one of a woman and a young girl, the other of a young man whose resemblance to Horst was striking. As Weib returned the purse, he enquired, “Is that your family?”
“It was,” replied Horst in a harsh tone as he replaced the wallet into his pocket. Quickly reverting back to the original subject, he said “I've finished but this does seem to be a little drastic. We could've just used a standard casing. I mentioned this to those idiots at the start but they wouldn't listen. If they're such experts then why do they need us? What else are they going to change. Next it will need wings!” The man's face began to redden and the vein on his forehead bulged as he continued with a barrage of abuse.
Weib held his finger to his lips as they both knew the room was monitored. It took some time before Horst managed to compose himself. “Weib, this weapon is ready to be deployed. We've done our job. I just want to go home!”
Smiling compassionately, Weib asked, “How long is it since you saw your wife and children?”
Horst's eyes grew sad, “My wife and daughter are dead, killed in an air raid over Fallersleben. My son and I survived as we were at the car factory. I was always there. My work was so important back then. We returned home to discover a smoking hole in the ground where our home had been. After that we had nowhere to go, so we lived, slept and ate in the Drafting room at the factory. I got to see my son turn into one of the best artists I have ever known. Then they dragged me away bringing me here.”
Weib nodded, “Where is he now? Have you heard anything about him?”
Sadly shaking his head, “I haven't heard from Franz since I was brought here but not a day passes that I don't pray that he's safe!”
With a sympathetic smile, Weib placed a hand on the designer's shoulder, “We'll be finished soon. Let's put these systems to the test, make our reports and then we can both return home.” With a nod the men began checking their measurements in silence but with renewed sense of shared optimism. The scratch of Horst's pencil and rustle of paper were soon the only sounds to fill the room as Weib began using a small magnifying lens to peer at the maze of brass tubes inside the casings.
Chapter 47
The needle of the Ford Granada hadn't dropped much below seventy five mph as it pulled into the Ferry Port at Portsmouth. Not an easy feat in town traffic. By the time a kind taxi driver had been persuaded to jump start the car for the price of a few quid, there was just enough time to show their tickets and passports before they were hustled through the heavy gates which slammed shut behind the car. The lines in the marshalling yard were empty and two men directed them straight through the big Customs shed. Four uniformed officers took very little interest as they were ushered through and back into the morning air. Moments later after rounding a bend, a large ramp rose in front of the car. It moved gently as the car drove on, its wheels clunking as they rolled over the gap.
Both Winters and Filmore couldn't help but notice that they were the last to arrive on board and Filmore slumped in his seat with a huge sigh of relief. No sooner had their engine stopped, than a mechanical hum began as the bow doors closed behind them, the bright morning sunshine slowly disappearing as they locked into place.
Squeezing past bumpers and open car doors, they made their way across the blue painted deck to a stairwell,. As they walked, the floor beneath began to gently vibrate. They were under way.
Slightly out of breath, Winters gasped “Well, there's no turning back now, old friend!”
“Oh! I'm not bothered about that yet. Where do we eat?” puffed Filmore.
Laughing, Winters answered, “You ate not too long ago! What are you? A hobbit or some such. Oh come on, a second breakfast, it is!” Despite being small, the ferry was well-equipped, thought Winters noticing a deck plan of Duc De Barnais on the wall. There was, apparently, a Self Service Restaurant forward. As Winters opted for a pot of tea, Filmore tucked into a lukewarm plate of something resembling a full English breakfast. However, he was pretty sure the food was floating on a greasy film of oil and wondered how on earth Filmore could possibly stomach all these meals. He counted himself lucky that Jean had always looked after his welfare carefully but they sometimes forgot that others weren't so comfortably placed.
Raising his gaze from his last forkful of bacon, Filmore asked, “Have you thought of how we'll proceed once we reach Lorient?”
Of course Winters had and he now produced a scrap of paper from his briefcase.
“I think we'd be best splitting up. If you head for the library, I'll hit the town. The pens are used by the French military these days but I still know some people. I sent a telegram to an old colleague before we left the hotel. He's expecting me.”
Filmore sniggered, “Why do I get the dusty bookshelves job when you spent ages getting me away from them?”
“I know, but that's where your talent lies and there must be records somewhere about that sub.”
“I suppose you're expecting her to just come to us and be easy to find!” laughed Filmore.
Winters snapped back, “You could have stayed in your dark little cubbyhole if you didn't want to come. I'm sure that battleaxe of a secretary would have been happy keeping you busy” He slammed his mug down harder than intended and the people at the surrounding tables stared at him in disapproval.
Filmore was surprised, “I'm sorry, Donald. I was only joking, you know.”
“No, it's me. I apologise, old friend,” replied Winters, “I'm so worried that I've dragged you here on a wild goose chase. I mean, for all we know, she could be lying off the shores of Argentina or in pieces in some secret American dockyard.”
The other man gave him a sympathetic smile, “We can still only try. Even if we do find she was destroyed or taken, we can fill in a space in that part of German Military history. Now, go and get me one of those creamy cakes!”
Chapter 48
Huber and Franz Adlar walked together down the side of K2, past the metal blast doors to the far end of the building. Sentries watched from the gun emplacement above the door. The vast wall of concrete rose nearly six storeys darkening the whole area with its shadows. As they reached the cradles just in front of K3, a group of labourers were being escorted to their work detail by six soldiers. They approached the side door followed by Huber and Adlar. A round eyepiece hole slid open, closed and the handle turned 45 degrees allowing the door to swing inwards. The work group passed the guards while Huber and Adlar flashed their identity papers.
The pair then continued on down the dimly lit passageway leading to the inner spaces and bays. Passing through another entry they emerged into the massive bay which spread off in both directions. The gantries suspended from the ceiling were rigged with chairs and calls from workers mingled with the creaks and clangs of industry.
“Today is an important one. Look, Adlar,” Huber pointed at a huge shape hanging from the cranes moving slowly overhead. “The conning tower! In a few hours she'll be watertight and only one week away from sea trials”.
Adlar nodded, he'd only played a very small part in this endeavour but realised how proud Huber must be.
The noise died down save for specific instructions from three foremen, as the tower approached slowly. Guide bolts came closer to their targets. The bay was almost completely packed with workers expectantly watching the joining. Huber had explained that many hundreds had been forced into labour on the docks but Adlar recognised none of them. He realised that almost every man was holding his breath. Tension rose still further as the massive form finally touched down and the guide bolts were knocked into place. A huge cheer rose up from everyone. As workers began to weld the gap, showers of sparks flew as inch by inch the leviathan became watertight.
Two of the welders struggled to penetrate the thicker steel and argued back and forth hitting the surface with hammers and torches. “This weld won't hold and you know it,” growled one.
“And do I care?” replied the other, “It's not me going down in it” He continued to fill in the gap, the slag flattening off as it was hammered into the space.
A large bottle of gas sat behind them, the moisture on its outer casing increasing as sweat formed. Slowly the valve turned. A shiny brass thread appeared, then another. Gradually, the seal was broken as though an invisible hand manipulated it. Oblivious to to the build up of gas, the two workers continued their shoddy work. The hose, which should have been neatly coiled, shifted then lay motionless on the deck once more. The welders stepped back, moving sideways to continue the next joint, their boots stepping into the tubing, inch by inch tangling themselves still further.
Huber watched in awe. The structure's sheer scale was truly breathtaking. He had known she'd be big but absolutely nothing had prepared him for her majesty. Keller would have been so proud. The two men walked slowly along the dockside. Huber's smile growing wider by the second as he prowled the vessel's length.
As they approached the rear of the conning tower, a strange smell reached Huber's nostrils. Familiar, but still taking a moment to put two and two together. Suddenly he saw the large gas bottle on the deck below. “Gas!” screamed Huber pushing Adlar to one side. “Gas!” The workers below looked up at him and, realising what he was shouting, tried to run, but the hoses were now curled tightly around their ankles. They tripped and fell, both of their torches dropping to the ground. The open pilot lights hit the gas and a massive fireball engulfed the rear of the sub. Both Adlar and Huber were thrown backwards, the fireball scorching their skin and singeing their hair. The fire dissipated as quickly as it had started, leaving smoking clothes, ropes and burning flesh.
Helping Huber up, Adlar dusted them both off. “My God!” grated Adlar, surveying the scene. Soldiers and labourers used buckets to douse localised sparks and a medical team could be seen racing from the far end of the pens. Looking up from the charred and smoking remains of the two welders lying amongst the tangle of hoses, one of the medics, out of breath from his dash, was heard to gasp, “What happened?”
“It was a gas explosion,” replied Huber shaking his head “and a poorly serviced welding kit. An accident”
“You mean Sabotage!” growled one of the officers on guard. “You men have seen enough accidents to know that this wasn't one. I'll report to HQ. Rest assured, we'll find the scum who caused this. It was likely one of the French.” Before Huber could argue, the officer saluted and sped off down the dock.
A shout came from below where one of the labourers was investigating the tower for damage. The designers descended the ladder. “What is it?”
“Look at that weld,” hissed the worker pointing at it. Huber was no expert on welding but even he could recognise the poor penetration. “It wouldn't have held and we wouldn't have known in time if this accident hadn't happened.”
Huber nodded his agreement, “Please repair this and report back to me when it's correctly completed.”
Chapter 49
Forrester became aware that although his eyes were open it was still pitch black. He'd lost all sense of time because he had no idea how long the period of unconsciousness had lasted. Slowly regaining his senses, he sat up as his head and sight gradually began to clear. Maybe it had all been a dream after all.
Feeling around and finding his footing, he quickly realised “No such luck!” as he was still in the sub's control room with lights blinking brightly on the panels and an awareness of the soft drone coming from the generators on either side. It soon became apparent that something was different. There was light beyond the bulkhead door leading to the catwalk. It was perfectly illuminated. That meant just one thing – Power. Praying that he'd bumped his head and everything had been imagined, was as maybe, but the trapped mariner was still in this sub and knew that if there was to be any hope of escape he would have to go deeper. Walking past those engines and panels, oblivious to volts and amps which had now spiked above halfway, his eyes stung as he passed into the light. Several blinks later an incredible sight appeared. This was, by far, the most well-lit area and his courage returned, partly because he was able to see properly. The long catwalk was indeed flanked by railings and the roof lined with pipes. Cables had dripped moisture down onto a metal grate, leaving it so slick that he would need to tread warily.
Deciding to take in as much as possible before the lights shorted again, the Commander walked with slow deliberation along the catwalk, carefully checking whatever was above and below. Beneath he could see rack upon rack of torpedoes stacked five high, their black paint faded but still noticeable. He had never seen so many. They lined the full length of the boat on each side. Possibly this was a re-supply sub for other U-boats. Large trolleys sat stationary on rails running up either side. They seemed to feed the tubes at the bow. Forrester remembered a similar arrangement for shells on main battery guns, on older vessels with maybe a primitive automated firing system. Advanced for the time, she would have been a real threat to shipping.
Forrester was fast coming to the conclusion that this was a fully experimental boat. The systems seemed very advanced for the year – automated firing, crude sonar? This didn't explain the intelligence or whatever it was. Further down the catwalk a ladder led to a lower level. He decided it would be best to have a closer look while the opportunity presented itself, so turning backwards, he reached for the first rung and allowed the ladder to take his weight as he descended. The light dimmed slightly and that distinctive hiss started again but Forrester had no intention of stopping now that his investigation was underway.
As he continued downwards, in the poor lighting he became uncomfortably aware of something. This was different. Looming over him was a scruffy, bearded man dressed in blue trousers and a cream seaman's jumper which was worn and greyed. His hat was crumpled and stretched over dark greasy hair. The person didn't say a word but gestured for Forrester to press on. Turning and looking back towards the bow, he caught a glimpse of the other figure which was now moving quickly towards him. It appeared stronger somehow, having no problem moving in the pale light. The sailor stood firm blocking its path and the two seemed to be exchanging words but Forrester could hear nothing. All he was sure of was that the seaman had stalled the suited figure and it would be a very smart idea to make full use of the interruption.
The lighting suddenly reverted to normal and he risked casting a glance to ensure the top of the ladder was clear. No sign of them. Both figures seemed to have vanished. Thank God! Working his way forward he could see the large tubes labelled I II III and IV. All lamps were green and the doors were tightly shut. Forrester's initial hopes were dashed as he realised there was absolutely no chance of escaping through any of the tubes if they were armed. Even if he could clear a tube and fire one manually, who knew where it would hit?
A crackle from overhead became audible but rather than the voice he'd heard earlier, there was, instead, the noise of propellers, the drone and swish quite unmistakeable.
The sound changed, still props but now it sounded cruder, the pitch was different and seemed familiar to the
Commander. Again the sound changed. This time to voices – radio traffic German, American, Italian, and then British. He gasped. He recognised Wood’s voice from the Talisman. The Exercise – it must have begun. Yet again, the lighting dimmed as the figure of the sailor returned. He gestured and nodded at Forrester to calm down. Forrester could see his lips moving, “I can't hear you. What are you trying to tell me?” he stammered.
Impatiently, the sailor pointed at an adjacent panel. A red light began to flash in a sequence. Forrester realised it was SOS – Morse Code.
“Yes. Now I understand.” The figure nodded and the light began to flash again. Forrester's morse was rusty but he was managing. 'I…. HELP…. NO…. FEAR'
The figure looked tired. The light resumed 'ONLY…. ONE…. AFT…. CAPTAIN…. STEIN'
Forrester nodded and said, “Captain Stein” and pointed at the sailor. “I'm Commander Forrester.” They nodded politely at each other. “But One Aft....what do you mean?”
Before the Captain had chance to answer, the lighting turned red and he disappeared. The lights on the fire control turned red and then back to green. As the door lights turned to white; he heard a rushing sound from the tubes and the radio traffic became clearer. Then an even louder voice hissed, “Help if you must, but I will do what you couldn't do.”
Puzzled, the Commander shouted, “What do you mean?” There was another rush of air and Number I tube turned red. Impossible! How could it fire, and worse, “What the hell is it firing at?”
A stopwatch on the wall began to count. The torpedo was running! Seconds later a massive muffled explosion rocked the sub. The calls on radio traffic turned to pleas for help with American voices, clear as a bell, requesting aid and calls for “Mayday! Mayday!”
