The pilot pulled at her hand. ‘What the hell’s going on?’ It was a good question. But she said, ‘Don’t worry. It doesn’t mean anything. They’re just having a friendly argument.’
‘Jesus … Can’t they shut up, for Chrissake?’ Julie found a place against the rock and sat down with the pilot next to her. She listened anxiously as the angry voices continued. The pilot was right: it would be a good idea if they shut up. She wondered what on earth they could be arguing about. What could possibly be so important at a time like this? She peered at a man who sat down wearily on the other side of her. She thought she recognised him. She asked softly in French, ‘Who’s that?’ The reply came back, ‘One of us.’ Julie whispered, ‘Can you tell me what’s happening?’ ‘Well, we’re waiting for the boat but … it may be badly delayed by the weather.’ He bent over towards her. ‘In truth, it’s doubtful it’ll come at all …’
Julie’s heart sank. The thought of having to look after her pilot for much longer filled her with despair. She imagined having to lead him up the cliff again. That was bad enough. But then what? Would they expect her to keep the young man with her? To hide him at the house? No, it was impossible! She said to the villager, ‘What happens, then, if the boat doesn’t come?’
‘We all go home – with our guests, I suppose.’ ‘Do they go back to – where they were before?’ ‘I have no idea. You’ll have to ask our leader.’ There was contempt in his voice as he spoke the word ‘leader’, and Julie realised he disliked the man too. She asked, ‘But why’s everyone arguing?’
‘Because the whole thing’s a mess. No-one knows who’s meant to be doing what. Virtually all our helpers are down here on the beach when some should still be up on the cliff. Half say the boat won’t come, the other half want to wait. Our leader is telling all those who want to stay to go and all those who want to go to stay. Marvellous, isn’t it?’ The man spat with contempt.
Julie looked around. The mention of the dreadful man reminded her of Michel’s warning. It had been quite clear. He’d said that the Germans probably knew all about this … If he was right and they did …
God.
She closed her eyes. She was terribly frightened, that was all. Just frightened. And yet … she couldn’t shake off a terrible sense of foreboding. She was certain it was all going to go wrong. It was partly instinct and partly a feeling that nothing could go right while this leader was in charge …
Something had changed. Julie opened her eyes. It was the arguing – it had stopped. Instead everyone was staring out to sea. Involuntarily Julie squeezed the pilot’s hand.
There was a sudden burst of activity. Orders were passed. Three men ran down the beach. Others came along the line and told the waiting passengers to be ready to move. Julie and her pilot stood up. A tall, lanky figure detached himself from Julie’s group and started moving down the beach. A dark figure ran after him and pushed him back against the rock, saying in ragged English, ‘Wait! When I say!’
Julie stared at the line of surf, straining her eyes to distinguish the shadows in the darkness. At first she thought she was mistaken, but then she saw it: the dark shape of a small boat coming through the surf, and then there were men jumping out, two or three of them, pulling the boat up the beach and blending with the men who had run down to meet them. Incredible. The boat had come in spite of the weather. It had not forgotten them after all.
Now four people were being led down the beach. Julie’s pilot said plaintively, ‘Why not me? What the hell’s happening?’
He sounded tearful again and Julie said soothingly, ‘It’s all right. You’ll be next. I expect the boat can’t take everyone at once.’
The shape of the boat showed black against the whiteness of the surf and Julie realised it had been launched again. Dark figures climbed in, a curtain of water rose up as the boat met a wave, and then they were gone, vanished into the night.
Julie wondered how on earth the small boat found the large one in the darkness. She hadn’t seen a single light.
It was twenty minutes before they returned. The pilot kept saying, ‘Christ, they’re not coming back! They’re not coming back!’ And Julie replied, ‘Of course they are. Honestly, I promise they are, I promise.’
And then at last the boat was back and it was time for Julie’s pilot to go. She started to say goodbye but one of the villagers hissed at her, ‘No, you must come too. Now! Come!’
‘What?’ But he didn’t reply and Julie found herself hand in hand with the pilot again, stumbling uneasily down the pebbles towards the water. As they approached the boat two men detached themselves from the waiting group and came towards them.
A man next to Julie said, ‘She’s here, over here.’
The two figures came up and a voice said, ‘Hello, do you speak English?’
Julie laughed nervously. ‘Yes.’
‘Look, there’s this walkie-talkie we’d like to give you. I was trying to explain how it worked. Do you think you could remember a few instructions?’ His voice was very English and upper class: an officer.
‘I’ll try.’ Julie made the effort to concentrate as he handed her the walkie-talkie, a small oblong object which was surprisingly light. The British officer spoke slowly and carefully, repeating everything twice. He spoke about frequencies, range, aerials, batteries, and procedures. Eventually he said, ‘Do you think you’ve got all that?’
‘Yes, I think so.’
‘It’s always best to explain it verbally, but it is all written down as well, on the plate on the side. Look, why don’t you give it a go? Turn it on now and then you can listen to me talking to the MGB and get the idea. Okay?’
‘Yes.’
The officer looked nervously round. ‘Must go now! Bye!’
Julie had a ridiculous urge to ask him to stay for a while, but he was gone, striding towards the boat which was already being pushed down into the water. Julie looked for her pilot, but couldn’t distinguish him among the group of people waiting round the boat. In case he could see her she raised her hand and waved goodbye before walking back up the beach.
When she reached the finger of rock she sat down and turned on the radio. There was a slight hissing and crackling. Then suddenly there was a voice which made her jump.
‘Safely launched and on the way.’
‘Roger.’ The acknowledgement was so clear it sounded as though it had come from a few feet away. Julie listened, waiting for more. But there was nothing, just the hiss of the receiver.
A figure came up beside her and said, ‘Come on! Time to go! Hurry!’
She got to her feet and reached for the button to switch the radio off.
Suddenly a voice crackled, ‘Have run my distance but no visual yet.’
‘Try further west.’
‘Roger.’
Julie waited, mesmerised.
‘Found a rock. Any ideas?’
There was a short silence. A new voice came on, stronger than the one before. ‘Go north, Jimmy, you forgot the tide. And look out for more rocks on the way.’
‘Roger.’
The man at Julie’s elbow hissed, ‘We must go. Come! Come!’
The radio had a strap. Julie hooked it over her shoulder and began to follow the man along the beach, back to the path. She left the radio on. It couldn’t do any harm while they were down on the beach blanketed by the sound of the rumbling surf.
They were almost at the path when the radio crackled again.
The strong voice said, ‘Got you, Jimmy. Turn east, fifty yards.’
‘Roger. Yes, visual now.’
There was a pause, then, ‘Where the hell are you going, Number One?’
‘Avoiding a rock, sir.’
The radio hissed, then, ‘Well, try and avoid the scenic route, will you?’
Reluctantly Julie turned the radio off and handed it to the man who was waiting to push her up the slide, the steep slope immediately above the beach. Another villager was waiting on the path above, ready to pull her u
p.
Halfway up the slope Julie almost slipped and slid back on to the beach again, but then she managed to find a foothold and push herself up until she could reach the hand of the man above. Once on the path the climb was much easier than the descent had been. It felt safer, going up, and her shoes seemed to grip the stony surface better.
As she climbed she felt ridiculously happy. The mixture of fear and elation made her want to laugh. Then she remembered the awful row on the beach and the risks they had all taken and realised it was relief that had made her lightheaded.
As they reached the clifftop, she remembered too that there was still a long way to go. She didn’t think about laughing again until they had crossed the heathland and reached the fields, and her uncle had emerged from the shadows and taken her arm and led her firmly back to the farmhouse: only then did she smile. She suddenly understood why men enjoyed danger so much. She’d never felt so alive in her life!
It took her until dawn to sleep. She heard the clank of the milking pails and the sound of Tante Marie leaving to fetch Peter from Madame Boulet’s before she finally began to doze off.
She kept remembering the scene on the beach and the dark silhouette of the boat against the surf. There was something warm and comforting in the memory, in the sight of the boat and the sound of the voices on the radio. The voices made her feel nostalgic, almost homesick. It had been a long time since she’d heard an English voice.
She remembered her childhood: the school outings to the beach, the occasional walks along the Hoe, the lovely view over the Sound, the chatter of her school friends … Yes: carefree days. She rather missed them.
Then she remembered what had come after. Peter’s father had had a crisp upper-class accent just like the voices of those officers on the radio. Suddenly the memories weren’t warm and comforting any more.
It was stupid to think about home.
There was no going back. There never would be.
But, even as she fell asleep, the nostalgia remained.
Part Three
1942-February 1943
Chapter 15
FISCHER FELT HIS eyes begin to close and, blinking rapidly, pulled himself quickly upright. He moved to the other side of the conning tower and stared out into the murk.
Not far now. They were well into the Bay – or as it was called by the lads, the Black Pit. Fortunately it was living up to its name this morning: it was a filthy day. A southwesterly gale was blowing, it was overcast and visibility was down to no more than a mile. Perfect cover for a submarine.
The weather was also bitterly cold, but Fischer didn’t mind that either: nothing could be as cold as the place they’d come from.
It had been one of the longest patrols they’d ever been on. They’d gone up almost as far as Greenland – a hundred miles short of it, to be precise. And then they’d waited. It was so cold that the boat had iced up every few hours. They’d had to half-submerge then, to get the guns underwater and melt the ice off them. Not that the seawater was exactly warm, but it was just above freezing and that was all that mattered.
The wind hadn’t been kind either: it had blown a gale or more almost the whole time. Conditions below had been worse than normal, and that was saying something in a Type VIIC. The accommodation had been running with water, both from the terrible condensation and from the waves that inevitably slopped down the conning tower hatch. The men had put up with the damp and the discomfort with their usual good humour. The only time Fischer had heard rumblings of discontent was during a storm when, instead of diving to escape the pounding and rolling, he’d been forced to keep U-319 on the surface to watch for a convoy. A lot of the crew had got sick and after six hours few except Fischer cared whether they ever found any targets or not.
They didn’t find the convoy that day. Somehow Fischer had known they wouldn’t. But he’d been ordered to watch for it, so watch he did.
It was four days later when they eventually found a target. It was a small convoy – only ten ships and one tanker – and well escorted by two destroyers. Fischer made contact with the other U-boats in his pack and they closed in. It was a disappointing fight: Fischer had just lined U-319 up for the tanker when the destroyer suddenly came straight for them and they were forced to dive. The ship dropped a few depth charges and by the time Fischer had got U-319 away and surfaced the convoy had got well ahead. It took him two hours to manoeuvre back into position; even then he managed to fire only two torpedoes before the destroyer was on to him again. And what was worse, the torpedoes had missed – at least there had been no sound of an explosion. It was all very unsatisfactory.
They did manage to find another convoy and sink two small ships before they ran out of torpedoes. But two ships was a poor tally and Fischer couldn’t decide whether he’d suffered from bad luck, poor intelligence, or a simple lack of convoys. How did one ever know?
One thing was certain though: targets were not as easy to come by nowadays. He remembered the autumn of 1940, The Happy Time, it was called, when it was easy to sink eight, maybe even ten ships on a single patrol. Now, in this January of 1942, nothing was easy.
There was always something that conspired against such achievements: the weather, the convoy escorts, Allied air cover, something …
Maybe the debriefing would shed some light. It wouldn’t be long now …
Fischer glanced at his watch and saw that it was almost 0800. Time to get some sleep. He nodded to the second watch officer and climbed down to the attack room below.
The Leitender – the Chief – and two of the technicians were crouched round the periscope which was in the raised position despite the fact they were on the surface.
‘Still having trouble, Chief?’
‘Yes, Herr Kaleu. Hydraulics leaking somewhere. Haven’t much chance of locating the fault before we get in, I’m afraid.’
Fischer nodded. There was always something. He asked, ‘Can we raise it manually?’
‘Oh, I can still give you hydraulic power, but a bit slower, that’s all. I’ll just have to keep topping up the oil. Don’t worry, Herr Kaleu, you’ll have your Spargel.’
Fischer smiled. Spargel meant asparagus; it was their nickname for the periscope. They had an abbreviation or nickname for most things – even himself. They called him Herr Kaleu, short for Kapitanleutnant. Emblems of authority were favourite targets: they had nicknamed the swastika Wollhandkrabbe, after a particularly unpleasant freshwater crab.
Fischer removed his wet weather gear and climbed down into the control room, wondering if the periscope would ever get fixed properly. Half the repairs carried out in the dockyards never held up for very long and broke down at the worst possible moments. They were still having problems with one of the hydroplanes and that had been going on for three patrols now.
Fischer automatically glanced round the control room before making his way forward to what was politely called the commander’s cabin. It was in fact nothing more than a tiny recess with a curtain across the front of it. Still, it was an awful lot better than his men got. Fischer had heard that the British submarines were quite luxurious, with one bunk to each man. Here on the Type VIIC most of the lower ranks slept where they could, in hammocks or on the floor or between the torpedoes. They were allowed hardly any possessions, just a clean set of underwear and a few odds and ends.
Fischer supposed the whole boat must stink by now, but they were all so used to the intertwined smells of lavatories, diesel and sweat that nobody noticed.
When Fischer reached his cabin he paused only to hang up his cap before lying down and closing his eyes.
He never had trouble getting to sleep and when he was dog-tired as he was now it was that much easier. And the sleep when it came was the sleep of the just: deep, untroubled and dreamless.
It seemed to Fischer he was awake a fraction of a second before the klaxon blared. By the time it was in full cry he was running. Three seconds after it sounded he was in the control room, just in time to see the first
man tumbling down from the conning tower.
The diving procedure was well under way: the men were running forward to get their weight into the nose, the hydroplanes were fully angled; the boat was starting to tilt downwards as she began to submerge at full speed. He looked quickly round to see if any problems were developing in the control room. None. He looked up to see if all the men were down from the tower and the hatch closed. Not yet. He watched, trying to judge from the angle of dive exactly how long the men had before the hatch had to be closed, whether or not any remained on the wrong side.
The last man fell down, the hatch clanged shut.
Now they had to wait. Diving took between forty and sixty seconds. Even on a good day it was an awfully long time.
Even now it was only eight seconds since the klaxon had sounded.
There was an instant of silence. The men stared across the cramped control room, their eyes locked on each other’s faces.
Then for the second time that night Fischer had the strange sensation that he knew what was coming a moment before it actually happened. It seemed to him that he grabbed at a rail and tensed his body a fraction of a second before the bomb actually exploded.
The roar blasted his ears and jarred his senses. He felt the boat thresh violently, like a rat shaken by an angry dog.
Then darkness. A faint glow of light. Smoke. And the acrid smell of white-hot electrics.
Fischer yelled, ‘Damage control reports!’
Voices started screaming at him, ‘No rudder control!’
‘Fire in the afterends!’
Fischer shouted, ‘Pressure tanks?’
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