The young officer felt drained. He hadn’t realised how tense he had been. Presumably it was something one got used to.
He rubbed his eyes.
When he opened them again he thought for a moment his sight had gone. He was almost blinded by light …
There was a scream from his right. ‘Enemy starboard ninety!’
He spun round.
A massive light was blazing out of the sky, a great ball of white fire which dazzled the eyes. The entire submarine was covered in a bath of vicious cold light. The young officer wanted to order the light away so that they could slip back into the darkness and hide …
Simultaneously he heard the whine of approaching engines.
He began to scream, ‘Fire! Fire! Fire all guns!’ Even as he screamed the guns opened up, their staccato rat-tat-tat tearing into the eerie silence. The tracers wove their way up towards the blinding light.
But still the light came.
He yelled, ‘Get the light! The light!’ And then realised it was far too late for all that.
The light was so close, so dazzling, it filled the sky. The ominous drone of the engines grew to a higher pitch.
Behind the circle of light the dark shape of the plane was visible. Large. Like a bird of prey.
And still it came inexorably nearer. The young man was filled with blind rage.
He screamed, ‘Fire! Fire! Fire!’ as if his words would travel through the air and extinguish the terrible light.
Then the noise was a great roar, and the plane seemed to lift up and up, and suddenly its black belly was swooping over them and he raised his fists and cried, ‘No-o-oooo!’
The plane was gone. There was an instant when the engine noise was receding and the darkness was descending round the U-boat like a protective blanket – an instant when he felt a flicker of hope.
Then, a brief moment later, he knew with awful certainty that there was to be no escape after all.
The boat gave a great shudder and the deck lurched under his feet.
There was a slow rumble which grew into a thunderous boom. The shock hit his ears and buffeted his body.
The young commander realised with astonishment that the deck was continuing to fall away under his feet. He looked up and saw the boat rolling slowly, almost leisurely, to port.
The deck lurched again, violently, and there was another roar, much closer. The blast threw him against the side of the bridge and he heard his head meet the metal with a dull thud. Then water was in his eyes, in his mouth, pouring down his face. He spluttered fiercely and gasped for breath.
He suddenly thought: I must tell them.
He got to his feet and, pulling himself up the slanting deck, gripped the coaming and shouted, ‘Abandon ship!’ But his voice was weak and there was too much noise. Men were running and screaming. Even if they heard, it would make no difference.
He almost shouted again, but his eye was caught by the astonishing sight of the bow, just visible in the darkness. It was out of the water.
As he watched he realised with amazement that it was rising slowly but remorselessly up into the sky.
There was another explosion, this time from deep within the boat. Then another. The boat staggered, then continued her terrible climb into the sky.
It was only when he saw the sea rising up towards the conning tower that he realised she wasn’t climbing at all, but sliding … backwards, deeper and deeper, backwards …
There was frantic activity on the forward deck. Some men were trying to release the rafts. They were tearing at the hatch covers with their hands. The hatches would not open. A man began to scream …
The young commander felt water round his legs. He noticed in vague surprise that the sea was pouring into the conning tower. The sight made him desperately sad.
When the water reached his neck he swam for a while, thinking of his home and his parents and how much he loved and respected them, and crying because he had failed them so completely, and because he was so terribly afraid to die.
Then the waves were breaking over his head and he was swallowing water and it was incredibly cold and he knew it wouldn’t be much longer.
It was twenty minutes, in fact. But he lost consciousness before he drowned and there are worse ways to die.
The streets of Berlin were dark and almost deserted. Rain and sleet were falling in a cold flurry, whipped sideways by the icy northerly wind. The roads were slippery from the long winter freeze and the staff car went slowly, the driver peering nervously through the windscreen at the unlit road ahead.
The weather had been bad for weeks. One storm after another, snow, Arctic temperatures. Doenitz reflected that even the elements seemed to be against them. Stalingrad was under siege, the Army was in retreat; at sea the U-boat crews were achieving remarkable results under terrible conditions. It seemed that the winter would go on for ever.
He could do nothing about the weather.
But he could and would fight against the other problems besetting the Navy. Like complete lack of air cover and reconnaissance for his U-boats. Like lack of steel for the building programme. Like the usual continental-minded attitudes of the leadership, Hitler still had not grasped the fact that he had to win the war at sea to win the war on land. Always the same problems.
Tomorrow Doenitz would get Hitler to approve the steel allocation. And he was slowly winning on the matter of air cover, too. Goering had actually been pleasant to him the last time they met at Fuehrer Headquarters, and Hitler had pressed Doenitz rather than Goering to stay to breakfast. Promising signs.
Doenitz fingered the gold bands on his arm. How much difference power made!
He had been Commander-in-Chief of the Navy for three weeks, ever since Raeder’s sudden resignation. Raeder had resigned over Hitler’s decision to lay up the battleships, which the leader dubbed ‘useless’. Doenitz, on taking up his new post, had also fought the decision – and won. Since then Hitler had treated him with the greatest consideration and respect. Strange justice!
The trouble was, it might all be too late. The worst mistakes had been made and were difficult to put right.
Like the business of this radar.
Schmidt had requested an urgent meeting to discuss ‘a radar problem’. Even Goering was going to be there. It must be something serious.
The car drew up outside the Chancellery. Doenitz got out and climbed briskly up the steps into the first of the vast halls, his two staff officers on his heels. The meeting was in one of the smaller conference rooms. Originally the meeting was to have been held in Goering’s ostentatious Air Ministry building, but early the day before a bomb had fallen nearby and shattered all the windows. And it was Goering who’d promised that Allied bombers would never reach Berlin!
The others were already there. As Doenitz entered everyone except Goering got to his feet. Goering was sitting at the head of the table, his massive weight wedged into a large ornate gilt chair. He smiled benignly at Doenitz. Doenitz carefully sat at the opposite end of the table, in an equally grand chair. He nodded at Goering and noticed that the man’s eyes looked rather odd. It was said that Goering took drugs: that would account for it.
The meeting began. Schmidt was sitting on Goering’s right, looking unhappy, his eyes firmly on the papers on the table in front of him. Hesitantly he started to read from what Doenitz realised was a carefully prepared statement.
After a few seconds Doenitz felt his hackles begin to rise. Schmidt was saying, ‘… the enemy aircraft was shot down near Rotterdam on the night of February 12th 1943. Routine examination of the wreckage by Luftwaffe personnel revealed a box which was badly damaged and covered with blood. However the box was sufficiently intact for it to be confirmed that nothing similar had ever been seen before. Superior technicians were called in but were unable to guess at the function of the box. The only clue was the words “Experimental 6” written in pencil on the side.’ Schmidt turned a page and went on, ‘Luftwaffe Headquarters ordered the box to be
dismantled and brought to Berlin for closer examination … The Rotterdam Apparatus, as we decided to call it, was then examined by my staff in our laboratory. However …’ Schmidt paused and looked even more unhappy ‘… two days ago, the RAF scored a direct hit on the laboratory, killing some of my staff and destroying parts of the apparatus. My staff climbed into the ruins of the laboratory and retrieved what they could. We are now trying to reconstruct the apparatus, using the parts which are left to us.’
‘Herr Schmidt now has the use of the best possible laboratory,’ Goering interrupted. ‘It is properly fortified so that this cannot happen again.’ The Luftwaffe staff officers nodded. Doenitz waited. He wanted to hear the rest.
Schmidt looked to see if Goering had finished then returned to his notes. ‘With the components now in our possession it is impossible for us to reconstruct this apparatus to the point where we can make it function. We cannot therefore report on the performance, range or characteristics of the device – not unless we obtain another apparatus, more or less intact, from a crashed enemy bomber. However, it is possible to draw two basic conclusions: one, that it is a form of radar – a form that we have never seen before …’ Schmidt’s voice was down almost to a whisper. He had his elbows on the table and his head in his hands, so that his face was hidden. ‘And two, that it works on very short wave, possibly as little as ten centimetres.’
There was a long silence. Doenitz’s staff eyed their commander nervously. Goering frowned and, staring out of the window, thoughtfully patted his large belly.
Doenitz stared at Schmidt, but didn’t see him. His mind was in the Bay of Biscay, seeing the enemy bombers hunting, tracking, killing his U-boats with their magic new eyes; and on the convoy routes, in the wastes of the North Atlantic, seeing British destroyers lying in wait, ready to pounce, without warning …
‘May we understand this more completely?’ Doenitz spoke softly. Everyone looked at him. ‘Are you saying that this radar is completely unknown to us?’
Schmidt licked his lips. ‘Yes.’
‘And – you believe it might be very effective?’
‘We have no way of knowing, not yet …’
‘And are you saying that, in the event of it becoming widely used by the British, we have no defensive measures against it?’
The Chief Scientist shifted uneasily in his chair. ‘We do not have any way of detecting it at present …’
Doenitz leant forward. ‘But will we?’
‘It … would take time. We would have to understand exactly how this new apparatus worked. It is based on entirely different principles, you understand; entirely different!’
‘Entirely different …’ Doenitz echoed. ‘I see. I will not enquire as to why we ourselves have never investigated these entirely different principles!’
Goering gave Doenitz a hard stare. ‘May I remind you, Herr Admiral, that our radar has proved to be extremely effective in everything except this, er, field! We have led Britain, led the world, in early warning systems. Not a British bomber nears Germany without our knowing about it!’
Doenitz nodded and said testily, ‘Yes, Herr Reichsmarschall, most effective when defending a land mass, but not very effective for protecting U-boats, wouldn’t you agree?’
There was an awkward pause. Suddenly Goering slapped the table. ‘Quite so! I assure you, my dear Admiral, that everything possible is being done! I have taken every possible measure to ensure that we crack this Rotterdam problem as soon as possible. First—’ For emphasis the Reichsmarschall pushed his right fist into the open palm of his left hand. ‘– First, all firms in this field have been ordered to start research! Second, we are releasing all the necessary personnel from active service, however many people are needed!’ He turned abruptly to Schmidt. ‘How many, Schmidt, five thousand? Ten thousand?’
‘Impossible to say yet, Herr Reichsmarschall. But maybe as many as ten thousand. Yes.’
Doenitz asked, ‘Why so many?’
Schmidt frowned. ‘We have to follow several avenues of research … We have to try lots of different approaches to make sure we find the right one.’
My God, thought Doenitz, they haven’t a clue, not a clue. He said, ‘But how long will it take to develop a warning device?’
‘Ah, not too long, hopefully.’
‘In the meantime …’ Doenitz stared at Goering. ‘In the meantime, we are defenceless.’
‘Not entirely!’ exclaimed Goering with a smile. ‘Telefunken tell me they have not entirely stopped research into other wavelengths. They might be able to produce a detector quite quickly.’
‘Might?’
‘You will be kept fully in the picture, Herr Admiral, I assure you!’
‘Yes,’ Doenitz said tightly. Doubtless the picture would be the same as ever – the bare minimum imparted with the maximum reluctance. ‘And shortwave radar itself. What would be its advantages?’
Schmidt said, ‘It is small … compact. For the rest, as I say, we cannot be sure, not until we can actually get a Rotterdam Apparatus working.’
‘And when could we have this radar ourselves?’
Schmidt breathed deeply. ‘Eighteen months … Or two years.’
For ever. Doenitz looked at Schmidt with contempt. The man had sworn that shortwave radar was impossible. The man was incompetent. Doenitz said shortly, ‘There is no more to be discussed, then, is there?’
Except, he thought, with the Fuehrer, in private. Then he would make quite sure Hitler knew who was to blame for this appalling catastrophe.
Everyone began shuffling papers. Suddenly a thought stirred in the back of Doenitz’s mind. ‘Schmidt!’ he called sharply.
‘Yes, Herr Grossadmiral.’
‘A long time ago, on the Welle, when you first demonstrated radar to us …’
‘Yes, Herr Grossadmiral.’
‘… there was a scientist of yours, someone who’d worked on radar from the beginning. He talked to me about shortwave radar. He said it was possible.’
Schmidt looked pale. ‘I – I don’t remember exactly …’
‘But I do! He was a round, jolly little man. One of your men, Herr Schmidt. I can have him looked up if you like. I’m sure I’ll recognise the name when I see it. I remember speaking to him: he was quite definite about shortwave radar. He said it could be done.’ Doenitz shook his head. ‘I’m surprised you don’t remember. You seemed quite agitated about the matter at the time.’
There was an indefinable electricity around the table. There might be a fight, the staff sensed it.
‘Ah …’ Schmidt said, as if remembering for the first time. ‘I think I know who you must mean. A fellow called Freymann.’
‘Yes, that was the man. That was him.’
Schmidt said quickly, ‘Herr Grossadmiral, we have already asked for this man! Of course we have! He was an obvious first choice! Yes indeed, he has been earmarked for the main team …’
‘But his ideas were not worth investigating before?’
Schmidt looked injured. ‘Why indeed they were! But they were unworkable, quite mad! Whatever this new device may be, I’m sure it can’t be anything like Freymann’s ideas!’
Doenitz was unconvinced. He said, ‘I see. But he is about to join your staff?’
‘Yes, indeed! We have made a request!’
‘A request?’
‘Yes. Of the SS.’
‘Ah! He was detained?’
‘He is a Jew.’
‘Where is he detained?’
‘Ah.’ Schmidt smiled slightly. ‘We have just been informed that he is working at a Naval establishment – at Brest in France!’
There was a short embarrassed silence. ‘And a request has been made?’
‘Through the appropriate channels.
Doenitz barked, ‘I find it surprising, Herr Schmidt, that this request was not made immediately, direct to myself. I am sure that, addressed through the highest possible channels, Freymann would be with you by now!’
Schmi
dt looked as if he had indigestion. ‘But until we realised the nature of the device we were not to know …’
‘That this man was vital?’
Schmidt coughed. ‘Indeed.’
‘What about documents – research papers and so on. Surely something of his work remains?’
‘Nothing. Apparently it was all mislaid.’
‘Then I hope to hear that he is with you very shortly!’ Doenitz stood up. ‘And I look forward to hearing that the research programme is progressing with all speed. Until then, good day!’
There was a shuffling as people got to their feet. No-one bothered with Heil Hitlers nowadays.
Schmidt watched Doenitz stride angrily from the room and sighed. It was a nightmare, the whole thing. But not as bad as it would be if Freymann didn’t come up with the answer. When Doenitz had called Freymann ‘vital’ he’d hit the nail on the head.
Without Freymann it would take months, years.
It pained Schmidt to admit it, but that conceited little Jew was their only hope.
Chapter 23
‘YOU LOOK WONDERFUL today, madame!’
‘Thank you, madame.’ Julie smiled broadly at the shopkeeper and, picking up her basket from the counter, went out into the road. She walked briskly, waving and nodding to the people she met. Some of the villagers looked at her rather strangely. No woman had ever worn trousers in Tregasnou before. But then few women had ever been cowhands before. She grinned to herself. They would soon get used to it.
She’d given up her job before Christmas and it was the best thing she’d ever done. She now worked for Jean – which meant she worked from dawn until well after dusk for her keep and no money. But it was the best salary she’d ever had; she’d never been happier. The outdoor life suited her, the physical work made her feel better than she had in years, and, best of all, she saw much more of Peter. A pity she hadn’t done it years ago.
It was the second big decision she’d taken.
The first had been even more important: she’d decided to escape to England.
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