Night Sky

by Clare Francis

  He turned to the navigating officer, hovering at his shoulder, and said, ‘A course, please, to there.’

  The navigator bent over the chart. Fischer said to his first officer, ‘A signal please to U-64 and U-402. Tell them we have new orders and are leaving them directly.’

  He returned to the chart. ‘How far to the search point?’

  ‘One hundred and ten miles exactly.’

  Fischer calculated how long it would take to do the distance. On the surface, flat out at seventeen knots, seven hours. He looked at his watch: 0130. Dawn was at 0700 roughly. Not enough time. At dawn he’d have to submerge and he’d still be sixteen odd miles short of the search point. Still, he’d be in the right area and it wouldn’t take long to complete the distance, even at the paltry seven knots they did under the surface. So, on target at about 0930.

  Not bad. If this fishing craft was really doing four knots then they should be there well ahead of it. Even if it was doing six knots, they’d still be all right.

  ‘Drop clear astern of U-64 and then turn to starboard on the course—?’

  ‘008 degrees, Herr Kaleu, until abeam of Ushant.’

  ‘Course 008.’ The order was repeated by the first officer and the coxswain.

  Fischer looked round for the Chief. He was standing in the after section of the control room. ‘Chief, I’m going to need everything. Seventeen knots if you can manage it.’

  The chief tried to frown, but Fischer could see that he was pleased. He liked a challenge. ‘Right, Herr Kaleu. I’ll see what I can do.’ He disappeared in the direction of the engine room.

  ‘Tell me when we’re on course.’

  After a few minutes the confirmation came. Fischer gave the order for full speed ahead.

  The order was repeated through the control room. The whine of the diesels rose to a steady din and Fischer felt the vibration run through the boat. He ordered extra vigilance from the lookouts, then, with nothing further to be done, returned to the chart table to stare at the wide expanse of white paper that marked the English Channel.

  It was a long time since he’d taken a U-boat into the Channel – it was a long time since anyone had. The British controlled it too effectively. He wondered what he’d find there – the lot probably: air patrols, motor torpedo boats, minesweepers …

  Too much, far too much. There was only one point in U-319’s favour: the British wouldn’t be expecting anyone to take a U-boat into the waters where submarines had been proved so vulnerable. They wouldn’t believe anyone could be so stupid.

  It wasn’t much of an advantage. But it was all he had.

  From the outside the building looks solid and impenetrable – but not enormous. Certainly not large enough to house the operational headquarters of the British Admiralty. That is because most of the building is underground, a warren of subterranean rooms protected from bombing by concrete walls and roofs several feet thick. Not surprisingly, the building is called the Citadel. It lies in the heart of London, next to the main Admiralty buildings, to which it is connected by underground passages. Deep within it are two largish adjoining chambers which resemble billiard rooms. Both contain tables about nine feet square on which are enormous charts overhung by brilliant lights which shine day and night. In the first room is the Main Plot where Allied surface movements – both Allied and enemy – are plotted, as well as relevant air activity. Next door is the Submarine Tracking Room. Its sole purpose is to track enemy submarine movements in the Atlantic.

  And, despite German beliefs to the contrary, it does it remarkably well.

  On this occasion the night watchkeeper was busy. Although the main interpretation of the data was carried out by the day staff, a lot of information came in during the night and it was his job to decide if there was anything requiring immediate attention, and to generally sort things out ready for analysis in the morning.

  He had a staff of three. They were sifting information into groups according to the known facts. They had five sources of information: sightings, aircraft radar fixes, radio direction finding, Special Intelligence, and tracking using a combination of all available information. Radio direction finding was very efficient as long as the U-boat transmitted for long enough. Then the various stations around the country could take cross-bearings on the signal and obtain a fix.

  But it was the euphemistically named Special Intelligence which really nailed the U-boats. Also known as Ultra, the information came from Bletchley Park, the Government Code and Cipher School. No-one outside Bletchley Park really knew how the boffins had cracked the German codes, but cracked them they had, though it usually took them a day – sometimes more – to decipher the signals. Once, some months before, the Germans had changed their codes and there had been a hiatus while the ciphers were broken, but then, after a while, the information had come filtering through again.

  Sometimes the deciphered signals arrived in a matter of hours. Then the ex-lawyer who headed the department acted quickly, passing information to the naval and air commands and diverting convoys from the path of the waiting wolf packs – when the politicians allowed. Sometimes they did not allow, fearful that the Germans would awake to the fact that their codes had been broken.

  More often than not it was twenty-four hours before information came through, a time when the Head of Department had to take decisions and make calculated guesses as to what the U-boats might be doing. When the information finally appeared it was amazing how often the Head’s hunches proved correct. He was an astonishing man.

  For the third time in an hour the watchkeeper leafed through the decoded Ultra signals that had come in at 0200. Nothing out of the ordinary. Routine signals from headquarters. Brief acknowledgements from the U-boats. He had checked the U-boats’ call-signs against those known to be at sea. They all tallied.

  A teleprincess – one of the girls from the telex and communications room – came in and put a telex in front of him. It was from Bletchley Park: a decoded message sent to U-boat headquarters by an escort vessel. At 2300 the escort had reported dropping three U-boats at T3, the buoy which marked the end of the swept channel leading out of Brest. The U-boats concerned were U-64, U-402 and U-319.

  The watchkeeper got up and, taking three tokens, marked them with the U-boats’ numbers. He calculated the approximate distance the U-boats would have travelled since 2300 and placed the tokens on the plot, some fifty miles west of Brest.

  U-319. He knew that number. Even before he looked it up on the list he remembered that it was Fischer’s boat. Yes, there she was: U-319, Commander: Karl Fischer, Flotilla: Ninth, Base: Brest.

  Fischer was well known. A very successful skipper, a German hero. He’d been around a long time.

  The watchkeeper only wished he knew where the blighter was heading for. Sometimes one didn’t find out until too late. Sometimes one never found out at all.

  He returned to his desk. Almost immediately the telephone rang. It was Bletchley Park. He listened carefully, asked a couple of questions, and replaced the receiver. He stood up and stared thoughtfully at the plot.

  U-boat headquarters had sent an unusually long message on the Atlantic U-boat frequency. The message had only just been intercepted and wouldn’t be decoded for some hours yet, but it had had an urgent priority prefix. That was sufficiently unusual for Bletchley to call him.

  Something was up then. The watchkeeper wondered what it could be. Perhaps German Intelligence had discovered the position of a convoy, perhaps a new strategy was being implemented …

  He stared at the plot as if it could tell him the answer. But there was only one thing that could do that – the decode.

  And that, as always, took time.

  Chapter 27

  NxW. NORTH BY WEST … Where on earth was it? It had disappeared again.

  Julie peered at the dimly-lit compass card and tried to read the letters. The boat lurched and she put up a hand to brace herself against the post that held the compass.

  Come on! Which way? Whi
ch way?

  Think. It was showing W – West. North was to the right. Therefore she wanted the card to swing – which way? She almost shouted with frustration: it was impossible to work out.

  Frantically, she pulled the tiller towards her and watched the card.

  It hesitated then swung slowly towards North.

  She breathed a sigh of relief, then made herself concentrate again. NxW. North by West.

  NxW for one hour. Don’t forget. NxW – North by West.

  The problem was the compass. It wouldn’t stay still. It kept swaying from side to side. And it moved in the opposite direction to the one you expected. The tiller did too!

  NxW for one hour then you’ll be safe.

  Then you’ll be safe … So there must be dangers either side, rocks, shoals, islands … She remembered on placid summer days seeing the rocks in the estuary and, further out, black towers marking hidden plateaus.

  She gulped and gritted her teeth and concentrated again on the swinging card. However hard she tried it was absolutely impossible to keep it straight on NxW. The best she could do was to keep NxW in the centre of the swing. Even then, if she took her eyes away for a moment, it seemed to dive away.

  She jerked the tiller towards her and realised the card was swinging the wrong way. ‘Dear God!’ She shoved the tiller away and the ‘N’ shot round towards the front of the compass. Too far! She yanked at the tiller again until NxW hovered for a moment on the marker before swinging inexorably away. She shouted out loud, ‘Damn you!’

  She closed her eyes tightly for a moment and made an effort to clear her mind.

  She opened her eyes, breathed deeply and concentrated again. At last the compass evened out somewhere around NxW. She remembered something Richard had said, about boats having a feel to them, a balance … There was none that she could sense, none at all!

  A sound floated back, a whimper … She peered towards the middle of the boat. ‘Peter? Peter! Are you all right, darling?’

  ‘Mummy!’ The voice was tearful. ‘Mummy, I’m awfully cold!’

  ‘Yes, darling, I know. But—’ Could she leave the tiller and get to him? No – it was too risky, even for a moment. She shouted, ‘Darling, try to get under the deck at the front. And – look in your bag—’

  ‘What?’ His voice was faint, plaintive.

  The course had veered again; Julie jerked at the tiller. ‘Your bag, darling. Look inside it. There’s another sweater somewhere!’

  ‘What?’

  Julie gripped the tiller and tried not to scream. She shouted angrily, ‘Just do as I say and don’t argue!’

  There was a silence, then, ‘I’ve got it.’

  Julie calmed herself down. She said steadily, ‘Take off your jacket and put on the sweater, then crawl up – No! Put the jacket back on first, then crawl up to the front. It’ll be warmer there. Tell me when you get there.’

  ‘All right.’

  For an instant Julie wondered what had happened to the old man: he was very quiet. She thought of calling to him, then decided against it. Later. She had too much to think about now.

  The boat moved suddenly and Julie reached for the post again, her heart lurching with fear. The waves – they were a little larger, she was sure of it. She shivered violently and looked quickly down at the compass. The boat was miles off course. She jerked at the tiller and thought: This is hopeless, hopeless! I can’t possibly manage this on my own! God, why did Michel think I could!

  If only there was someone else!

  Richard … Best of all, Richard – why couldn’t he be here? He would know exactly what to do. He must have been through lots of experiences like this. The thought encouraged her a little. She tried to remember other things he had told her about sailing, things that might help … But she could remember nothing very useful: he’d talked about compasses and courses – but he’d never explained how you actually held a course, far less how you managed the sails …

  Peter’s small voice floated back on the wind. ‘Mummy, I’m here!’ In the front, presumably.

  Julie shouted, ‘Try to go to sleep now, darling.’

  ‘All right.’

  She looked down at the compass. Good Lord: it actually read NxW. She giggled a little hysterically.

  The night was so dark it was impossible to see anything clearly. The sky was slightly less dark than the sea – but that was all. Julie stared ahead, trying to make out shapes – something, anything. But there was no distance, no perspective and after a while the blackness seemed to rear up in front of her like a wall.

  Quickly, she looked back at the compass. NW. She pulled the tiller towards her. NNW. Then, a sudden swing to N. She pushed the tiller away again. NxW – at last. Stay there!

  She glanced up again, and shivered. It was eerie, the darkness. Unnerving. It made her feel utterly remote, like being on a hilltop, quite alone. And then there was the silence. Though it was broken by the whisper of the wind and the swishing of the water and the occasional slap of a wave on the boat’s side, it was eerie too.

  She shivered again, and couldn’t stop. With faint surprise she realised she was terribly cold. No time to get more clothes on. Later. Later.

  NxW for an hour – then you’ll be safe.

  How much time had passed? She had no idea. It felt like hours. She looked at her watch, but it was far too dark to read it. She put her wrist down to the compass and, leaning forward, tried to see the hands by the reflection of the compass light. The thing was a stupid woman’s watch: it had a tiny face without numbers. Useless! She put her face closer. At last she thought she saw the hands. Midnight—?

  An hour gone!

  The compass had sheered violently off. She pulled on the tiller. Damn! Wrong way! Why did the blasted thing have to work backwards!

  There: NxW. She put her wrist to the compass again and, steadying the boat, thrust her face down to the flickering light. It took half a minute to be sure, but yes: it was almost midnight. Nearly an hour gone! She’d wait another ten minutes to be on the safe side. Perhaps even more, to be absolutely sure. Then—! She felt the beginnings of relief. Over the first hurdle. Something anyway, to have got this far.

  Half-smiling, half-miserable, she thought: Richard would be proud of me!

  Then she remembered where he was and the despair settled on her like a lead weight.

  Don’t … Don’t think …

  Mechanically she glanced at the compass.

  It wasn’t there.

  Her heart went to her mouth. She gulped. It had gone – the light! The light had gone!

  There wasn’t a flicker. She said out loud, ‘No! Dear God!’ And, clamping her hand over her mouth, thought: What on earth do I do now?

  Relight the oil? But she had no match.

  Think. What had Michel said? He’d mentioned something … A torch. Yes! Where? In a box. That was it, he’d said it was in a box. She knelt down, one hand still on the tiller, and felt around. Nothing. The other side, then. Floorboards … a rope … Further behind …

  Her hand came to an upright wooden surface. She felt up to a top lip and a lid. It was a box, full of things: rough ropes, a square metal box, then – a round metal object. She almost cried out in triumph. Standing up again, she found the switch and a narrow beam of yellow light shot forward into the darkness. She was half-blinded. Fumbling she switched it off again. Far too bright.

  She reached down into the box again and scrabbled around. At last she found a piece of cloth and, putting it over the torch, turned it on again, being careful to keep the beam pointing downwards. That was much better: the beam was reduced to a dull pool of light. She shone it at the compass. Not bad! Only NNW! She pulled the tiller towards her and the card swung back towards NxW. At last.

  She switched off the torch. Mustn’t waste the batteries.

  She let her body sag. The boat leaned slightly and she stepped backwards to regain her balance. The back of her knees came up against something hard and, feeling with her hand, she real
ised it was a seat. Of course: a seat for the helmsman. She sank back on to it and wedged her foot up against the compass post. It was much more comfortable.

  She almost laughed.

  She wondered if the full hour and a quarter had passed. Probably not: best to wait.

  She tried to concentrate on the steering, to keep on course without having to shine the light too much. Sometimes it worked, sometimes not. Most of the time she just stared forward, trying not to see the darkness rearing up in front of her.

  Finally she shone the torch on her watch. It was twenty past twelve. She clenched her fists and, looking up, said, ‘Thank you, God!’ She almost shouted the news to Peter, but decided not to: he was probably asleep by now.

  What now? Then anything between north-north-west and north-east … Or was it north-west and north-east?

  She couldn’t remember.

  … No, he’d definitely said between NNW and NE.

  Julie felt into the box for some rope and, resting the tiller against her knee, unwound a coil. Her fingers were dreadfully stiff from the cold and from gripping the tiller so tight. Eventually she managed to tie a loop on to the tiller. She went to the side of the boat and felt along it for an anchor point. She found one on the top of the rail: a wooden thing with a point sticking out either end. She’d seen them used for tying up ropes before. She took the rope and wound it several times round the wooden thing, which had a name she couldn’t remember.

  Next she took the other end of the rope to the other side of the boat and tied it to another wooden anchor point. She shone the torch on the compass and watched. NNW moving towards NW. She let off one side of the rope and tightened the other, to move the tiller slightly across. The course held steady on NW. She loosened the right-hand rope a little more. The course came up to NNW and she tightened it again. The course was holding. More or less.

  Taking the torch she quickly made her way along the left side of the boat towards the front. She knelt down under the small expanse of decking and shone the shaded torch on to the floor. In the reflected light she saw Peter, curled in a ball, sleeping peacefully. She felt his cheek: warm enough, but not as warm as she’d like.