Night Sky

by Clare Francis

  Crump! Spray flew into Julie’s eyes and pattered against her jacket. ‘Take the bag back to the bow, Peter, so it doesn’t get wet. And you stay there too and have something to eat.’

  ‘But it’s awfully bumpy up there. Can’t I stay here?’ He was whining. Tiredness.

  ‘Well – perhaps … All right! We’ll eat here together then. See if you can find an opener or a knife or something.’

  He disappeared into the box behind her and rummaged around, then looked up at her dispiritedly. ‘Nothing here, Mummy, only this.’ He held up a metal spike.

  ‘Try the front, then.’

  ‘The bow, you mean. That’s its proper name.’

  Julie made the effort not to clip his ear. ‘Don’t argue with me!’ she shouted. ‘Just go and look.’

  He wandered off down the deck. Instantly Julie regretted her anger: she was tired and hungry too.

  The bow rose then dipped suddenly. There was more spray, heavier this time and icy cold: she could feel it seeping through her trousers. The wind seemed colder too; she shivered despite the extra sweater.

  Peter came back along the deck, his hair dripping with water.

  ‘Oh darling, you’re all wet!’

  ‘There was a big wave!’ His lower lip trembled and he started to cry.

  ‘Come on, let’s get some food inside you!’

  ‘There’s no opener!’ He was crying in earnest now, his face creased up in despair.

  One thing after another. Julie took a deep breath and said calmly, ‘Let’s use the spike then. That’ll have to do.’

  Pushing her back against the tiller to hold it steady, she reached into the bag for a can and, holding it against her leg, tried to puncture it with the spike. On the third attempt the spike slid off and dug into her thigh. Hopeless.

  God, she felt tired.

  She put her hand into the bag to see if there was an easier can, perhaps a flat sardine-type with its own opener. She felt around and came out with a long metallic object – a can opener. She clapped her hand to her forehead and shook her head. It was, of course, where any intelligent person would have put it.

  She opened a can of meat and one of pilchards. ‘When you’ve eaten, go and see if Monsieur Freymann wants anything, will you, Peter?’ He nodded, his mouth full of meat. Julie looked to the rail, but David wasn’t there any more and she saw that he was lying on the deck again. His face was sheet white; he wouldn’t want anything to eat. A drink, maybe …

  Where was that water Michel had talked about? Heaven only knew.

  She stuffed a pilchard into her mouth and was surprised to find how hungry she was. She ate ravenously, then opened a can of potatoes and ate most of that, too, before passing it to Peter.

  Crump! The water was flying over the bow more frequently now. Did it matter, all this water? She remembered how wet it had been on that large fishing boat when she and Peter had tried to escape before, yet the crew hadn’t been worried.

  Peter got a face full of water and she made him move to the uphill side of the deck where there seemed to be less spray. She moved across to the same side and took the tiller in her other hand.

  As soon as she moved across she realised just how much the boat was tilting over on to one side. The deck was at a considerable slant and the mast was leaning over at a distinct angle. Each gust of wind made the tilt worse. What was there to stop the boat going right over?

  She had a sudden memory of another time … With Richard all those years ago. The boat had tipped over then, quite far. She remembered clinging to the side, terrified. But he hadn’t been worried, not in the slightest. She whispered, ‘Oh Richard, why the hell aren’t you here!’

  There was a whoosh and a swishing sound. Water was racing along the downhill side of the deck. Julie felt a rush of fear. Where had it come from? Immediately she thought: We’re sinking!

  She clutched at Peter. ‘Oh God, darling!’

  ‘It’s all right, Mummy, it’ll go out through the scuppers.’

  Julie stared at him in amazement. ‘The scuppers?’

  ‘Yes. Richard told me when we were carving the model. They’re the holes in the sides, down there. For letting water out.’

  ‘… for letting water out …’

  She watched, fascinated, as the water gurgled away through the small slits. A moment later the boat tipped again and the water came back, only to gurgle harmlessly away as before. She turned to Peter. ‘What else did Richard tell you?’

  The little face went blank. Julie realised it was the wrong way to ask. She tried again. ‘Did he talk about what to do in strong winds?’

  Peter made a face of concentration. ‘Ummm, well I know what you do in gales.’

  Julie gripped his shoulder. ‘Yes, darling!’

  ‘You shorten sail!’

  ‘Yes … and?’

  ‘You reef! That’s what you do!’

  ‘Reef … That’s what he told you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Julie thought desperately but she had no idea what that meant. She looked down at Peter. He was still thinking, she could tell by his face. Eventually he said slowly, ‘You let the sail down a bit, then you tie up the loose bit with all those ropes hanging from the sail there. Richard drew me a picture.’

  ‘I see.’

  She couldn’t imagine how it was actually done, but at least she might have a vague idea if the worst came to the worst. But when did a strong wind become a gale? How did you know when to reef?

  Her head was aching violently: she couldn’t think. Damn it. One thing at a time. Gales might never happen!

  She settled back on the helmsman’s seat and forced herself to stop worrying. After all, things could be a lot worse.

  At that moment David Freymann cried out in agony and, from far away in the eastern sky, there came the low hum of an approaching plane.

  Chapter 28

  THE WIND. IT was coming from the north-east and freshening.

  Fischer left the periscope and went to the chart table. The prey certainly wouldn’t be trying for Plymouth – the course would put them hard on the wind. Too uncomfortable and too slow.

  No: Falmouth it had to be.

  But the speed estimate would have to be revised. Even a small boat would be doing more than four knots in this wind. Five, maybe more.

  Fischer marked off two points along the prey’s course line. The first point marked the prey’s position if he were doing a steady six knots; the second, his position at four knots. These, then, marked the limits of speed probability. The gap between the two positions was twenty nautical miles.

  Now, course. If this fellow strayed from his course, which way would he go? To the west almost certainly, because of this freshening wind. Fischer marked off a second course line ten degrees to the west of the first. He now had a long thin box of approximately a hundred square miles.

  A hundred square miles … One hell of a lot of sea …

  It would be impossible to search it all. No, the best thing would be to patrol back and forth across the probable track of the prey and wait for him to come to them. A waiting game.

  The soonest that the prey could possibly be here was … right now. Unlikely, though, because he wouldn’t have been doing six knots the whole time. At the other extreme, the latest he’d arrive was in five hours’ time, at 1500 hours.

  A waiting game.

  In the meantime …

  Fischer looked at the chart as a whole. Little danger of meeting enemy surface units here: U-319 was in the unofficial no-man’s-land between Britain and France. But nearer Britain there would be a lot of shipping – minesweepers, coastal convoys – and guarding the shipping lane, maybe even some minefields. His chart showed one mined area just to the north of him. But Fischer was sceptical: in all likelihood the intelligence was out of date and probably not too accurate in the first place.

  But overhead there was no such thing as a no-man’s-land. The air was anybody’s. Except that, around here, it was mainly British. Th
at was one of the reasons U-boats didn’t bother to operate in the Channel nowadays.

  Fischer strolled thoughtfully back to the search periscope. A young seaman was manning it, circling slowly. Fischer watched him for a moment, his mind on what would happen if they did manage to find this fishing boat. To capture the occupants they’d have to surface. The operation would take a good fifteen to twenty minutes – if they were lucky. It was an awful long time to be on the surface in broad daylight.

  Hell! What an operation!

  The periscope stopped circling. The young seaman yelled, ‘Aircraft bearing 045! Range – four to five miles!’

  Fischer pushed the young man aside and took a look. A Catalina or something like it. Definitely one of the opposition’s. Closing.

  ‘Down periscope! Alter course forty-five degrees to starboard!’

  Fifteen minutes: he’d give it fifteen minutes before he took another look.

  After five minutes he said again, ‘Alter course forty-five degrees to starboard.’ The order was echoed twice.

  They waited, as they’d waited so many times before, the crew automatically falling into Silent Routine, though no ship was tracking them. Everyone was still and the only sound was the quiet hum of the electric motors.

  After a long while Fischer looked at his watch. Time to have a look. ‘Up periscope.’

  The periscope hissed up and, quickly lowering the folding handles, Fischer looked through the eyepiece. He made a quick circle: nothing. Then a slower one: nothing. The plane had gone.

  It had been on a routine reconnaissance patrol, Fischer decided. It was unlikely it had seen them.

  Another two circles to search the horizon. No fishing boat in sight.

  ‘Resume course. Resume Patrol Routine.’

  The men relaxed and started to move around again. Fischer made another circle of the horizon. The sea was definitely rougher. From one point of view that was a good thing: it meant there was less chance of the periscope being seen. On the other hand it would be more difficult to spot the prey.

  If they ever got anywhere near it, that was …

  ‘Wireless signal, Herr Kaleu.’

  With the resumption of Patrol Routine the rod aerial – also periscopic – had gone up. Fischer went over to the wireless operator and watched him tap the signal into the Enigma machine. Fischer tore off the decoded message, said, ‘Strictly no acknowledgement!’ and strode over to the chart table.

  He was jubilant: the target had been spotted! By one of their own reconnaissance planes – which meant the position wouldn’t be terribly accurate, aerial fixes never were – but it was a darn sight better than nothing.

  He measured the co-ordinates off the side and top of the chart and pencilled in a cross. There! Seen there at 0930 hours!

  Slow. Going much slower than he’d thought. Almost at the lower edge of the box he’d drawn – and to the west, well to the west! He frowned. Where could they be making for?

  And the slow speed, that was a surprise, too. They had averaged only four knots. Perhaps the fishing boat had set out later than first thought, perhaps that first position was wrong … All supposition.

  The point was, he must get U-319 further over to the west, into the prey’s path …

  And then?

  Then he’d wait. Nothing had changed. It was still a waiting game.

  In the Submarine Tracking Room the Head went over the information that had come in during the night. He sifted through it slowly, measuring it against the probable speed and track of the various boats, and tried to calculate where wolf packs might be forming.

  The job was getting increasingly difficult. The problem was one of scale. Never had there been so many U-boats – four hundred in existence, two hundred and fifty operational and probably well over a hundred actually at sea. It was almost impossible to keep track of them all, though he and his staff did their very best. Especially now.

  He remembered the morning meeting and the appalling statistics – twenty-one ships lost from just two convoys. He remembered the words of the Vice-Chief of Staff. We have reached a crisis in the battle of the Atlantic. The crisis was simple – if the U-boats weren’t driven off, then the convoys couldn’t get through.

  No-one needed to be told the consequences of that.

  To fight the menace there was to be a new strategy: Ultra information was to be used to the full and convoys always diverted out of the path of waiting wolf packs; all convoys were to get full support group protection; and, finally, production of the new H2S radar, which trials had proved to be successful, was to be rapidly accelerated and units fitted to all bombers of Coastal Command.

  It was make or break. The last ditch stand.

  Doenitz knew that too.

  Over the years the Head had learnt to understand the way Doenitz’s mind worked. The U-boats’ tactics reflected Doenitz’s thinking, his favourite strategies, his master plan. A year before, when air patrols and radar had made things too difficult for the U-boats in the North Atlantic, the Grand Admiral had transferred the larger ones to the South Atlantic. And the Head had foreseen it. When that in turn got too hot for his boats Doenitz had sent them to the American coast. Again, the Head had guessed. Because he would have done the same himself.

  Now Doenitz had put everything back into the North Atlantic.

  This was Doenitz’s last ditch stand too.

  But for the Head it was hard work keeping the Plot up to date. The Head had a day staff of eleven track plotters and six DF plotters – not a lot to cover so many U-boats.

  He re-examined the log entries made by the night watch, and the decodes.

  Mainly routine. No specific evidence of a new wolf pack forming. The only unusual thing was the long message sent at 0115 hours and prefixed urgent.

  A signal on the U-boat frequency – possibly an acknowledgement – had been sent ten minutes later. The signal was too short for the DF people to get a good fix on it, but a rough estimate had put the U-boat in the Bay of Biscay.

  Just one acknowledgement … A single U-boat involved then. Curious. A change of orders perhaps? A new destination?

  What he needed were the Ultra decodes.

  An hour later he had them in an enormous pile.

  Short messages, lots of them: acknowledgements, damage reports, notification of successful attacks (too many of them, always too many of them) … He passed them to his staff for routine processing.

  He picked up the long signal and read the message with growing astonishment. Good Lord, what on earth did it all mean? A fishing boat, occupants to be captured but not harmed … Extraordinary.

  He went to a side table. On it was a large chart marked with grid references. At the beginning of the war the Germans had made no attempt to disguise their grid references and, once a German chart had been obtained for the Tracking Room, it was a simple matter to read the references off. But now the references were disguised by a code which was changed every month and sometimes it took quite a while to crack it. At the moment they were still guessing. The code had only just been changed.

  Grid references. The signal had dozens of the blasted things …

  Some were familiar and did, he knew, lie somewhere in the Bay. Others were unfamiliar … H17 P15, for example. He knew the prefix ‘H’ and ‘P’, but he’d never seen them with those numbers and in that combination. Deduction – this boat was being sent somewhere different. Not into the Atlantic, nor to Greenland or Iceland.

  Chasing a fishing boat … Biscay coast? Possibly. But there again the grid references didn’t look right, certainly nothing like those used by U-boats close to the Biscay coast from where, after Allied air attacks, they sometimes had to call for assistance.

  The North French coast then?

  No U-boats had been into the Channel for a long time. Too dangerous and too few convoys to make it worthwhile.

  He frowned, studying the signal again. The fishing boat was believed to be heading for another place with fairly similar co-ordinate
s – same prefixes, not too dissimilar numbers. So, somewhere fairly close to the first place? It would be easy to assume that the second place was a port or refuge – but it could just as easily be a point miles out to sea, a rendezvous …

  The Head called across to one of his assistants and asked her to check with the various clandestine organisations, just in case they knew anything about a meeting with a fishing boat.

  Back to the co-ordinates. Assuming the first of each pair of co-ordinates was the latitude, then the second position was at a higher latitude, assuming again that the code followed the normal practice and the numbers got higher the further from the equator you went …

  An awful lot of assumptions.

  But if the assumptions were right, then the second place was to the north of the first.

  The fishing boat could conceivably be going north from somewhere like Bordeaux … But no, the co-ordinates would have been familiar. Also he felt that, instinctively, it didn’t quite fit. They’d never send a U-boat if the fisherman was making a run for another part of Occupied France, or for neutral Spain, they’d send a coastal patrol boat or, even better, an E-boat.

  That was it! Of course!

  They had sent a U-boat.

  Not anything else …

  Why?

  The mission was important, of course, as Doenitz had stressed. But there must be more to it than that. This fishing boat had to be going somewhere where other craft couldn’t go. Like towards enemy territory. Or past enemy territory, where Allied air patrols were likely to be heavy. Yes, yes.

  The English Channel.

  It had to be.

  But where exactly? East Channel? No. However vital the operation was, Doenitz would never send one of his boats on a suicide mission. It was so shallow in the East Channel the U-boat wouldn’t stand a chance.

  So West Channel. Why not?

  The Head looked at the clock on the wall. He must decide quickly – he still had an awful lot of work to do.

  He went to the plot and, picking up U-319’s token which the night staff had placed outside Brest, placed it in the middle of the English Channel, to the south of Plymouth.