Night Sky

by Clare Francis

  As soon as she’d dropped on to her knees beside him, he grasped her hand. It was very hot. He was rather surprised because she looked so cold: her hair clung damply to her forehead and dropped in long wet strands around her shoulders. She looked worn out. Her face was very pale, apart from two bright patches of colour which burned on her cheeks, and her eyes were red and swollen, with dark smudges underneath.

  David patted her hand. ‘My dear, you must rest … Some time.’

  She squeezed his hand and smiled. It quite transformed her face. ‘Don’t you worry about me. I’m fit and healthy. It’s you who must take care. Would you like some water? You must be desperate for some by now.’

  She reached over for the large glass bottle and, removing the stopper, held it to his lips. He drank greedily. It tasted good.

  As she replaced the stopper he opened the bag he wore round his waist and, reaching in, took out the small package.

  He took hold of her hand and, concentrating hard on the words, said, ‘You remember … in the field. When you came back for me. I want to thank you.’

  She smiled. ‘Don’t be silly. Of course I came back for you. I couldn’t leave you, could I?’

  ‘At the time … Well …’ He coughed and breathed deeply to regain his breath. ‘… I wanted to give up. But I’m glad I didn’t. You see—’ He waited for a spasm of pain to pass.

  She was patting his hand. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Yes, yes …’ As soon as he could, he went on. ‘You were right … about them making me work. They would’ve got hold of my Cecile … they would have threatened things. This way I’m protecting her. Just like I promised. Thank you for that, thank you.’

  She almost spoke, but he interrupted quickly. ‘Look … this package. It’s got everything … about my ideas. The drawings. The specifications. Please, you must take care of it. In case anything happens to me—’

  ‘It won’t!’

  He shook his head irritably. ‘You will promise,’ he went on slowly, ‘that you’ll take care of it … and hand it to the right people. It must be the right people … Do you understand?’

  She still seemed unhappy about it, but nodded gently and, looking down at the small flat package, weighed it thoughtfully in her hand. She appeared to come to a decision and, turning slightly away, pushed the package down inside her jersey and buried it somewhere in her underwear.

  David relaxed. He was free at last. It was like a weight off his shoulders. Now he could really sleep. He squeezed her hand. ‘You’re a good girl.’

  She leaned forward and kissed him gently on the cheek. Then she stroked his forehead and asked, ‘What about taking some of your pills?’

  ‘Pain’s not so bad now … Anyway … Make me sick. Better not.’ It was a lie about the pain, it was as bad as ever, but he didn’t want to bother her with it.

  She was regarding him thoughtfully. ‘You know, I should thank you too. For snapping me out of it when we were hiding on the beach. If you hadn’t – well, I would probably have stayed in a daze … I only wish I hadn’t got you into this mess.’ She sighed and looked away.

  She didn’t understand at all. She thought she was failing.

  David said desperately, ‘No … No, we’re trying. And that’s worth everything! Everything! You must realise that trying is the most important thing of all …!’

  She nodded uncertainly. ‘If you say so. Now rest. Please. Try to sleep.’ She leaned forward once again and kissed him softly on the cheek.

  ‘Remember,’ he murmured. ‘Trying is the most important thing.’

  ‘Yes!’ She gave a small laugh and, touching his hand, got to her feet and set off towards the stern.

  David lay back and closed his eyes. His mind was at rest, he had done what had to be done; now, at last, he could sleep in peace.

  Her body was seizing up like her mind. As she moved back along the deck she felt her whole body complaining. Her neck was almost unmovable and every time she turned her head a sharp pain shot through her temples.

  Peter’s face lit up at the sight of her. ‘Mummy, here! You still haven’t had any lunch. I’ve kept some for you!’

  She sat down beside him, under the bulwark, and tried to eat. She didn’t feel very hungry.

  ‘Mummy, are you going to be better now?’

  ‘I expect so. I’m … just tired, that’s all.’

  ‘Why don’t you sleep and then I can keep watch?’

  Sighing, she began, ‘No, Peter, it—’ Then she thought: Why not? The boat was sailing itself. Peter would probably keep a better lookout than she would. Yes: why not?

  She finished her mouthful and looked at him. It was an awful responsibility for a six-year-old. But it would be night in a few hours. She’d have to be awake then and, without sleep – well, she’d never do it.

  She said carefully, ‘Darling … Would you promise to tell me the moment you saw anything?’

  The small head nodded.

  ‘Or the moment the weather changed … black clouds or more spray … or rain …?’

  ‘Yes, Mummy.’

  ‘If you saw a ship or … anything floating, or a plane … You’d wake me then too, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘I promise, Mummy.’

  ‘Anything at all …’

  He nodded again. ‘Don’t worry, Mummy. I’ll keep a really sharp lookout!’ He smiled excitedly and pulled himself up onto the helmsman’s seat.

  Julie stood up and took a long look round. The sky was still clear, but now there was a slight haze around the horizon. The sea appeared as vast as ever – and as impossible to cross.

  A sharp lookout … She lay down on the deck with her head on her arm and wondered if Peter had learnt that one from Richard too.

  Richard. He must have been through this sort of thing countless times – the wet, the cold and the tiredness. The thought gave her comfort. Then she saw him in another setting – in a prison cell, hungry, cold, raging to be free, and hastily tried to shut the picture out of her mind before worse things appeared.

  She closed her eyes and tried to sleep, but for a long time her body refused to relax. When she finally drifted into an uneasy doze a series of disconnected thoughts rampaged around her brain and several times made her wake with a terrible start. After a while her brain began to slow down. Only one thought remained. Something she should have done. What was it? As she drifted off into a deep sleep, she remembered at last. The course. It was still wrong. She hadn’t reset the course.

  Chapter 30

  A NEEDLE IN a haystack.

  And yet, and yet …

  With his finger Fischer traced the fishing boat’s course from Morlaix to the position the plane had reported, then followed the pencilled line on, in a straight projection. His finger arrived at a point midway between the Scillies and Land’s End. It was the fifth time he’d checked the projection, but the result was always the same.

  He still couldn’t understand it. Where was the boat making for? Why go all the way round Land’s End and then be faced with a long trek up the north coast of Cornwall, against the wind? The alternatives were – what? Wales or Ireland. Wales – again why bother? Ireland then. Now that was a possibility, particularly if the occupants of the fishing boat were seeking the safety of a neutral country. When one thought about it, the whole affair did smack of politics … Fischer decided that it was the most likely destination.

  However there was still one thing that didn’t make sense.

  If the fishing boat was holding her course, why the devil hadn’t they seen her yet?

  U-319 was zigzagging four miles either side of the prey’s projected track. The visibility was still good. Using the search periscope they should be able to spot even a small boat at four miles. She must have masts and sails which should be clearly visible against the skyline.

  Even allowing for the worst: for U-319 speeding away from the approaching prey on the wrong leg of the zig-zag, and for the fishing boat being as much as four miles off course,
they should still see her on the return leg because of their superior speed and because each leg of the zigzag took them very slightly forward along the fishing boat’s track.

  They should have seen her, but they hadn’t.

  Fischer sighed deeply and chucked the pencil down on to the chart.

  The control room was quiet except for the gentle hum of the electric motors. The men were at their positions, silent except for the occasional whisper, engrossed in their jobs. The man at the periscope was swivelling slowly, his eyes fixed to the lens.

  Fischer wondered how long it had been since he’d slept. He thought for a moment and decided that his last proper sleep must have been over thirty hours ago. He’d tried to sleep early that morning, but had managed only a short doze.

  He should try to snatch some rest now but he knew he wouldn’t be able to. Not yet. Not while the hunt was on.

  Once darkness fell – once they’d missed the boat for certain – then he’d sleep. During the night there was nothing they could do; they had no way of hunting a small boat under cover of darkness. All he could do would be to manoeuvre U-319 into a position ahead of the fishing boat and lie in wait for it at dawn. By then the margin for error would be enormous – the prey might have changed course a dozen times. The chances would be slim.

  A needle in a haystack …

  Men were moving around the control room, changing places, whispering in muted voices. The watch change. 1600 hours.

  He was tempted to go to the periscope and take a look, but decided against it. A man from the new watch was just settling in. When the fellow finished his first trick at the periscope in about fifteen minutes, perhaps then he’d take a look. It was partly superstition: Fischer had the feeling that, by restraining himself from looking, the fishing boat was more likely to turn up. Ridiculous, of course …

  Fischer wandered aft, towards the engine room. The Chief spotted him and, wiping his hands on an oily rag, made his way between the massive diesels to meet his commander.

  Suddenly there was a muffled exclamation, the sound of voices from the direction of the control room. Fischer froze for a moment then, turning quickly, retraced his steps. Even as he turned he was thinking: No klaxon – not an aircraft. What then?

  The first officer was at the periscope. ‘… bearing 280!’

  Fischer strode up and tapped him on the shoulder. The first officer stood aside. ‘A small craft, Herr Kaleu!’ Fischer put his eye to the lens.

  For a moment he could see nothing, just seas, larger than before. He checked the bearing – 280 degrees – and waited. A wave rose in front of the horizon then fell again.

  There!

  Fischer felt the adrenalin leap into his veins.

  ‘Raise attack periscope!’

  There was a hiss of hydraulics as the much larger attack periscope rose from the bowels of the boat. The search periscope had a wide field of vision, covering large areas of the sky as well as the sea, but had limited powers of magnification; the attack periscope, on the other hand, had a small field of vision but much greater magnification. Fischer pulled down the handles and, swinging the periscope round, put his eye to it.

  Greatly magnified waves obscured the horizon. He waited. They fell away.

  There she was!

  A small boat. Under sail.

  The silhouette was unmistakable, even from this distance. He guessed the range to be over four miles. He could see almost nothing of the hull – it was hidden among the waves – but the mainsail showed black and distinct, a tiny curved shape against the brilliant yellow of the western sky.

  The boat was sailing north.

  He allowed himself a moment of satisfaction, then let his natural caution take charge. It might be a British fishing boat … But unlikely in mid-Channel. It might be another escaped French fishing boat – equally unlikely. The coincidences of time and position were too great.

  It had to be the prey.

  Next – how to capture them. He’d have to approach submerged, then surface at the last minute. That way the occupants wouldn’t have time to think about fighting. He wanted to avoid fighting, not only because he’d been told to bring back the occupants unharmed, but because the operation had to be completed in the shortest possible time, to avoid being caught on the surface.

  He hated the idea of surfacing in broad daylight, particularly here. But it would have to be done.

  Automatically he began to swing the periscope round, walking with it in a circle, sweeping the narrow band either side of the horizon. No ships. He couldn’t see much of the sky, not with this periscope.

  He stood back and let the first officer take a look.

  It was time to close in. ‘Alter course to—’

  He broke off. Something was wrong: he identified it. The bloody stupid man on the search periscope wasn’t swivelling it round, wasn’t searching! Fischer felt a surge of anger.

  ‘Sweep! Sweep the sky! Come on!’

  The man glanced up, looked shaken, and rapidly spun the periscope.

  Fischer clenched his fists. Bloody fool. That was the way to get caught. An aircraft could spot the wake of the two periscopes at a hell of a distance. But Fischer knew the sailor at the periscope: normally he was a good man. He decided to let the matter pass.

  Now, the order to alter course.

  A sharp cry, half-shout, half-scream, rent the air.

  ‘Enemy aircraft!’

  In reflex Fischer shouted, ‘Down periscopes!’

  The two shafts began to hiss downwards.

  ‘Take her down! Alter course forty-five degrees to starboard!’

  The order was repeated.

  Fischer had no idea whether the plane had been close, whether it was even making a bombing run, but he wasn’t going to take any chances. He strode to the chart and looked at the depth of the water here. He barked, ‘Take her down to thirty metres!’

  After what seemed a long, long time but which was only a couple of seconds the submarine began to react to the re-angled hydroplanes and her nose tilted downwards. Slowly, peacefully, the boat slipped further and further down into the depths.

  Everyone tensed and reached out for a handhold, waiting for the shock of the depth charges.

  The silence lasted a long, long time.

  The voice of the coxswain sounded calmly through the stillness. ‘Depth fifteen metres … eighteen metres … twenty metres …’

  ‘Alter course another forty-five degrees to starboard.’

  ‘Altering course forty-five degrees starboard, Herr Kaleu.’

  At last it came. ‘Depth thirty metres.’

  Fischer exhaled. The men shifted their weight and exchanged glances. No depth charges. They were safe.

  ‘You!’ Fischer barked at the sailor who’d been manning the search periscope.

  The man approached, ashen white.

  ‘Bearing and range of enemy plane?’

  The man gulped. Fischer noticed that he was shaking like a leaf.

  ‘Bearing and range of enemy plane?’

  The man’s mouth was gaping slightly and he glanced around like a frightened rabbit. Fischer raised his hand and quite deliberately slapped the sailor’s face. The man fell back in surprise. For a moment Fischer thought he was going to cry.

  Fischer repeated more quietly, ‘Bearing and range of enemy plane.’

  The man’s eyes cleared. ‘Behind us, Herr Kaleu,’ he began breathlessly. ‘No – slightly to starboard. Bearing about … I … I’m not sure.’ He was shaking again.

  Fischer said sharply, ‘But a British plane?’

  ‘Oh yes … A Catalina, I think.’

  ‘Was he closing on us?’

  The man nodded. ‘Yes! Oh yes! Straight for us, it was coming straight for us.’

  ‘Diving on us?’

  ‘Yes – yes! Head on! About half a mile away. No – less. Less!’

  Fischer nodded and said briskly, ‘Stand down and pull yourself together!’

  Fischer went to the chart t
able and leant over it, a wave of depression pressing in on him.

  They might have been seen. It changed everything.

  The enemy might send more aircraft, perhaps patrol boats …

  They’d be hunted down.

  Unless … unless they stayed submerged and slipped away. But the orders had been clear: he had no alternative but to close in and try to accomplish the task.

  Damn! So near and yet so far.

  He thought of the fishing boat sailing on, oblivious to everything, a victim ready for the taking, yet maddeningly beyond his reach.

  He daren’t surface now. He wasn’t even sure if he dared go to periscope depth and have a look.

  Not yet anyway.

  He’d take a look in half an hour, he decided. The plane might have given up by then. Even if it hadn’t – well, he’d have to risk it, otherwise he’d lose the prey.

  He passed the time bent over the chart, calculating and recalculating the course and speed necessary to stay on the fishing boat’s tail. As before, the fishing boat had been slightly to the west of its projected track. Maybe the wind was backing. He redrew its course line and calculated the manoeuvres necessary to get the U-boat on to the new track.

  At the end of an hour he checked with Sonar: there were no propeller noises. He gave the order to go to periscope depth. There was the muted hiss of blowing tanks.

  ‘… Twenty-five metres … Twenty … Fifteen …’ Then they were levelling off. Finally came the words, ‘Periscope depth!’

  Fischer pulled up the search periscope and, his heart in his mouth, put his eye to the lens. As he did so he thought: Please, dear God, let it still be there.

  She was a long way away, in the country somewhere, lying in a barn, which accounted for the hard floor. Nearby was some soft straw which would be much better to lie on, but she couldn’t get her limbs to move and carry her across to it. Her body was like stone, heavy and lifeless. For some unaccountable reason the barn was very noisy: there was a whistling and swishing and roaring which reverberated around the bare wooden walls. It was moving too, the barn, the floor tilting strangely … It was confusing, this place. Now something was shaking her. An animal – large, like a cow – was butting its head against her arm. The creature was getting more agitated …