‘Right! Guide me in!’
He would go straight in. Straight in and light her up at one mile.
Then – Bam!
It was the U-boat, he felt it was the U-boat. And trying to hide, the bastard!
But there was no hiding place, not for U-boats. Not any more.
*
The sea was sluicing over the long, narrow bows, creating great swathes of phosphorescence which ran off in rivers of sparkling silver to the dark water beneath.
Normally Fischer would have worried about the phosphorescence, but U-319 was moving slowly so there was almost no wake to give them away. Besides, it was quite choppy and the luminescent path cut by the submarine would be indistinguishable from the multitude of breaking crests, flashing white and silver against the dark background of the night.
Fischer shivered: the north-east wind was cold. He pulled his scarf tighter round his neck and, moving over the hatch, shouted, ‘Position?’
A voice came floating faintly up. ‘Half a mile south of St Agnes Island.’
Fischer peered into the darkness. Nothing to be seen, but he couldn’t help looking.
He hoped the navigator was right. After so long without a proper fix – visual or star – it was impossible to be positive about one’s position. The navigator had got what he believed to be good bearings on radio beacons issuing from the French coast. Nevertheless Fischer had told the lookouts to keep a sharp watch for white water, just to be on the safe side …
These islands were the very devil. Lots of rocks and islets scattered around, especially here to the south-west. And the rocks rising steeply from the sea floor so that depth-soundings could give no warning.
The only warning they’d ever get would be white, breaking water …
U-319 was going at four knots, making tight circles in an area between a mile and half a mile to the south of St Agnes.
They’d been up on top for an hour now. Five to go. A hell of a time … Fischer hated being on the surface in a place like this, it made him nervous. But to enemy radar, U-319 would hopefully be just a tiny speck, another rock in the chaos of white blips that marked the Scillies.
He paced the small bridge then, on a whim, decided to go below to have another quick look at the chart. There was nothing to see up here anyway.
He half-slid, half-climbed down the ladder and, still in his wet-weather gear, went to the chart area. Just before dawn, at about six, he would take U-319 to the entrance to St Mary’s Sound and wait for the prey. The little boat would have to go in that way: it seemed to be the only entrance into the islands – or at least the only safe entrance.
Then he’d grab the occupants – and quick. Once he was spotted all hell would break loose. He’d have five minutes – ten at the most. A slim chance. Was there any other way? He began to mull over the possibilities.
There was a muffled shout. Fischer tensed.
Then a cry. Fischer felt his blood run cold.
The klaxon shrieked through the silence, whooping obscenely. Twice.
‘Dive! Dive! Dive!’
Fischer thought: Oh God, no!
There was a burst of noise.
Men were running forward to the bow to get the nose down; the watch were pouring down the tower from the bridge; the rest were busy in the control room, spinning stopcocks, handling levers, shouting as they completed each manoeuvre. There was a loud hissing noise as the main vents were opened, and Fischer stared at the depth-meter, waiting – willing – it to go down …
Christ! He remembered they were doing only four knots. At that speed it would take for ever. Christ!
Everything was happening with infinite slowness …
Fifteen seconds gone …
The last man fell down the tower and the hatch was clanged shut.
The depth-meter was just beginning to show something – at last. Come on. Come on. The water would barely be washing round the conning tower …
One metre! So slow …
Twenty seconds gone.
Fischer looked over the coxswain’s shoulder. The stick was fully forward, the hydroplanes at maximum pitch, angling the nose down, down, down – but slowly, so slowly …
God, one could go mad in such a moment …
Thirty seconds gone.
They should have been down by now – safe!
Depth – four metres. Conning tower covered … Not deep enough!
She was going slightly faster now. Eight metres … Almost at periscope depth …
Forty seconds gone …
Perhaps they’d manage it after all.
Then time stood still. And U-319 took off.
Her port side shot up, up, up, twisting sideways and upwards by the bow. Fischer felt a momentary surprise as the floor rose up against his feet. Then the control room spun rapidly round and he realised he was falling.
Then came the noise, a vast long echoing boom which stunned the ears and reverberated in the brain.
There were shouts … Dull noises which dimly penetrated one’s ringing ears … Men lying on the floor, reaching out …
Panting, Fischer pulled himself up. He tried to shout. But nothing came out. He tried again, ‘Damage reports!’
The messages came back, slowly at first.
‘Flooding in fore-ends. Watertight door closed!’
‘Flooding in accommodation!’
The bow was settling down from its strange upward tilt, settling down – and falling.
He shouted, ‘Blow forward tanks.’ Christ, he had to get more buoyancy into her, otherwise she’d sink like a stone.
The bow was already beginning to tilt more steeply downwards.
‘Depth twenty metres!’
Fischer gulped: she was falling too fast!
‘Forward tanks blown!’
‘Blow aft tanks!’ It was risky, but even if they came up stern first it was better than falling this fast.
Men were pouring aft now, out of the accommodation. As the last man came through, the watertight door was slammed and bolted shut.
‘Accommodation flooding rapidly, Herr Kaleu. We couldn’t stop it.’
Fischer’s eyes fastened on the depth gauge. It was falling steadily.
‘Aft tanks blown!’
Thirty metres … thirty three … still falling.
And they had blown all the main ballast tanks.
The nose was tilting further and further down …
Fischer raced for the chart. How deep—?
Sixty-eight metres.
Christ, they were going to hit the bottom hard.
Forty metres … Fischer tried to think: What else, what else!
He looked at the men who had crowded in from the forward sections and yelled, ‘All you to the after-ends!’
The frightened faces were blank and stunned, but they obeyed, grabbing handholds to start the uphill climb to the after sections.
But the nose was tilting further and further down …
Depth: fifty metres and accelerating.
‘Brace yourselves!’
Men flattened themselves against bulkheads or crouched against partitions. Then there was silence.
Those who could see the depth gauge watched it, their eyes round with horror.
Fifty five metres … Sixty …
She hit at sixty-one. The impact pushed in the first fifteen feet of her bow, opening up the already damaged forward compartment and completing the flooding process.
Fischer was aware of the breath being knocked out of his body, of his head meeting hard metal with a thud.
Then there was quiet, except for the hiss of leaking pressure pipes and the moans of men in pain.
U-319 was on the bottom.
Fischer pulled himself up against a partition. The floor was steeply tilted: the submarine was at an angle of about forty-five degrees, her stern high above the sea floor.
She was still moving though: twisting over, slowly and gently on to her port side.
Fischer brushed at the warm b
lood that was running into his eyes and looked round the control room. There was something wrong, something else …
He peered round the partition. Ahead was the bulkhead that separated the control room from the accommodation. The watertight door was still closed and locked tight. But to one side of it water was hissing out in a fan from the bulkhead itself. Fischer stumbled down the slope of the deck and fell against the bulkhead. He put his fingers to the metal. The water was spraying out from a wide fracture which ran from the deckhead almost to the floor.
He looked at it for a long time, then turned.
The men were watching him, their faces blank, patient, passive. Someone appeared from aft. ‘Flooding in the engine room, Herr Kaleu. We’re trying to patch it up now.’
They couldn’t save her. They’d try of course, but Fischer knew it would be no good. Neither could they escape; no-one had ever made a free ascent from this depth and lived.
Fischer stared back at them. For the moment there was nothing he could say to them.
He would think of something later, something appropriate, something to prepare them for the end.
But all he could think of now was that they had put their faith in him and they had been wrong. Even now, they were waiting expectantly.
There is nothing I can do for you, my friends.
It might take them a day to die, maybe longer, depending on how long the air lasted.
Then he looked down at the gathering water and thought: No, it’ll be quicker than that. We’re going to drown first.
He shook his head and smiled at his brave uncomplaining men with affection.
He wanted to say: I never was a god. Why did you ever think I was?
But they already knew it. They could see it in his face and, one by one, they looked away.
Julie wished it wasn’t so dark.
She wasn’t so worried about the sailing now – the boat seemed to be dancing along quite happily – but she did wish she could see.
Still … there was only this night to survive, and then, some time in the morning, land would come into sight – or a plane – help of some kind at any rate. Then – she could almost imagine it now – the massive overwhelming relief. And the peace.
A picture floated in front of her eyes, as real as if she had seen it herself: it was a picture of a small cottage, standing alone on a hilltop, with a wonderful view of the distant sea which was pale and sparkling in the sunshine. The cottage was whitewashed and surrounded by a small garden with borders of softly coloured flowers. Sitting in the garden were two people: she was one of them. The other was Richard. They had been there some time, living in the small cottage. They were very happy.
Extraordinary how clear it all was. She tried to hold on to it but other pictures flashed into her mind: a small terraced house – her mother’s – a clifftop, her uncle and aunt walking on it, a dance at Plymouth … Then everything got jumbled up and people were laughing at her, and it was some kind of nightmare, and they were pointing at he … Then she was drifting away, out to sea, in a strange boat without a tiller …
She woke up. Reality.
She shone the dim torch at the compass and put the boat back on course. She looked around. Nothing had changed.
She peered down into the darkness by the stern. She could just make out the dark shape of Peter’s body curled up in the corner.
Then she heard it.
A faint noise, so indistinct that at first she thought she was mistaken.
Wide awake now, she peered into the darkness ahead.
There it was again. A faint – something …
A whispering? No, more of a swishing …
She gulped and stood up.
Where was it coming from?
She looked around wildly. The sound seemed to be all around her. Or was it ahead, more?
It faded then died away. Perhaps she was imagining it …
No! There it was again, like muffled thunder, a soft boom which rolled, then fell away …
She stood still, frozen, gripped by fear.
Again, a low rumble. Closer. Closer.
She clamped her hand to her mouth.
Then she saw it and almost screamed. A flicker which grew into a long smudge of glimmering whiteness.
‘God! God!’
It was water – white water, leaping, moving, rising, falling back, a great line that stretched across the sea in front of her.
She yanked the tiller towards her. Pulling, pulling until it would go no further.
‘Turn! Turn! Please …’ She pulled on the tiller until her hands hurt.
The boat turned on a wave and lurched over, throwing her sideways against the boat’s side.
She grasped the rail and turned back to look.
White water … rising, thundering up against black walls, falling back …
She cried out, ‘Oh God!’ And watched the terrible water, mesmerised, the fear gripping her like ice.
Then she remembered. The tiller: she had let it go. She reached out for it, found it, took hold of it, suddenly realised she had lost all sense of direction.
The white water was to her right now. Whimpering slightly she looked around her. Turn still more: she must turn still more.
Away, away, back to the open sea …
She pulled on the tiller, took another look at the white water … it was almost behind her … behind her … Yes, yes – behind her now … She shouted, ‘Oh, go away! Go away!’ For a moment it seemed that the white water was dragging her back, then she realised it was fading, turning grey again …
She collapsed, shaking and weak, on to the seat, murmuring, ‘Oh, Oh …’
Something made her look up – a sound; a dull roar; falling water. Her blood froze.
Somebody screamed. She dimly realised it was herself. Ahead of the boat was a wall of brilliant silver and white cascading downwards and backwards, rushing out towards the little boat. Then a wave rose, higher and higher, and Julie was aware of the little boat rushing forward, hurtling headlong towards a black mass rising into the sky, blacker than the night.
She grabbed for the tiller and pulled desperately, but the wild forward motion of the boat was inexorable. The black mass rose higher and larger, rushing forward to meet the boat.
She screamed again and turned to reach out for Peter. A second later the breath was pushed from her body and she was thrown forward, flying headlong. Peter! Peter! She was twisting in the air; turning; then landing on something brutal and hard which dug deep into her back.
She looked wildly about and screamed, ‘Peter!’
Some way below her she saw the dim outline of the back of the boat, where Peter had been, but so dark that she couldn’t see inside.
‘Peter!’
Water came roaring towards her in a great deluge, flooding over the boat. She grabbed at something and, closing her eyes, held on tight. The water came thundering over her head, filling her eyes and ears and trying to drag her away. Hold on, hold on. She held on until her arms were breaking. Something jerked at her waist, pulling at her body.
The water subsided, sucking back in a great gasp, as if taking another breath.
She rasped for air and tried to move towards the stern, towards Peter, but the rope was tight around her waist, dragging her to the side.
‘God, let me go! Let me go!’
She pulled on the rope, tried to yank it off, tried to tear it off, grappling wildly at the knot. Get off! Then she remembered – the rope! The rope was Peter. She screamed, ‘P-e-t-e-r!’ and slid down the deck in the direction of the rope. Nothing. She groped around. She touched something soft and reached for it just as the next wave came thundering over the deck, knocking her sideways, roaring into her mouth. She reached out through the water – grabbed – found – clung – pulled him into her body …
She clung to him. She clung to him as the water carried them forward, bumping, crashing them along, forward, forward …
Something hit her head with a great bang. S
he swallowed water. Then they were up against something hard, and now the other way, now they were being dragged back, back, back.
And she clung to him. And in that fraction of a moment she would have died for him, wanted to die for him, the child of her body. She would have held the water back with her bare hands and clawed at the rock with her fists and killed any man or anything that stood in her way …
But now the water was carrying them forward again, faster this time and angrier, a great crested wave that carried them up, up, racing forwards to hurl itself on the unyielding granite, forward on to the mighty rock which waited to break the back of the impudent wave, as it had broken a hundred thousand before it.
Julie was aware that the deck had disappeared from under her feet. Instead there was only the water, spinning her round, trying to drag her down. She swallowed water, tried to breathe, choked, gasped for breath, found some precious air, gulped water again, felt the sea close over her head … flung out an arm and tried to fight her way up …
Still the wave raced forward.
And still she clung to him.
Then they were falling, falling in the great cataract of water. Julie braced herself. In that instant of time she saw a great panorama before her: a split second which covered all the happiness and joy of her life.
Something hit the back of her body with a sickening impact, it hit her so hard that her chin met her chest and her breath was exploded from her lungs. Then the water was clawing at her, dragging her over rough, sharp, hurtful things …
Everything began to slip away … She was drifting gently … the world was purple … white … black. She was drifting …
In a moment of lucidity she was aware of a terrible pain in her side, as if a great weight were pressing hard against it. One last time she murmured the child’s name.
Then she was slipping away again … into a cloud where a soft gentle wave enveloped her, soothing her aching head, removing all pain, making everything right again …
David thought: How strange that I should die here, in the sea.
The boat lurched again, slipping further down, wood scraping loudly and unhappily against granite.
The rushing waves came higher into the raised bow, grabbing at David’s legs, trying to pull him away.
Night Sky Page 59
