Red Wheels Turning

by Ashton, Hugh

  He looked around carefully, and could see no-one. The remaining strips of cloth went into his bag, and he stood up. As casually as he could manage, he walked towards the road, moving towards the village that he had seen earlier from the train, praying there was a railway station where he could buy a ticket to continue his journey.

  He passed a few people on his way into the village, some using the fading light to tend their vegetable gardens, and others walking slowly along the street. There were few men of his age to be seen. All at the front, he assumed. He pulled his cap over his eyes and walked with his head down, and his bandaged arm slightly hidden, so that it wouldn’t be the first thing that people remembered about him.

  To his relief, the village possessed a small station, with a light in the ticket office. Otherwise, the station was deserted. “To Travemunde,” he said. “By the next train.”

  “That’s tomorrow morning at 6:30,” said the clerk, after consulting his timetables. “In a hurry, are you? What did you do to your hand?”

  “None of your business,” replied Kolinski. “Just give me the ticket.”

  “What class?”

  “First.” He’d been travelling third class before, and if anyone was looking for him there, he would now be in first, with a nice clean shirt.

  The clerk looked at him. “First?”

  “Yes, damn it, I can pay.” He reached for one of the gold German coins and rang it on the counter. The clerk’s eyes lit up. “Haven’t seen one of those for a time,” he said. “Since they started printing that damned paper money last year.”

  “Got good eyes, then, have you?” asked Kolinski. “See things and remember them, do you?”

  “I suppose so,” replied the clerk. “No better or worse than most, I suppose.”

  “Well, how about if I refresh your memory of old times with another one of these?” producing another twenty-mark gold piece. “This one’s not for the railway company, it’s for you. And it’s all for you, if those eyes and that memory of yours manage to forget that I’ve ever been here or bought a ticket. Understand?” His dark eyes glittered, and the clerk nodded.

  “Never seen you in my life,” he agreed, moving his hand to cover the coin, where it was immediately covered in its turn by Kolinski’s enormous paw, pressing it painfully hard against the counter.

  “Make sure that it stays that way,” growled Kolinski. “Otherwise...” He shook his head. “You alone here?”

  “Yes,” the other squeaked. Kolinski’s hand was exerting an uncomfortable pressure. “I’m the stationmaster. There’s only a porter besides me, and he’s off duty now that the last train’s gone through for the day.”

  “Good. Now, my ticket, if you would, please.” He released his grip on the other’s hand.

  “First class will be twenty-five marks and thirty pfennigs. That’s only twenty there,” pointing to the first coin.

  Kolinski reluctantly fished out another twenty-mark piece. “Keep the change from that.”

  “Really? I mean, that’s fourteen marks in change.” He slid the ticket over towards Kolinski.

  “Yes, keep it all. I just want you to do one more thing for me in exchange. Consider that money as payment for my lodging tonight.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “When do you go out of here tonight and lock up?”

  “I should have done that five minutes ago.”

  “So leave me here. I won’t take anything. Trust me,” Kolinski grinned. “Just turn off the lights, don’t bother putting out the fire in the stove, leave the door unlocked so I can catch that train in the morning, and no-one will be any the wiser. I get a nice warm place to sleep for the night, and you get a free night watchman and more than fifteen marks, plus the extra twenty I just gave you. Deal?”

  “I don’t think I have a choice,” grinned the stationmaster.

  “Thought you’d see it like that. Good man.”

  -oOo-

  Chapter 7: Off the coast of Germany

  “This is what makes all of this being cooped up in a stinking metal box worthwhile.”

  The air was foul; an unholy mix of machinery, diesel fuel, cabbage and some indefinable chemical smell, overlaid with the stench of wet wool and unwashed bodies, and all mixed with the stink from the chemical toilets.

  The ceilings were far too low for Brian, who kept hitting his head on the pipes and valves that seemed to protrude from every surface, and he had to bend double to get through every hatchway. He’d started wearing a thick knitted woollen cap all the time to cushion the knocks he suffered every time he moved. It was uncomfortably hot, but it was preferable to continually banging his head on things.

  The captain of Royal Navy submarine HMS E9, Lieutenant-Commander Max Horton, watched his passenger with some amusement as Brian stumbled from the tiny compartments serving as the officers’ mess to the conning tower, hitting his head yet again on a pipe connected to the depth gauge.

  “Careful with that pipe,” grinned Horton. “It’s the only one we’ve got on board. We can pick up new passengers any time, but those pipes are hard to get hold of, you know.”

  If Brian, who had hit his head quite hard, was amused by this, he hid it well. In the three days since E9 had left Harwich, his head, shins and elbows had suffered many times – bits of submarine seemed to lie in wait for him and leap out each time he passed them. Each time it happened, he wished the party of three could have travelled to Russia by any method other than this. Life in the submarine didn’t seem to bother Harry, who had found kindred spirits in the engineers tending E9’s machinery, and he was usually to be found sitting happily among piles of oily cotton waste in the engine room, discussing clutch mechanisms, diesel-electric drives and other technical matters.

  Colonel Petrov (as Brian continued to call him, since he still couldn’t place Petrov’s real identity) spent most of his time on his bunk reading thick Russian novels, emerging only for meals. Brian wished he could emulate this state of semi-hibernation, but his metabolism was too active to permit such a lifestyle. Hence his constant roaming from end to end of the boat.

  “Don’t worry, Lieutenant,” said Horton, looking at his watch. “Another hour or so and it will be really dark, and then we’ll be on the surface. Fresh air, and then you can stretch your legs properly.”

  “Don’t know how you stand it all the time,” said Brian.

  Horton chuckled. “It’s a strange life, isn’t it?” he admitted. “Just wish we had more of a chance to sink Jerry’s warships for him.”

  “You do seem to have the merchant ships on edge, though. I was told that a lot of war matériel and iron ore is failing to get through to Germany, thanks to you.”

  Horton turned serious. “That’s true. But I don’t like the fact that food’s not getting through to the German civilians, and they’re going hungry, poor beggars. It’s not the kiddies or the women who started this war. I’m not happy that they’re suffering, and that’s a fact.”

  “Tell that to the Belgian civilians who had their homes burned and saw their menfolk shot out of hand as the Boche tramped through their country,” replied Brian. “War is hell, and this war is more hellish than any other.”

  The two men stood in silence for a while, eventually broken by Horton. “Your Lieutenant Braithwaite’s a queer bird to be an officer, isn’t he? I mean, I’m not trying to pry and all that, but how long have you known him?”

  “He used to be my platoon sergeant,” explained Brian, “and when this caper came up, he insisted on coming with me. He’s a damned good chap, and there’s no-one I’d sooner have beside me in a tight spot, to be frank with you. He got his commission just before we came down to Harwich from London. The head of the Service thought it would be best if we ate in the same mess, and so on. Not to mention that he deserves it many times over. If my CO in Flanders hadn’t been such a damned stuck-up fool, he’d have been leading the platoon instead of me.”

  “And what about our Russian friend?” aske
d Horton.

  Brian lowered his voice. Petrov’s bunk was less than ten feet away from where they were standing. “For a start, I don’t think his name is Petrov.”

  “What is it, then? That’s the name I have on my manifest here. Finch-Malloy, B. de Q., Lieutenant; Braithwaite, G. T. , 2nd Lieutenant, both of the Coldstream Guards; and Petrov, A. D., Colonel, Russian Imperial Staff.”

  “That may be the name on your manifest, Commander, but it’s not the name on his birth certificate, I can promise you that. I can’t tell you his real name, because I don’t know it, but his face looks familiar. Not that I’ve ever met the blighter before we started this little game, but I’ve seen his face in photographs, I am sure.”

  “Do you spend your spend time looking at pictures of Russian officers? I can think of more interesting subjects.”

  “No, not at all. He’s famous, though, believe me. Famous enough, anyway, for his picture to have appeared in a magazine or a newspaper, and for me to remember it. That’s my point.”

  “You’re imagining things, Lieutenant. I really do think so. It must be those knocks on the noggin that have done it. Either that, or joining that gang of funnies in the basement of the Admiralty has turned your brain.”

  Brian shook his head. “Trust me, I’m right about this, sir.”

  “All right, have it your own way. Now, if you’ll excuse me, Lieutenant, I’m going to check that we’re clear to surface. If you will be so kind as to leave the bridge?”

  It was phrased as a question, but it was an order, and Brian obeyed.

  -oOo-

  About twenty minutes later, E9’s conning tower broke the surface of the Baltic Sea, followed by the sleek hull, shedding water as it rose up. Riding low in the slight swell, the black hull was nearly invisible in the moonless night, with only the conning tower visible from a distance, and a faint wake astern to alert a keen observer that there was a submarine in the vicinity. The conning tower hatch popped open, and several figures emerged.

  “Bit chilly tonight,” commented Brian, who had been the fifth man up. He and Commander Horton were standing a little away from the three lookouts keeping watch, scanning the horizon through their binoculars. “Smells good, though.”

  “Agreed,” said Horton. “We haven’t got the air supply in these tin cans properly sorted out yet. One day, though, we’ll have proper submarines that can stay underwater all the time, without needing to come up and breathe every night.” He pointed. “Just think, about fifteen miles away, all the ships of the German High Seas Fleet are just sitting there, waiting for me to come along and wreak havoc. I’d be in there like a fox in a henhouse.” He grinned, and his teeth shone white in the darkness. He clapped Brian on the shoulder. “Don’t stay up here too long and catch cold. I’ve got a log to write up. There’ll be hot cocoa in the mess when you decide to come down.” He turned and started to descend the ladder.

  Brian stared out into the darkness, unsure of how he was going to carry out the many different, and almost contradictory, tasks that Petrov had asked him to carry out when he reached Russia. Before he had left London, he had naturally reported the conversation with Petrov to C, who had told him not to worry so much about Petrov’s agenda.

  “Quite frankly, lad, we want you and Braithwaite to go over there and spy out what’s going over there for us. Get a feel for things, get the lie of the land, that sort of thing” he had said. “From what Petrov tells us, this thing is like one of Mr Wells’s wonder weapons in those fantastic stories of his, which drives all before it. What we need from you both is a report which gives us the answer to two questions. First, is this thing of any value to us militarily? Second, if it is, how simple is it to produce in quantity and reliably? I’m guessing that you will be chiefly responsible for the answer to the first question, and Braithwaite will take care of the second. But that’s up to you. And if you have any time to help Petrov with his problems and keep him happily on our side, that’s a bonus.”

  Turning these problems over in his mind, he became aware, without his having noticed the fact, that his eyes had become fixed on what appeared to be a dim speck of light immediately ahead of the submarine. He turned to one of the petty officers keeping watch.

  “May I borrow those field-glasses?”

  “Sir.” The binoculars were unlooped and passed over. Brian focussed on the light he had seen earlier. It appeared that it was actually two white lights, one above the other, with a red and a green light underneath them. He passed the binoculars back, pointing to the light.

  “Thank you, sir. Don’t know why we didn’t spot her before. I’d sooner you didn’t tell the skipper we missed seeing her, if you don’t mind, sir.” He bent down to the speaking tube and uncapped it before calling down to the bridge. Horton reappeared in less than a minute, clutching his own pair of binoculars.

  “There, sir,” said the petty officer, pointing. Horton focussed his glasses. “Yes, there she is,” he said. He turned to Brian. “I’m going to have to ask you to go below,” he said. “And I can’t order you, but I am going to make a very strong suggestion, that you go to your bunk and stay there. I have a feeling that we’re going to get rather busy in the next hour or so and I want you out of the crew’s way. No offence meant.”

  “None taken,” said Brian. He slipped down the ladder and made his way to his bunk, the top of a rack of three that he shared with Harry and Petrov. Petrov was propped up in bed, peering along the length of the submarine.

  “The engines have stopped,” said Petrov. “Any idea why?” It was true – the thump of the diesels had died away. In the relative silence, Brian could hear the noise of crewmen coming down the ladder, followed by the clang of the hatch closing.

  “We spotted a ship on the surface just ahead,” said Brian. “I suppose we’re going to dive again so they don’t see us.” As he said the words, the whistle signalling “Prepare for dive” sounded. “Here we go,” as the bow pitched down.

  The Baltic isn’t a very deep sea, but the mixture of fresh and salt water makes for tricky underwater manoeuvring and station-keeping, so Brian wasn’t surprised that Commander Horton had asked him to keep out of the way while the submarine dived. He wondered about Harry’s empty bunk, but realised that Harry, unlike Brian himself, was probably a good deal more use than ornament when it came to submarines and was probably actually working his passage.

  The quiet throb of the electric motors started, and Brian realised that they were under way, though whether towards or away from the mystery ship he had spotted, he had no idea. He lay back and closed his eyes.

  After about twenty minutes, Horton poked his head round the curtain. “Thank you both for your co-operation,” he said. “Lieutenant, you may care to step to the bridge for a minute. You too, Colonel, if you care to join us.” When they were assembled on the bridge, he bent to the periscope, and then motioned to Petrov to take his place. Petrov shook his head, and Horton beckoned Brian to the periscope.

  Brian focussed the eyepiece and saw the magnified silhouette of a ship, apparently moving towards them. There was another brightly lit shape behind it. Moving away from the periscope, he shrugged and turned to Horton quizzically.

  “As far as we can tell, she’s a German destroyer,” said Horton excitedly. “Just what we wanted to see. We’re going in closer for a better look.”

  “As long as she doesn’t see us,” said Brian.

  “We’re submerged, remember. They’re not going to see our periscope at this time of night, believe me.”

  “And what is the other ship behind the German?” asked Petrov, in his accented English. He was now looking through the periscope.

  “We’re pretty sure that’s the Travemunde ferry, headed for Malmö. She’s Swedish and neutral, which is why she’s all lit up. Bit of luck for us, really. Means there’s someone to pick up the poor beggars on the destroyer when we sink her and we’re not going to have to poke our snouts up above the water. Now if you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, I have m
ore work to do. If you’ll be so kind as to return to your bunks.”

  Brian translated Horton’s words into Russian, and he and Petrov returned, in Brian’s case with some reluctance.

  “They should not be taking these risks,” complained Petrov when they were once more ensconced, lying listening to the noises as the submarine prepared for battle. “They are meant to be delivering you and me to Kronstadt, or to Reval if they cannot reach Kronstadt. This is madness.”

  “I am sure Commander Horton knows what he is doing,” Brian assured him. “He is, after all, a professional in the operation of this strange machine, and we are not. Time enough to criticise him when we find ourselves clinging to a life raft in the middle of the Baltic.”

  “I do not find your words amusing, Lieutenant,” replied Petrov, and a deafening silence ensued.

  Please yourself, sighed Brian silently, and continued listening to the strange noises coming from the bow of the boat. There were clanks and muffled thumps, and a hissing noise, which Brian guessed were the torpedo tubes being prepared for firing. Unlike the Army, there was no shouting of orders, and the sailors appeared to be working in near-silence. Only a low murmur of voices told him that there were human beings and not machines carrying out the work.

  A cryptic series of numbers and commands came from the bridge, presumably settings to be made on the torpedo warhead. A few seconds of silence, and then the single word “Shoot”.

  There was a loud hissing sound, and a whoosh as the torpedo left the tube. The sequence was repeated. And then there was silence. E9’s electric motors had stopped, and there was a hush throughout the whole ship. Horton’s head appeared around the curtain again.

  “Stay where you are,” he said. “Just letting you know that by my reckoning, if we hear anything, it will be in,” looking at the stopwatch he was holding, “another two and a half minutes.” He smiled. “This is what makes all of this being cooped up in a stinking metal box worthwhile,” and his head disappeared behind the curtain.

  The silence became almost oppressive. Brian was aware that he had been holding his breath, and he started counting slowly. A little after he reached one hundred, there was the sound of a muffled explosion, and the boat shook a little in the water. Five seconds later, the process was repeated. A low cheer could be heard from E9’s crew, and Horton came bounding in yet again.