by F. R. Tallis
Berger was lying on his side, propped up on his elbow, staring at a blank sheet of paper and trying unsuccessfully to compose a letter to his girlfriend. He repositioned his body on the mattress but was still uncomfortable.
‘What’s her name?’ asked Peters.
‘Rosamunde,’ Berger answered.
‘How old is she?’
‘Seventeen.’
Kruger leaned out of his bunk into the feeble light. His face was covered in red rashes and boils caused by the grease he was obliged to work with. A torpedo man could always be identified by his bad skin and the tang of iodine ointment. Kruger leered at Peters and said, ‘Just seventeen. Think of it . . .’ Leaning out a little further, he added: ‘What have you got there?’
Peters rolled over so he was facing the hull. ‘Nothing.’
‘Yes you have.’ Kruger got out of his bunk and wrestled with Peters. After a short struggle he triumphantly held up a bra. ‘Oh, will you look at this!’ Kruger pulled the shoulder straps apart and let the cups dangle. ‘Who does it belong to?’
‘Just a girl,’ said Peters sheepishly.
‘You stole it?’ Kruger feigned shock.
Stein appeared and snatched the bra from Kruger. He held it against his face, inhaled, and said, ‘I can smell her.’
They all froze when they heard Lorenz say, ‘How cosy it is in here.’ His approach had been silent. Kicking an empty can of tinned fruit aside he advanced a few more steps. He was wearing a sweater and his white cap was rakishly askew. ‘Obersteuermannsmaat Stein, if you’d put that fetching female undergarment down for a moment I’d like to offer you a drink.’
‘Kaleun?’ Stein handed the bra back to Peters.
Lorenz produced his bottle of rum and filled two small glasses. He handed one of them to Stein and said, ‘I believe it’s your birthday. And my birthday wish for you is . . .’ he hesitated for a moment, ‘is that you have a future. Any future, frankly, let alone a happy one.’
‘Thank you, Herr Kaleun,’ said Stein.
They touched glasses and knocked back their measures. Stein coughed. The rum was particularly strong. Lorenz reached out to Peters and indicated that he wanted to examine the bra. Peters handed it over and Lorenz gazed down at the brocade trim which had become slightly soiled with oil. The atmosphere became a little tense as the men wondered what the skipper was thinking. After a lengthy pause he looked up, scanned the expectant faces, and burst out laughing. ‘Good for morale, is it? Perhaps I should advise Admiral Dönitz to make bras standard issue. One never knows. It could prove to be the difference between victory and defeat.’ He threw the bra at Peters and sauntered back toward his nook. ‘If the Führer knew what his sea-wolves were really like he’d sleep like a baby, wouldn’t he? Truly, the fate of the Reich is safe in our hands.’
THE MESSAGE FROM U-BOAT HEADQUARTERS was brief: ALL U-BOATS IN GRID AD INTERCEPT CONVOY HX IN AD 79. ATTACK WITHOUT FURTHER ORDERS. The helmsman changed course and the diesels ran at full speed. In the forward compartment, torpedoes were removed three quarters out of their tubes—batteries recharged, instrumentation checked. Reserve torpedoes were greased and serviced. When Lorenz was satisfied that everything was in order, he retired to his nook where he dozed periodically. For an indeterminate length of time he was returned to the black waters of his nightmare and he saw, once again, a raft carrying two figures floating toward him. The image dissolved when the hull started juddering loudly. Thereafter, sleep became elusive and he rose from his bed and went to collect his jacket from the radio room where he had left it draped over the heater to dry. The leather was still damp and patterned with stains that exuded a horrible rotting smell caused by a prolific mold that had also colonized his shirt, belt, and shoes. Lorenz put on his jacket and tried to remove the larger patches with a penknife. He soon abandoned the exercise on account of its sheer futility. The mold was everywhere: on the crew’s clothes, in their bedding, and growing immoderately on the meat and cheese. There was no point in trying to halt its proliferation.
Werner, the cook, was preparing breakfast for the second watch, and the clatter of his plates carried through the boat. Lorenz crossed the control room, climbed through the aft hatchway and, stepping over a man sleeping on a mat, walked onward to the galley, eager for a large, restorative coffee. He would have made some polite conversation with Werner, a popular, good-humored man, but the engines were making too much noise. Standing in the petty officers’ quarters Lorenz marveled at how the men in the bunks were able to sleep in spite of the din. He had only just swallowed the bitter dregs from the bottom of his cup when Graf appeared and said, ‘You’re wanted on the bridge, Kaleun.’
Lorenz emerged from the hatch, said good morning to the watchmen, and positioned himself by the bulwark. He nodded at Juhl: ‘I have the conn’. Beyond the dipping bow the sea was a restless, prehistoric immensity. If a great marine lizard had broken the surface and extended its sinuous neck to scream at the pewter sky he would not have been wholly surprised. Juhl handed Lorenz a pair of binoculars and gestured in a southwesterly direction. ‘There they are.’ Lorenz adjusted the thumbscrew and observed a smear of darkness on the horizon. ‘Yes,’ Lorenz agreed. ‘That’s a convoy all right.’ As he studied the smoke it expanded outward. Lorenz removed the stopper from the communications pipe and directed a slight alteration of course. Spume arced over the bridge, and the boat veered toward the spreading cloud. Mastheads peeped over the flat grey line of the sea and their slow ascent presaged the appearance of two ships: escorts, traveling ahead of the convoy. More mastheads came into view, and then the funnels of the cargo ships. Lorenz estimated that these merchant craft would be within firing range in approximately one hour. ‘So,’ he said, returning the binoculars to Juhl and clapping his hands together. ‘Let’s make Dönitz happy. Clear the bridge!’ Immediately the lookouts and Juhl descended the ladder. Lorenz shouted through the communications pipe, ‘Prepare to dive!’ before following the others and dogging the hatch.
Submerging was invariably accompanied by a sense of wary expectancy. Human beings were not meant to survive underwater and every man understood—at some level—that he was party to an infringement, a transgression that might not be readily overlooked. They were defying Nature or Neptune or some other proprietary Personification and when the pointer on the manometer revolved, it measured not only depth, but increments of dread. The pounding of the diesels ceased, and it wasn’t until the maneuver was successfully completed that the tension in the atmosphere finally dissipated. Their hubris had gone unnoticed, or some kindly god had granted them yet another dispensation.
Lorenz sat at the attack periscope in the conning tower, securing his position by clamping his thighs around either side of the shaft. He switched on the motor and tested the pedals, rotating the column and saddle to the right and left. His fingers found the elevation control, and he raised the periscope. Conditions were very favorable, the ‘stalk’ was traveling in the same direction as the sea, and the waves were washing over the hood from behind. He was able to keep the objective low in the water, reducing the chances of being spotted while simultaneously benefiting from a clear view. Falk was standing by the computer, lightly touching its dials and buttons as if he needed to reacquaint himself with their function. There was something superstitious about his redundant movements. He seemed to be performing a private ritual.
The hatch in the deck that separated the conning tower from the control room was supposed to be closed during an underwater attack, but Lorenz always kept it open because he liked to feel in direct contact with the men below. He liked to hear Graf’s instructions and to monitor the steady flow of reports. As they drew closer to the convoy he called out, ‘Half speed ahead,’ ensuring that the size of the periscope’s wake would be reduced. A U-boat’s principle advantage was stealth. Without stealth, there was only vulnerability.
Several cargo ships were now visible. Employing 6X magnification Lorenz examined each one in turn and selected his target. He t
hen ordered another minor change of the submarine’s course. Reverting to 1X magnification he watched the two escorts sail past.
‘Flood all tubes.’
Another escort, flanking the convoy, was very close; however, U-330 was already inside the protective perimeter.
‘Open torpedo outer doors. Course twenty. Bow left. Bearing sixty . . .’
Falk began feeding the information into the computer. When he had finished he addressed Lorenz, ‘Tubes one and two ready to fire.’
The electric motors seemed to hum more loudly. Lorenz could feel the release lever in his hand. The cargo ship was positioned perfectly in the crosshairs when, quite suddenly, it vanished, and Lorenz was gripping the periscope shaft tightly to prevent himself from falling off the saddle. The entire column had rotated forty-five degrees and stopped abruptly. Yet, he had not been conscious of applying any pressure to the pedals.
‘Kaleun?’ Falk sounded worried. Was the flanking escort preparing to ram?
The motor labored when Lorenz tried to correct the periscope. It felt as though the column was encountering some kind of resistance. When the cargo ship finally appeared in the viewfinder it had changed course slightly. ‘Damn!’
‘What?’
‘We’ll have to start again.’ The automatic update system depended on the variables remaining constant.
Lorenz revised the figures, and for the second time Falk declared, ‘Tubes one and two ready to fire.’ The cargo ship was back in the crosshairs, the detail of its superstructure clearly visible. Lorenz was hesitant, almost expecting the periscope to swivel around again. It had moved just as he was about to fire. The timing had been curiously precise and optimally disruptive. Indeed, it had felt more contrived than contingent, a purposeful interference, and, for an instant, it had seemed as if someone were snatching the periscope out of his hands, wresting control away from him. He tightened his hold on the firing lever, and as he did so, he heard an exhalation close to his right ear, an expulsion of air, but imbued with a faint vocal quality, enough to suggest the emotions of frustration and regret. Although disconcerting, Lorenz dismissed the phenomenon. He could not afford to be distracted.
‘Tube one—fire! Tube two—fire!’
Falk counted off the seconds, and Lorenz kept his gaze fixed on the target. Graf was still giving orders. To maintain depth and keep the boat level it was necessary to fill the trim tanks with sea water weighing exactly the same as the torpedoes that had just been discharged. The adjustment was subtle but perceptible nevertheless. Lorenz felt strangely detached, like an ancient god dispensing casual destruction. He saw the cargo ship transformed into a blazing fireball, and the absence of sound made the conflagration appear like an event in a dream. Lehmann, who was manning the hydrophones, must have reacted and signaled success, because a chorus of triumphal exclamations preceded the arrival of the shock wave.
‘Did we hit it?’ asked Falk.
‘Yes,’ said Lorenz. ‘We hit it.’ He was obliged to evaluate the feasibility of undertaking another attack, but when he looked for the flanking escort he discovered that it was already turning toward them. ‘Close torpedo doors, new course 180 degrees, 75 meters, ahead slow: silent routine.’ In the control room, men grabbed the handles of the leverage valves, and their feet left the matting as they used all of their body weight to pull them down. The ballast tanks flooded, and the boat tilted while Falk and Lorenz were still negotiating the ladder. Hand wheels were being rotated with furious, concentrated energy, and members of the crew who were not seated had to reach for the overhead pipes to stop themselves from falling. Anything unfastened slid toward the bow: cans, sou’westers, books, and boxes.
The first detonation was like a sledgehammer landing heavily on the hull. It produced a reverberating clang, all of the lights blinked, and the metal began to shriek. There then followed a terrifying roar, even louder than the initial strike. An enormous quantity of water, blasted outward by the force of the explosion, was rushing back to fill the void. Men staggered, others lost their footing and fell, and the boat’s angle of descent steepened. In the confusion that followed, Lorenz heard a voice shouting: ‘Ober-Maschinistmaat Richter badly injured!’
Before Lorenz could react there were two more massive detonations that accelerated the boat’s descent. Graf’s response was swift and effective. The aft compartment dropped and the deck became level again. When the noise subsided there was absolute silence. Even a cough would conduct through the hull and betray their location, so all of those who were not seated swapped their boots for slippers. Men crept into bunks and attempted to breathe slowly and remain calm. The boat could not remain submerged indefinitely: it was imperative to conserve air. Only essential lighting was retained to save power. They waited—and waited—until the stillness was infiltrated by the repetitive thrashing of high-speed propellers.
A mechanic lowered himself to the matting and knelt next to the master gyro compass. Another seaman crouched beneath the chart table. It seemed that the crew was trying to escape danger by making their bodies occupy less space. Fear had impoverished their thinking, and their irrational behavior betrayed a return to infantile logic, the reappearance of semi-magical beliefs. They folded their arms and shortened their necks, as though it were possible—by the exercise of will—to shrink to a vanishing point and elude the destruction promised by the relentless thrashing above. Lorenz looked at his men and hoped that their sanity would be protected by some vestige of pride or honor, that their training and countless practice dives would make the approach of the escort bearable.
Six splashes—an agonizing interlude of fraught expectation—succeeded by six detonations. With each boom the manometer pointer jumped, and the boat was pushed lower. Lorenz closed his eyes and translated what was happening into a reduced mental representation. In his head, a tiny U-330 was traveling in one direction while a miniature escort sailed transversely above it. He guessed the current positions of the forward escorts, estimated their speed and courses, and introduced them into the trigonometry of his mental representation. ‘Hard a-port,’ said Lorenz. The tiny U-boat in his head began to turn. He opened his eyes and climbed through the forward hatchway.
‘There’s another escort coming toward us,’ the hydrophone operator whispered.
‘Just the one?’
‘Yes.’
‘Bearing?’
Lehmann rotated his wheel: ‘One hundred and sixty degrees.’
‘Interesting,’ Lorenz closed his eyes and reconstructed his model. He repositioned the first forward escort, made the second vanish, and tried to determine his next move. It was like playing three-dimensional chess. His concentration was broken when the steward and Berger appeared carrying Richter. They were having difficulty getting the unconscious mechanic through the hatchway; one of his arms kept catching on the bulwark. When they finally succeeded, Lorenz saw that Richter’s face was divided by a deep, diagonal gash. Blood was still streaming from the ugly wound.
‘What are you doing?’ Lorenz asked.
‘Taking him to the bow compartment,’ the steward replied
‘Why?’
‘There’s a strong smell of chlorine in the petty officers’ quarters.’
‘That’s all we need. Look, just lay him down in my nook for now. What happened?’
‘Slipped and went flying. He took off and smacked his head against one of the diesels.’
‘Took off?’
The steward nodded. As they attempted to rotate Richter’s body, Berger tripped. He dropped Richter’s legs and fell onto the deck, producing a loud crash.
‘You fucking idiot, Berger!’ The steward’s stage whisper was despairing rather than angry.
‘Shit,’ the young seaman hissed, ‘I’m sorry.’ He looked up at Lorenz who simply gestured for him to hurry. Berger grabbed Richter’s ankles and helped the steward maneuver the unconscious man onto the mattress.
Lorenz tapped Lehmann’s shoulder. ‘Are their screws getting louder?’
>
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Altering their course?’
‘One hundred and fifty-five degrees: they heard that.’
Lorenz leaned into the control room. ‘Take us down another fifteen meters. Hard a’starboard.’
Soon, they could all hear the forward escort’s approach; propeller blades churning water. There were more splashes, so many that it became difficult to count them. Lorenz pictured the lethal dispersion of depth charges: trails of air bubbles, slow descent. A moment later they were being attacked by raging Titans. Enormous cudgels were pummelling the hull, buffeting the boat this way and that, battering the conning tower, bashing the ballast tanks. The deck plates jolted painfully against the soles of feet; wood panels split and splintered; iron growled. Then came the roaring, excessively prolonged as the ocean came crashing back into the numerous empty blast spaces. When the cacophony ended, there was no longer absolute silence. The men were hyperventilating. Graf leveled the boat, and Lorenz climbed back into the control room. ‘See,’ said Lorenz. ‘They missed. Even with Berger’s generous assistance, they missed. I hope they appreciate how sporting we’ve been.’
The crew was staring at him with the rounded, protuberant eyes of nocturnal animals. Extreme terror had made them appear even younger than they did ordinarily. For a fleeting moment it seemed that the boat was being piloted by schoolchildren. Only Graf and Müller looked like adults. Several of the men were trembling, and one of them had bitten his lower lip so hard that his chin was now cleft by a glistening, crimson stripe. The seaman beneath the chart table had put his fingers in his ears. Even though Lorenz could feel fear gnawing away at his own innards, he adopted an air of indifference and remarked, ‘We’ll shake them off in the end, don’t you worry.’ The quality of his performance was vital. Under conditions of such appalling, unspeakable dread, anyone might snap and become hysterical. Lorenz had seen it happen. . . . Let me out, let me out! For God’s sake, let me out! Fortunately, there had never been an incident of this kind under his command. His men had always lived up to Dönitz’s ideal: the community of fate—each component held in place by adjacent parts, the teeth of every cog locked into the rotation of another.
