by F. R. Tallis
Lorenz’s thoughts were interrupted by Müller. The upper half of the navigator’s body had risen through the hatch.
‘Allow me,’ said Lorenz, relieving Müller of his sextant.
‘Thank you,’ said Müller, scrambling onto the bridge. Lorenz immediately returned the instrument to Müller who surveyed the heavens before aiming the telescope at a conspicuously bright star. The navigator muttered to himself, turned a screw, and held the graduated arc over the hatch so that the red glow emanating from the dark adaption light below would illuminate the figures. He repeated the process of observation and adjustment and then delivered his results by calling into the tower. After ‘shooting’ two more stars, his task was complete. He hissed a sailor’s name and presently a hand reached out of the luminous well. ‘Be careful with it,’ said Müller, passing down the sextant.
‘Are we in the right place?’ asked Lorenz.
‘More or less, within ten minutes of arc—a sun shot would be better.’ A quicksilver meteor dropped from the zenith. ‘Permission to have a cigarette, Kaleun?’
‘You still have cigarettes, Müller? Extraordinary.’
‘I have one cigarette. I’ve been saving it.’
‘For the return journey?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Very well, I have no objection.’
Müller crouched so that his flame would be concealed by the bulwark. He then lit his cigarette, sighed with pleasure, and stood up again. Wessel, who was the youngest member of the crew, altered his position to inhale the slipstream of tobacco smoke. ‘Here,’ said Müller, offering Wessel the cigarette. ‘One drag—do you understand? And cup it behind your fingers.’
Wessel was so overwhelmed by Müller’s generosity that he could only express his gratitude with utterances that barely qualified as language. As soon as Wessel had passed the cigarette back to Müller the navigator held it out again for Lorenz to take.
‘No,’ said Lorenz, shaking his head. ‘It’s yours.’
‘Only a cigarette, Kaleun.’
‘Tell that to Wessel.’ Lorenz raised his arm and pointed at a dense cluster of brilliant pinpoints. ‘Do you think, Müller, that there’s intelligent life up there?’
‘No. There isn’t any down here,’ Müller replied, ‘why should there be any up there?’ He released a twisting ribbon of smoke from the corner of his mouth.
‘We don’t even know what lies at the bottom of the ocean yet,’ Lorenz continued, undeterred. ‘And what’s the ocean compared to the enormity of all this!’ He rotated his outstretched arm like a drunk. ‘It’s just a puddle. No more than a puddle. Who knows what’s out there, eh? Who knows what’s possible?’
‘How distant are the stars, sir?’ Wessel asked.
Lorenz smiled. ‘Tell him, Müller.’
‘Trillions of miles,’ said the navigator.
‘But how do we know that?’ the inquisitive youth persisted.
‘We know that because of Friederich Wilhelm Bessel,’ Müller replied. ‘He measured the parallax of 61 Cygni and proved that the star is some 64 trillion miles away. He was the first astronomer to make such a calculation and he succeeded in beating his British rival, Thomas Henderson, by two months.’
‘Do you think Reich Minister Goebbels knows this?’ Lorenz said with straight-faced sobriety. ‘I’m sure he’d be very interested.’
‘Our universe,’ Müller continued, ‘proved to be very much larger than anybody had previously imagined.’ He drew on his cigarette and added, ‘Unimaginably larger.’
‘What do we know?’ mused Lorenz. ‘What do we really know?’
‘There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio . . .’ Müller stubbed his cigarette out on the bulwark.
‘Ah,’ said Lorenz, ‘our Shakespeare.’
‘I thought Shakespeare was English,’ said Wessel.
‘Well,’ Lorenz said, his voice acquiring the whine of an equivocator. ‘That’s not strictly true. One must never forget that the English are Germans really, and that they are ruled by a German royal family.’
‘Then why are we fighting them, sir?’ asked Wessel.
‘A good question,’ Lorenz replied.
‘Herr Kaleun—don’t confuse the boy,’ said Müller.
THE STEWARD HAD SET UP an impromptu barber shop in the forward torpedo room, and his services were much in demand. His scissors seemed to be clicking incessantly. Hair was cut, beards trimmed, and the heady scent of cologne was almost overpowering. Be that as it may, the undertow of rancid sweat and mold could not be entirely mitigated. It was always there, like an indelible stain. Heroic efforts were being made in the petty officers’ quarters to clean grubby uniforms as Zarah Leander’s contralto warbled over the public-address system. A number of men joined in when she reached the sentimental chorus, and their voices achieved the resonant unity of a monastic order singing plainchant.
At dawn, U-330 surfaced, and Lorenz climbed onto the bridge. Two minesweepers were waiting to escort the returning submarine past the Ouessant islands, around the Pointe de St-Mathieu, and through the Goulet de Brest. The sea was calm, almost flat, and a thin mist made the air luminescent and gauzy. Members of the crew who had no duties to perform were permitted to relax on the deck, to ventilate their clothes, and enjoy the freshness of the air. The boat’s churning wake was long and effervescent—as though the rear ballast tanks were leaking champagne.
Lorenz inhaled, filling his lungs to their full capacity. ‘Can you smell it?’
Falk was standing beside him on the bridge. ‘Land?’
‘Yes,’ Lorenz replied. Victory pennants, snapping in the breeze, had been attached to a line running from the rear safety rail to the top of the periscope. Added together, the figures amounted to 31,000 tons. It was a respectable total (many boats returned with no pennants flying at all). But it would have been a lot higher if all the torpedoes had worked.
Lorenz climbed down to the deck and milled around as though at a social gathering, telling jokes and engaging his men in banter. They were all so excited at the prospect of visiting the Casino Bar that virtually every exchange contained a lewd double meaning. Hoffmann was already forgotten—although not quite. Lorenz had written a letter of condolence to Frau Hoffmann and he was carrying it in the inside pocket of his jacket. He intended to post the letter as soon as he was given an opportunity to do so.
Gazing up at the conning tower, Lorenz noted how weather-beaten the structure looked. The bulwark was streaked with rust and much of the grey paint was peeling due to the abrasive Atlantic salt and prolonged exposure to depth-charge explosions. In some places, the bright red undercoat was showing. The scorpion emblem was faded, and the sting at the end of its curving tail had been completely worn away. Lorenz supposed that in addition to having all of her machinery checked and serviced, U-330 would also need extensive rust treatment. He wondered how long it would take. Six weeks? Maybe more . . .
The elevated coastline of Brittany came into view, and soon they were negotiating the narrow entrance to the harbor. A pale sun was beginning to dispel the thinning mist. They followed the old sea wall which was mounted with pillboxes. Set back on higher ground was the naval college—a massive central block flanked by three-storey wings. The brickwork facade had been painted with irregular patches to camouflage it from enemy aircraft. Over the sea wall Lorenz could see the U-boat–bunker complex. The austere concrete edifice appeared low and flat, and the individual pens were like a row of dark windows. Much of the building was covered in a mesh of scaffold, and it was clearly still far from finished. The sound of industry carried across the water. In front of the pens was a ramshackle barricade of expendable hulks fitted with extended masts to deter low-flying allied bombers. Some were being used to anchor barrage balloons that floated above the harbor like giant kites.
A launch came out to meet them. On board were an administrative officer and the 1st Flotilla surgeon, who immediately attended to the ailing Richter. A bottle of brandy was produced, and L
orenz was asked to wait for further orders before docking. Apparently, the preparations for the boat’s reception were not quite finished, and the Ministry of Propaganda had sent a cameraman. ‘I hope you understand,’ said the officer. Lorenz concealed his annoyance and poured himself another drink. He knew that his crew’s high spirits could easily result in some unruly behavior if they were delayed indefinitely; however, he need not have worried, because after thirty minutes or so Ziegler brought a brief and informal message to the bridge: U-330 PROCEED.
Before reaching the pier head Lorenz ordered Graf to switch from diesel to electric power. A great crowd had gathered in tiers against a backdrop of picturesque buildings with conical turrets and tall chimney stacks. He saw immaculately accoutred officers, a military band, a naval guard of honor, troops dressed in grey and blue, the mayor and his wife, and a horde of port employees waving their hands and cheering. In front of the pier was a large barge which they could tie up to, and on this vessel stood Hans Cohausz, Commander of the 1st Flotilla, accompanied by his aide and a pretty blonde female auxiliary who was holding a garland of flowers. Another man was on the barge, equipped with a cine camera, aiming it first at the crowd and then swinging the lens around to film the incoming boat. Small bouquets began to rain down on the bridge, and the port employees began to clap.
U-330 arrived alongside the barge and the two vessels came together with a slight bump. A shrill whistle sounded, and the mooring crew set to work fastening the hawsers. At that point, the band struck up a rousing march. ‘Stop motors,’ Lorenz shouted above the din. ‘Assemble on the aft deck: fall in.’ The men lined up to be presented to the flotilla commander, and Lorenz climbed down the tower followed by Graf, Falk, and Juhl.
Cohausz marched over the gangplank, and Lorenz cried, ‘Attention!’ He could sense his crew responding, a tension transmitted through the air. The commanders saluted each other, and Lorenz said, ‘Report U-330 returning from patrol, Herr Kommodore.’ Cohausz took Lorenz’s hand and shook it with forceful energy. ‘Congratulations, Lorenz. Welcome back.’ The aide removed a case from under his arm and opened it to give the commodore access to the medal inside: an Iron Cross First Class. Cohausz lifted the decoration from a bed of blue velvet and pinned it on the left side of Lorenz’s chest. There was more saluting, more handshaking, and the pretty auxiliary stepped forward, curtsied, and hung the garland around Lorenz’s neck. Sauer led a chorus of hurrahs. When Lorenz looked up, into a bright, dazzling sky, all he could see was a flock of swooping seagulls and an endless shower of bouquets.
FURLOUGH
That evening a traditional celebration banquet was held at the naval academy. It was a grand affair and the tables were laid out with fine linen and chased silver. A number of distinguished officers had been invited and all of those assembled were in service dress. Embroidered gold-eagle and swastika breast emblems shone vividly against worsted blue wool. Lorenz was seated next to Cohausz, whose cheeks were aglow even before the second course had arrived.
‘Do you know anything about our special operation, sir?’ Lorenz asked.
Someone on their table had just delivered the punchline of a joke, and most of Lorenz’s sentence was lost in the uproar that followed.
‘What did you say?’ Cohausz cupped his hand around his ear and leaned closer toward Lorenz.
‘I said: do you know anything about our special operation, Kommodore?’
‘What special operation?’ Cohausz’s eyes were bright but without intelligence.
‘The British commander and the Norwegian academic,’ said Lorenz. ‘We had to pick them up off the coast of Iceland. There was an SS officer—Friedrich.’
‘Ah yes,’ Cohausz swallowed more wine. ‘I heard about that. Unfortunate—most unfortunate—but never mind.’ The flotilla chief angled a bottle over Lorenz’s glass. It was not a controlled movement, and some of the Burgundy spotted the table cloth. ‘Keep up. You’re falling behind.’
‘Where did the orders come from, sir?’ Lorenz had to raise his voice to be heard.
Cohausz’s expression soured, his features curdling into an exaggerated grimace. ‘Not now, Lorenz. Not here. Tomorrow: leave it till tomorrow. You can talk to the Lion about it directly.’
‘He’s coming to Brest?’
‘Yes, tomorrow.’
A large white dish appeared in front of Lorenz. On it were several thick slices of pork loin, steaming potatoes, and a heap of boiled cabbage. Condiments in small bowls were deposited around the rim of the dish with such deft discretion that the waiters might have been stage magicians.
‘Sir,’ said Lorenz, conscious of his new decoration. ‘My crew . . . There are several men who should be rewarded for good service.’
‘Of course, of course,’ Cohausz responded. ‘Just fill out the forms and submit them to my aide for disposition.’
A disembodied voice spoke the words ‘bon appétit.’
When Lorenz placed the pork in his mouth it seemed to melt away to nothingness, as though he were eating spirit food, and the flavor that lingered was so rich and sweet and wholesome, so free of canker and rot, that he almost swooned. All thoughts concerning the special operation were immediately wiped from his mind.
‘Good?’ asked Cohausz.
‘Wonderful, sir,’ Lorenz replied.
THE NEXT DAY WAS COLD, and a tenacious frost made the world sparkle beneath a wide and cloudless sky. Dressed in their number-one blue uniforms, the crew had assembled in two ranks on the parade ground. At ten o’clock precisely a black limousine rolled into view. The back doors flew open and Vice Admiral Dönitz jumped out accompanied by several aides. He was remarkably tall for a former submariner, and the flapping of his coat suggested the emergence of a large, predatory bird. As he approached, his features clarified: he possessed a high forehead and a mouth that in repose had a tendency to wilt at its extremities. His expression was serious, perhaps even grave, and his wiry body moved with determined energy.
‘Attention!’ Lorenz saluted. When Dönitz came to a halt Lorenz stepped forward. ‘Sir: report the safe return of U-330.’ Dönitz nodded and said, ‘Put your men at ease.’ Lorenz called out, ‘At ease.’ Adopting a more casual attitude, Dönitz shook hands with all of the officers, and as he turned to face the troop Lorenz called, ‘Eyes right.’ Dönitz walked slowly along the first line with Lorenz following a few paces behind him. Occasionally, the Vice Admiral stopped to engage a particular individual in a little friendly conversation, but the intensity of his expression was constant. When he had completed his inspection, Dönitz distanced himself from the ranks, folded his arms, and raised his chin. ‘Well,’ he began, ‘this last patrol has cost us dearly. One man lost and another badly injured. But . . .’ He paused and the corners of his mouth curled upward, ‘thirty-one thousand tons.’ His head began to rock backward and forward, ‘Not bad at all.’ Before continuing, he allowed a brief silence to encourage thoughtful reflection. ‘Sometimes we must pay dearly for our accomplishments. Comrades, the fate of the German Reich hangs on your successes. This war will not be decided in Russia. This war will not be decided in Great Britain. This war will be decided in the waters of the Atlantic Ocean. Know that—and be proud.’
Turning abruptly, the vice admiral marched off in the direction of the waiting Mercedes. The aides, surprised by his sudden departure, rushed after him. Lorenz called the crew to attention but Dönitz didn’t look back. He got into the limousine and when his aides had caught up with him, the doors slammed and the driver turned on the ignition. Gravel crunched under the tires as the Mercedes pulled away.
‘When are you seeing him?’ Graf asked Lorenz.
‘Later this afternoon,’ Lorenz replied.
‘Rather you than me, Kaleun,’ whispered Graf.
Spending time in the company of a ‘lion’ was inevitably a fraught and complicated experience.
LORENZ WAS OBLIGED TO SUPERVISE the transport of U-330 to one of the dry pens. He descended the ladder into the control room and foun
d that the stink of bilge water, body odor, and mold still persisted. There were some sacks by the chart table. Two of them were bulging with refuse: disintegrating newspapers, paperback books with split spines, broken crockery, and a pair of Zeiss binoculars with cracked lenses. Another sack contained miscellaneous personal possessions: torn photographs, scarves, a pair of braces, and, somewhat incongruously, a single silk stocking. Lorenz peered through the forward hatchway and saw Uli Wilhelm, one of the bosun’s mates, standing outside the sound room. There was something odd about his attitude, unbalanced, as though the movement of his limbs had suddenly been arrested before an action was completed. His eyes were wide open and the irises surrounded by disproportionately large amounts of exposed sclera. He did not look like a man who had been simply taken by surprise.
‘Wilhelm?’ Lorenz inquired, concerned.
‘Kaleun?’ Wilhelm’s voice was tremulous. He continued to stare at his commander for a few moments before he blinked and repeated ‘Kaleun,’ this second time with greater confidence and certainty, as if he were now satisfied that the evidence of his senses could be trusted, whereas before he had been doubtful.
Wilhelm’s presence was not unexpected. He was responsible for the final tidying of the compartments and removal of personal property after the boat had returned to port.
‘What on earth’s the matter?’ said Lorenz.
Slowly, Wilhelm’s limbs settled into a more natural position and he performed a somewhat belated, perfunctory salute. ‘Nothing . . . Kaleun, I . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘I’ve almost finished.’
‘Good.’ Wilhelm looked over his shoulder. ‘Are you all right, Wilhelm?’
