by F. R. Tallis
As they approached the convoy, officers began to assemble on the bridge: Juhl, Müller, Graf, and Pullman. Falk was looking through the aiming device, reeling off numbers—target speed, range, angle—and in the conning tower, Sauer was entering data into the computer. Some corrections were made, and Falk felt a flush of satisfaction when the large shadow he was observing became aligned in the crosshairs. Indistinct forms, no more than vague penumbra, suggested other craft beyond his principle mark. Two fan shots followed. U-330 turned to evade the nearest escorts, and after a brief interval there was a massive explosion, a great tower of flame rose up from the sea and the men on the bridge felt the shock wave inside their chests. Pullman’s camera shutter was clicking. The torpedoes had been spread out in order to optimize the chances of sinking any other steamers in the vicinity, but this ploy had not proven effective. They had either passed harmlessly between hulls or they had, yet again, failed to detonate. Lorenz wondered if the new G7e torpedoes were going to be as unreliable as the old ones. Suddenly the sky was ablaze with star shells and parachute flares. A large silhouette loomed out of the middle distance directly ahead of them.
‘Shit!’ Falk cried. ‘Where did that come from?’
Lorenz yelled, ‘Alarm!’
The lookouts and the spectating officers leaped into the tower. Lorenz was the last to leave the bridge and he shouted ‘One hundred meters’ as he closed and dogged the hatch. When he stepped off the ladder in the control room the deck was angled, and Graf was standing behind the hydroplane operators studying the manometer dial. ‘Hard port turn.’
Twenty meters, Twenty-five meters, thirty meters . . .
‘Dead slow—continue to turn.’ U-330 doubled back to run parallel on the attacker. Lorenz climbed through the bulkhead and squatted next to Lehmann, who was already listening through his headphones and rotating his wheel. The boat leveled. ‘Well?’ Lorenz asked. Lehmann whispered a bearing, gave an estimated range, and added, ‘Heading straight toward us.’ Soon, everyone could hear the thrashing of propellers. The escort passed overhead and there were two splashes. The noise of the propellers faded and the ensuing silence was so profound it was possible to hear the malignant ticking of the depth charges, becoming louder and louder as they sank. A powerful blast rocked the boat, and the lights went out for a few seconds. When they came on again Lorenz could see Pullman staring upward, his hands cradling the lens of his camera. He did not look particularly frightened, and his half-smile was still intact. Zealots had many faults, Lorenz reflected, but cowardice wasn’t one of them. Addressing Graf he said, ‘Another thirty meters.’ The boat nosed down and leveled out again. More depth charges exploded but none of them were as accurate as the first. ‘They don’t know where we are,’ Lorenz crowed. ‘The Tommy commander must be inexperienced.’ Lehmann confirmed that the escort was moving away, and after thirty minutes Lorenz gave orders to surface and reload.
The night was still uncompromisingly dark but as they made their way back toward the convoy one of the lookouts spotted a light. Lorenz looked through his binoculars and saw that its source was a carbon arc lamp being aimed from the deck of a destroyer at a listing, burned-out carcass. Somewhere inside the wreck, a fire reignited and made the windows of the superstructure glow. The destroyer was clearly searching for survivors, although Lorenz couldn’t see any.
‘Is that our steamer?’ asked Falk. ‘The one we attacked? Or did U-112 do this?’
‘It’s difficult to say,’ said Lorenz. ‘We’ll have to ask headquarters.’
They stopped at a distance of approximately 800 meters from the rescue operation. The destroyer was completely unaware of their approach.
‘What shall we do?’ asked Falk in a hushed voice.
The officers became restive as they waited for Lorenz’s tardy answer. ‘There’s nothing more to accomplish here.’
‘But the steamer, Kaleun,’ said Falk. ‘It’s offering an easy broadside.’ He glanced nervously at Pullman.
Ignoring Falk’s remark, Lorenz spoke into the communications pipe. ‘Turn the boat around. Ahead slow.’
‘Herr Kaleun,’ said Pullman. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘What don’t you understand?’
‘Aren’t we obliged to deliver a coup de grâce?’
‘No—we are not.’
‘But in the handbook it says quite clearly—’
‘I don’t care what the fucking handbook says!’
Pullman bridled. ‘I was merely seeking clarification, Herr Kaleun.’
‘We’re turning around. Is that clear enough? And don’t ever question my judgment on my bridge again or I’ll have you thrown over the side.’
The men on the bridge stiffened as they awaited the outcome of the altercation. After a long silence Pullman raised his hand and said, ‘Permission to leave the bridge?’
‘Granted,’ Lorenz replied, adding under his breath: ‘With great pleasure.’
When Pullman had gone Falk whispered. ‘Has he gone to make notes?’
‘That’s very likely,’ said Lorenz.
‘Aren’t you worried?’
‘When we’ve finished this patrol and we’re cruising through the Goulet de Brest then I’ll start worrying. Right now, that feels very distant.’
THE SEA RESEMBLED THE BLEAK desolation of a lava plain, a rocky mantle or crust. U-330 was traveling slowly, producing a trenchlike wake, as though its propellers were cutting a continuous channel out of basalt. Diesel fumes rose from the gratings and embroidered the air with black braids that unraveled to form a grey veil. The engine noise became louder and softer when the exhaust vents dipped in and out of the water.
‘Odd,’ said Pullman. ‘We haven’t been at sea for very long but—’
‘It feels like forever,’ Lorenz interrupted.
‘Yes. Sometimes I wake up in the morning and I have no idea what day it is.’
‘That’s because it doesn’t matter. Not really. One day is much like the next. And when we’re under the water you can’t tell night from day.’
The boat climbed up a freakishly large wave and slid down the other side. When the deck was horizontal again, Pullman asked, casually: ‘What are your thoughts on the Lion’s strategy? Do you think we should be doing things differently?’
‘I don’t have any thoughts on the matter,’ Lorenz replied.
‘But surely you must have an opinion, Herr Kaleun?’
‘We all have opinions . . .’ Pullman was expecting Lorenz to continue, but the commander pushed his cap back and walked away.
‘I am interested in what you think,’ he persisted.
‘I try not to,’ said Lorenz flatly.
Juhl glanced at Voigt and grinned.
Pullman raised his camera and took a close-up of Arnold, who was wearing a woolen hat with a large bobble on top. The self-conscious sailor adopted a heroic expression that was irretrievably undermined by his headgear. Play acting was superseded by authentic emotion when Arnold’s features suddenly convulsed and he screamed, ‘Aircraft astern!’ Lorenz looked up, judged that they had just enough time to escape and called ‘Alarm!’ As he clambered into the tower he saw two fighter aircraft swooping in from the opposite direction. There was a burst of machine-gun fire as he closed the hatch and the boat had barely submerged when the first explosion almost rolled U-330 on its side.
Lorenz landed in a chaotic control room where men were sprawled on the matting, foodstuffs were flying through the air, and glass was shattering. The angle of descent was so steep he was thrown against the forward bulkhead. Another explosion shook the hull and it was more violent than anything he had ever experienced. It seemed implausible that so much power could be unleashed from a device made by mere mortals, that so much energy could be disciplined and contained in a small canister. The boat seemed to be spinning around in a vortex caused by an upheaval of cosmic proportions: collision with the moon or the death of the sun. A third and final explosion pushed the bow down and accelerated the boat’s desce
nt. Graf had managed to remain upright by holding onto the periscope halyard, and he was requesting more speed in order to increase pressure on the hydroplanes. He hadn’t registered that the motors had stopped humming. The forward hydroplane operator, his face incandescent with fear, turned and croaked: ‘It’s not responding—it’s jammed.’ From his position on the deck, Lorenz could see the needle on the manometer moving around the dial at an unprecedented speed.
Forty-five meters, fifty meters, sixty meters, seventy meters . . .
‘All hands aft,’ yelled Graf. The usual stampede did not ensue. Only a few men managed to stand and stumble up the incline toward the stern.
Several voices in different locations were calling out, ‘breach!’
‘She’s out of control!’ shouted Graf. Then, facing his supine commander, he repeated more evenly, ‘Kaleun, we’re out of control.’ His words seemed to travel through the boat in all directions, silencing every compartment. Apart from the sound of trickling water nothing could be heard except men breathing heavily. Lorenz felt as if he were falling through space. The manometer needle confirmed their predicament: ninety meters, one hundred meters, one hundred and ten meters . . .
So, thought Lorenz. This is it. He had never truly believed that he would survive the war and now he would only have to endure it for a few more seconds before the ribs of the boat buckled and the deck-plates and the overhead came together. The waiting had come to an end.
One hundred and eighty meters, one hundred and ninety meters . . .
Rivets shot across the control room and jets of water filled the bilges.
An apprentice mechanic was on his knees, mewling softly. Lorenz thought he could hear the boy repeating the word ‘Mother.’ They were no longer a community of fate, a band of brothers, or proud Germans, but scared children. Personas were slipping like poorly tailored disguises. This is where it all breaks down, thought Lorenz. This is how we die. A man in the petty officers’ quarters had started to wail an inarticulate plea to St Nicholas.
One hundred and ninety, two hundred, two hundred and ten . . .
Lorenz wanted to get it over with: he wanted the shell plating to peel open like a can of sardines and the cold black ocean to release him from all the terror and the pain and the guilt.
Two hundred and twenty meters . . .
Graf gestured at the manometer, awed by the boat’s resilience. The set of his jaw suggested a certain patriotic pride in what had been accomplished by the shipbuilders of Kiel.
Two hundred and forty meters . . .
There was a loud boom and a jolt raised Lorenz’s body off the rubber matting. Those who had managed to remain standing were knocked off their feet, and the men in the aft compartments started screaming. More glass shattered, the hull began to vibrate, and a terrible screeching started up. There were bangs, crashes, then a low rumbling. For an indeterminate time it felt like the keel was being dragged along a basin filled with rubble. When the boat came to a halt the lights flickered and went out.
The apprentice mechanic stopped crying for his mother and the screaming stopped.
Lorenz’s jacket was soaked through and cumbrous. He tried to stand but someone was crawling over his legs. There were yet more cries of ‘breach!’ and a single flashlight beam appeared. When the emergency lights came on he saw pipes hanging off the overhead, hand wheels on the deck, and members of the crew with blood on their faces. He stood up, peered through the cracked glass of the manometer and saw that the needle was stationary and pointing at a terrifying 260 meters. They were in the cellar, ten meters below the depth at which the pressure hull should have sagged and split open.
In spite of the devastation and the extraordinary danger they were in, order was quickly restored. Reports were delivered by pale, dazed men with sopping hair and torn shirts, and Graf went off to supervise the stopping of the breaches. Timbers appeared and wedges were cut as a preliminary measure. Gradually, the sound of the water jets subsided but a constant dripping and trickling served to remind them of their extreme vulnerability.
When Graf returned, Lorenz said, ‘Well?’
‘We’re very heavy,’ the engineer replied.
‘Then why aren’t the pumps going?’
‘They’re broken, Kaleun.’
‘Can they be repaired?’
‘I think so.’
‘What if we blew all of the buoyancy tanks?’
‘Some of them are sure to be damaged.’
Graf stepped through the aft bulwark and vanished into the petty officers’ quarters.
Lorenz sniffed the air and detected a distinctive, unwelcome smell. The batteries were leaking. Without batteries, the motors wouldn’t work, and without motors, the propellers wouldn’t turn. Schmidt was policing the crew, clapping his hands together and urging those who had been given jobs to work faster. Pullman—who had been standing by the engine telegraph—stepped toward Lorenz and said, ‘Can I help?’
‘There’s nothing you can do,’ said Lorenz. ‘Go to your bunk. Only those undertaking repairs should be up. We need to conserve oxygen.’
Pullman nodded but did not leave. ‘Where are we?’
Lorenz invited Müller to give the photographer an answer. The navigator picked up a chart, brushed off the excess fluid, and laid it out on the table. ‘I think we’ve come down on the longest mountain range in the world.’
‘What?’ said Pullman, dismayed.
‘The Mid-Atlantic ridge,’ said Müller, smoothing the wrinkled chart with the palm of his right hand. ‘It runs all the way from the southern hemisphere to the northern hemisphere, goes right up the middle of the Atlantic and rises out of the sea when it reaches Iceland. If we’d missed it we would have just kept going down. It saved us. You might not think so, but we’ve been very lucky.’
‘When your number’s up . . .’ said Falk.
Lorenz shook his head. ‘It was so . . . coordinated.’
‘What was?’ Müller asked.
‘The aircraft: one from behind, two from the front—a pincer movement!’ He illustrated his point by bringing his finger and thumb together. ‘It was as though they knew exactly where we were.’
‘Maybe they were lucky, too,’ said Müller.
‘Kaleun,’ said Pullman. ‘Before I retire to my bunk may I take some photographs? Such acts of heroism deserve to be recorded.’
‘Listen, Pullman,’ said Lorenz. ‘If I catch you trying to take a single photograph I’ll have you inserted into one the torpedo tubes. This isn’t a propaganda exercise.’
Pullman saluted and walked off, his boots splashing in water that still appeared to be rising.
Lorenz climbed through the forward hatchway and saw Reitlinger, Hoffmann’s replacement, and Martin, standing together and conferring anxiously. They had taken the cover off the battery and Reitlinger was holding a strip of litmus paper. It was obvious what had happened, the smell was enough, but Reitlinger still said: ‘Cracked cells. The acid is leaking.’ Sea water and sulphuric acid were combining to produce chlorine gas. Lorenz’s brief conversation with the electricians was interrupted by a steady flow of reports: fractured pipes, blown valves, unidentified breaches. The downward tilt of the boat had caused serious flooding in the torpedo room, and Kruger and Dressel were wading through water that had risen above their knees.
The crew appeared to be coping well, but Lorenz was not convinced by their stalwart industry. He was aware of too many small but reliable indicators of terror: crossed fingers, pulsing temples, trembling lower lips. Such signs betrayed what lay close to the surface. He sensed the threat of nervous breakdown—latent panic—the possibility of madness spreading through his boat—havoc, mayhem, anarchy.
Graf was rushing up and down the length of the boat, taking stock and issuing instructions. When he returned to the officers’ mess the table had been covered with blueprints. He spread them out, frantically making notes with a pencil and mumbling like a lunatic. His hair and beard were matted with oil, and he had stri
pped down to his vest. ‘Chief? Chief!’ Reitlinger attempted to capture Graf’s attention, but the engineer was far too engrossed. The word had to be repeated several times before Graf turned. Reitlinger spoke in a low, confidential tone that Lorenz was unable to hear. He saw Graf respond by rolling his eyes and entering several crosses in a row of boxes on the blueprint. They represented the battery cells. An earlier thought returned to Lorenz in the form of a mocking, playground chant: no cells, no batteries—no batteries, no motors—no motors, no screws—no screws, no movement. The fate of the boat and its crew was now entirely in the hands of the chief engineer.
Lorenz still had a role to play, but it was largely symbolic. The men would be studying him closely, looking for signs of weakness, and his outward composure would check their wayward emotions, calm the constantly simmering dread that might so very easily boil over and become hysteria. Lorenz ordered the control-room mate to fetch him a book from the library, and when Danzer returned he was clutching a damp, cloth-bound novel. ‘I’m sorry, Kaleun, all the books are wet. This is the best I could do.’ Danzer moved aside to let two men carrying buckets of limewash pass. Lorenz glanced at the spine: a popular naval adventure. ‘Good choice!’ He peeled the soggy pages apart and held the book up high so everybody could see that he was reading. In fact, he was staring at illegible words printed with smeared ink on cheap paper. He listened to the limewash being poured into the bilges to neutralize the battery acid.
In due course Graf was ready to give his final damage report: ‘The main bilge pump and auxiliary pumps are broken. The starboard diesel has been knocked completely off its mounts and the bolts have sheared. The port diesel is loose. The forward hydroplane is stuck. The housing of both batteries is severely damaged, and very few of the cells are serviceable. There are breaches in the torpedo room, control room, and diesel room. Several valves on the Christmas tree won’t open and the observation periscope is leaking. The gyroscopic compass—’
Lorenz exclaimed: ‘Is anything working?’
‘The auxiliary magnetic compass,’ Graf replied. But after a short pause he added, ‘Possibly.’
