by Stephen Ward
“As you can see, the aft section containing the engine room has been pushed backwards by twenty five feet,” Nikolaus shouted over the hammering. “The new diesel engine and generators have been installed, however the shafts are considerably wider and cut into the Torpedo room. I fear she'll still only have space for a single tube.
Keller knew that Richter wouldn't be happy about that but at this point they had little choice. He checked the serial numbers on them and was pleasantly surprised. “So they sent the correct ones, I see. They should be able to keep up with a standard U-boat despite her size.”
Just then a loud crash echoed through the hull. The metal deck plates shook and shouts could be heard followed by running footsteps. Keller and Nikolaus hurried in the direction of the disturbance. As they parted a shocked group of workers, a gurgling moan cut through the surrounding voices. A great metal beam lay at an angle, still partially attached to the tackle above. A man lay pinned to the deck, his leg distorted and severed just below the groin. Men were frantically trying to pull the chain to raise the beam but the tackle was jammed fast. A pool of blood crept inexorably across the grey deck plates. Nikolaus felt his stomach churn. Abruptly, vomit spurted from his mouth and he ran, sick dripping from between his fingers.
“Stop!” shouted Keller, “That tackle will slip if you continue to pull. All of you take the weight.” Ten men, five either side slowly lifted the beam and one man cleared the chain allowing it to be lowered to the side. Keller knelt by the injured man realising to his shame that he didn't even know his name. “You'll be alright. We'll get help.” The man, half unconscious, was lifted onto a stretcher and carried off. A member of the crew threw sawdust from a bucket over the bloodslick and then shovelled it all back into the bucket while another threw an oil stained blanket over what remained of the severed lower leg. Within twenty minutes the workers were back to the job in hand and no evidence of the incident remained.
Keller climbed the ladder to find Nikolaus leaning over the rail, white-faced and hands shaking trying to keep his cigarette still. “I'm sorry, Keller, I really am.”
“Humanity isn't a weakness, Nikolaus,” sympathised Keller, “but the efficiency of that clean-up makes me wonder just how many accidents have happened round here previously. I'll go to speak to Weib and inform him of the incident.” With that, Keller walked off in the direction of the office stairs. Nikolaus composed himself and went back to work wishing no one had seen his hasty exit.
Chapter 20
A tourist boat pulled into a small tyre-lined jetty. The craft, which had certainly seen better days, bumped and squealed its way to a stop as lines were thrown down from the deck. A man wearing a black jumper and smoking a cigarette tied them to sturdy piles. From beyond the ticket booth, an excited column of people filed through a blue painted gate towards the jetty.
A large sign read
Port de Ferry
Visites Guidee
Toutes les heures
(Harbour Ferry – Tours hourly)
A man in his early seventies who stood reading the sign fumbled in his pocket for change. Personally he thought the thirty franc charge was a little expensive. He had already tried to visit by road to no avail, so this appeared to be his only remaining option. The woman sitting behind the counter took his money and produced a small brown ticket stub. As the latch clicked the gate swung inwards and a queue of jostling holidaymakers made their way past him at varying speeds. He walked to join some twenty others patiently waiting for the ferry. A small boy swung on the railings and bumped his arm as he passed. In a high-pitched English accent, the boy apologised. His father also smiled apologetically as the elderly man passed him. With a nod, he continued on and joined the queue.
The sea mirrored the beauty of the day as it sparkled and glinted. Out in the harbour an impressive collection of ships caught his attention. He could see the ensigns billowing – German, English, American and French. Small tenders moved from ship to ship. Meanwhile fishing boats went about their business. His concentration was broken by the sound of a tour guide who unclipped the rope that spanned the gangway leading to the jetty. She gestured for the line of sightseers to move forward and began to clip the tickets. The young attractive woman looked up at him, her kindly face and bright blue eyes cracked a small grin as she ushered him towards the boat.
After boarding, he found a comfortable seat next to the rail and prepared for the off. The guide started her commentary with a screech over the poor sounding tannoy as the vibration of the engines moved through the deck plates. White foam passed by as they moved slowly out into the bay. The man wasn't here for the history lesson about Lorient. He was here because something deep inside made him feel like he had to be, despite not knowing why. They were now in close to the destroyers and he could see sailors in their whites busily cleaning and going about their daily duties. The modern looking ships didn't interest him. He was from a different time. In his day, ships had character.
As the guide continued talking about the history of the city, the looming Keromen pens came into view, the aged concrete stained a dark grey with the sea entrances looking dark and menacing. Thousands of tons of concrete still as solid as the day it was laid. Jacques Stosskopf had done a good job despite being a member of the Resistance. His concentration was yet again disturbed by the guide, “As you can see, the submarine base was built on the Keromen Peninsula in 1942,” she said in her broad accent. He could accept many things but incorrect facts from a tour guide was not one. Clearing his throat, he said “1941. The base was started in 1941 not 1942.”
The guide looked annoyed yet continued her speech unflustered. “The Keromen Base could hold up to twenty U-boats of the 1st U-boat flotilla and mainly serviced type 8 and type 9 U-boats overseen by Admiral Doenitz from his headquarters just across the bay.”
“Please,” he said, gesturing with a raising of his hand,”Keromen 1, 2,and 3 could service up to thirty mainly type 7 and 9 boats. The 2nd U-boat flotilla were based here, not the 1st, after they transferred from Kiel.”
By now the guide was very upset and the other passengers were sniggering but he did not care. History was History and it was important to get the facts right. He moved to the back of the boat partially to have a last look but mainly to escape the frosty glare from the tour guide. As he stared toward the horizon he had the feeling he was waiting for something but had no idea what. A large tug boat, smoke billowing from its stack cut across the stern heading out to sea. He watched it closely as it quickly made its way past the breakwater and receding into the distance. Just then a figure appeared at the rail beside him. It was the young father from the dockside. “You know your History, sir, a lot better than she does it seems. Have you been on this tour before?”
“Not on this tour, no,” he said gazing upward at the man, “but I have been here before.”
The man held the little boy's hand tightly and pointed to the ships in the bay. The boy whispered loudly, “I thought you said we'd see submarines. Where are they?”
“They're all in that big house,” he answered pointing at the pens.
A smile broke across the old man's face as he listened to the father trying to explain the submarines' absence. Turning to face the child he said, “What's your name?”
At a nod from his father, the boy answered, “James.”
“Well, James, there are no submarines here now, but many years ago there were hundreds.”
“Where are they all now?” asked James, intrigued.
“They all sailed away and became old just like me. I do have something I could show you, though.” Reaching into his jacket pocket he produced a brown leather wallet smooth and aged, once gilded initials worn and illegible. Inside, a photograph slipped from behind the few notes of French francs. He passed it to the boy who stared at it and smiled. On the photograph a young man stood in front of a familiar shape. The child showed it to his father pointing, his mood bubbling.
The father looked up and then back at
it, “Was this taken here?”
“Yes. Many years ago.”
The boy looked at the picture with wonder, “Can you read the number?” James asked his father who paused and replied slowly “U X 5 0 5”
Chapter 21
Admiral Turnbull settled down on a chair in his cabin sipping a mug of tea. A pile of internal reports lay on a table at his side. Nothing important, just a few accounts of misdemeanour, the port ballast tank had sprung a leak and Deck 3's galley was out of action. The other destroyers, Berlin and Aconite and USS Kentucky, had arrived but the Italian frigate was late and wouldn't be arriving until noon of the next day. Just perfect he thought, they're late for everything. But on a more positive note, it did give him a little longer to sort out the ship and crew. On the face of it he was confident but obviously he had other more major worries. Forrester was still missing and he was helpless to do anything about it. At that point his thought processes were interrupted by a ringing phone on the wall behind his head. Reaching backwards and lifting the receiver he spoke clearly, “Yes?”
A voice from the other end came through low and crackly, “Sir, the boats are coming in on the port side, ETA five minutes. Sir, the Americans have noticed them and they're asking whether we require assistance.”
Turnbull knew that they needed all the help they could muster but at this point he didn't want to let the Americans know he'd lost an officer. “Thank you. I'll be up momentarily. Please signal the American Captain. Send him my thanks but tell him we have everything under control for now.” Replacing the receiver on the hook he took a large breath and sighed heavily. He knew there would be bad news. Call it a gut feeling but experience had taught him to always trust his intuition. Getting up, he straightened his uniform and exited the door locking it behind him. He thought it was only right to let Doctor Moorhouse know about the return of the search team so he took the long way past the Medical Bay. Moorhouse was testing some samples as Turnbull came round the corner. “Trying to keep busy, Doctor?”
“You could say that, sir. Is there any news?”
Turnbull realised he couldn't be harsh. He felt bad enough so couldn't even begin to comprehend how Moorhouse was feeling. “That's why I'm here. The boats are on their way back.”
The doctor knew by the tone of the Admiral's voice that there was no good news. Hastily replacing the test tubes on the rack and into a small fridge, he joined the Admiral in the corridor, sliding the sign over to 'AWAY' on the plastic label on the door. Normally on the journey to the top deck the two men would have talked informally and cracked jokes but as this was not the time, they walked in silence. On reaching the port side hatch leading to the aft deck the sound of machinery and the crisp orders of deck hands filled the air. Ropes were being tossed and caught as the large rust stained crane swung out and lifted the inflatable dingy from the sea, another two bobbing patiently just aft of the ship some hundred yards off. Rubber squealed as the boat slid into its deck-mounted rack and ropes slackened as they were untied. The crane then repeated its swing out for the next raft. Three men climbed out, their red survival suits contrasting vividly against the grey background of the sea. The young men saluted.
“At ease. Report, seaman,” Turnbull ordered briskly. ”
“Sir, we followed the tide around five miles out. No sign of anything out of order. All sectors checked. B and C teams checked all land fall possibilities given the tidal conditions. French Helicopter Search and Rescue also reported no signs. Sir, given the sea temperature and the limited survival gear that the Doctor reported available, anyone in the water would be unable to survive for long. Sorry, sirs.”
Moorhouse felt a rage build up inside him. “God damn it. What the hell are you back here for then?” he snarled.
The young officer looked shocked, maybe from the outburst but more probably that he'd never seen Doctor Moorhouse lose his temper before.
“Sir, we were low on fuel and it's getting too dark to search efficiently.”
“Dismissed, seamen. Thank you.” said Turnbull.
“Dismissed! What do you mean dismissed? Shouldn't they be refuelling the rafts?” snarled the doctor. “Admiral, I'll go out myself.” His rant was interrupted by a voice from over his shoulder.
“Doctor, don't you think your antics with boats have caused enough problems?” Captain Wilkes stood at the rail watching the last of the rafts being hoisted back on board. Moorhouse affected not to hear him and continued stating his point. Wilkes' voice came from behind him, “I'm talking to you, Doctor. I expect a full report of what's been going on then there'll be a full investigation. Believe me, by the time I'm done, your reputation and professionalism will be under intense scrutiny.” Wilkes continued, “Your irresponsibility beggars belief!”
The fire in Moorhouse's eyes as he spun round said it all.
“At ease Doctor.” ordered the Admiral.
With his chest swelling and shoulders expanded, Moorhouse towered over Wilkes.
“Stand down, Doctor.” This time Turnbull meant it. He had no wish to see Moorhouse throw away his career, though seeing him throw Wilkes over the side would've been entertaining.
Stopping his advance, Moorhouse held fast and spoke quietly, “If it wasn't for you, sir, Forrester and I wouldn't have been off ship. I take full responsibility for what's happened but for now my only care is to find out where Forrester is. I'll report when I have the facts and until then you will have to wait.”
Turnbull glared at Wilkes and grated “Haven't you got planning to do for tomorrow?”
Wilkes slid off quietly without a word.
“Oh sir,” said Moorhouse. Wilkes stopped and turned to face him, “I accept that my response to my friend's predicament has been an emotional one, but I bitterly resent any notion that I am unprofessional in my medical judgement.” Wilkes glanced at him briefly and walked rapidly away without replying.
A noticeable chuckle, that Turnbull had thought he had under control, helped lift Moorhouse's spirits if just for that second. Turnbull's mood changed quickly. “Doctor, if you ever again question me like that in front of the crew, I will bust you down myself. I understand how you feel but you need to exercise some control.”
“I'm sorry, Admiral”
“We'll say no more about it. I'll send the boats back out until nightfall but you know as well as I do that it doesn't look good and I can't risk more lives in these busy shipping lanes in the dark.”
“Yes, thank you, sir.”
“Now go and finish your samples.”
Moorhouse turned slowly, “Oh and Paul,” said Turnbull, “We can't do anything more than hope and pray but try to keep your chin up.”
After ordering the raft crew out until nightfall, Turnbull stepped inside the hatchway and found the nearest internal phone.”Bridge,” he said. A few moments later a reply came, “Bridge. Aye”
“Inform all our guests that we leave for the Channel as soon as the Italian ship arrives.”
“Aye, sir”, came the response and the line went dead.
Chapter 22
Winters placed his second cup of coffee on one of the many worn mahogany desks that filled the Records Library. The library area was both roomy and well lit with green shades. It was lined on both sides by bookcases reaching up to a yellowed plaster ceiling. Ladders on evenly spaced brass rails allowed access to the grand leather-bound volumes all labelled in a somewhat cryptic code.
He was alone, not particularly unusual, as most of the volumes were being converted to disc. Winters didn't have time for all that new digital stuff! It seemed cold somehow, and he didn't see how it would replace the feeling of flicking through the pages of a book. After failing to find anything of interest in the section he was in, he decided to explore a little further. After all, he was to be there for quite a while. Replacing volumes in the correct order, he set off down the room only pausing momentarily to stop and scan other items of interest. After cross referencing by date and location he decided to look not for the submarin
e but for more information about the Pens. She was built by people so he surmised that there must be information about them. Scaling a ladder, he climbed to near the top of a bookcase and ran his finger over the spines until he found what he thought he was looking for. After a slightly unnerving descent down the ladder onto the polished wooden floor, he returned to his desk. Its green-shaded lamp cast a comforting glow amidst the rows of empty reading areas.
Settling down and taking a sip of his now-cooling coffee, Winters opened the book, a smell of dust and age filling his nostrils. The inner cover merely said “LORIENT 1939–1946”. Leafing through the musty pages, past the early Occupation details, he came across photographs of the pens taken by the Allies just after Liberation. They showed the surrounding complex in great detail. Small typed headings over each picture made orientation a little easier. Folded inside were documents, lists and a large diagram that seemed to show the compound as mapped by the Americans. Selecting a list, he scanned down it, nothing of interest. It seemed to be merely an inventory of supplies that had been captured so he moved on. A paper with a TOP SECRET stamp caught his eye and he placed it flat on the desk – a list of names. It appeared to be people who had surrendered at the facility some days after Liberation. The list had some forty names, some with rank, others without. This was more like it, he thought. At the bottom of the page in neat text, he read 'SEE VOLUME 2'. Mildly aggravated, Winters headed off to the shelves again only to return two minutes later with an identical book. With the list on one side and the book on the other, he opened to the first page and stared blankly at the photographs of uniform-clad young men and dock workers, some French and others German. Nothing sparked his interest until he came across a photograph of a young man, his shirt dirty and his suit tattered and scruffy. The name beneath said 'Nikolaus Huber 1195-C Draughtsman. “This was it,” Winter thought, “if anyone knew anything, then this would be him.” Spending a few moments making notes, Winter began to pack the loose inserts back into the Volume when the pages flicked over to reveal a photograph, one of four. The skyline looked familiar and somehow the buildings and cranes just resonated with something he'd seen recently. In a flash, he reached into his briefcase and pulled out the photograph of the submarine that he had discovered the day before. Comparing the two, there was a likeness, no submarine, but he realised with mounting excitement that the landmarks were identical on both. Under the photograph was written 'South Dock K2 1945' and that was all. This was great news. He now knew for certain that Lorient was where that picture had been taken. Just then, the doors at the end of the Library opened and in stepped James Filmore accompanied by a young officer dressed in a neatly pressed dark blue uniform.
