by Stephen Ward
Chapter 66
After the best night's sleep he'd had in weeks, Huber rose from his bed and stretched luxuriously. Looking into the mirror above the washbasin, he had to smile at his untidy and untended facial hair. There wasn't time to shave everything but perhaps an effort to look human was in order! His safety razor lay on the shelf next to what was left of his bar of RIF soap, its letters just visible. As he rinsed the razor in the cold, cloudy water, the blade came away and dropped into the sink. Shaking his head, he realised it wasn't going to fit back together again. Remembering the case he'd taken from Keller's quarters, he searched and found his friend’s razor, its blade still shining as Huber gave it a few strokes on either side with the strop. He smiled again, thinking of his friend. It all seemed so long ago.
Then his thoughts moved onto Stein and the sub. No one had heard anything and in the light of recent events, he wondered what had become of them.
Hearing a ship's horn blast broke his concentration and he began to hurry his ablutions. A few minutes later, Huber left his room, hair brushed and sporting a neatly trimmed beard. His clothes were still tattered but they were clean and he felt human once again.
As he walked quickly across the complex towards the waterside and rounded the corner, he was completely unprepared for the sight that greeted him. Six U-boats sat by the quayside and two more were being towed by tugs into the deep water basin. The place bustled with sailors, soldiers, jeeps and trucks. Supplies and men were being unloaded down makeshift gangplanks. German sailors were being herded in groups over to one of the larger open-sided sheds by K3. GIs laughed as they sprayed the seamen with cold seawater after ordering the men to strip and wash. Hundreds of pale, naked bodies, with shaggy beards of every colour, shivered as they washed with lather-less soap. A loud voice shouted in German, “Come on, wash and clean your hair and bodies, then continue to the next shed where you'll be given clean clothes.”
Huber realised that the atmosphere was not one of sorrow or defeat. Instead, young faces smiled and laughed as they frolicked and spat water at each other.
A jeep pulled up beside him and a loud, strong New York accent called out. “Huber, isn't it? I'm Lieutenant Fisher. I understand you know all about these undersea shit boxes.” Huber nodded and shook hands. “Good. Come with me, we've got some work to do.” Fisher spoke in German and Huber looked at him in amazement, “This is a relief, sir. My English isn't very good.”
Fisher grinned, “Don't worry, that's another thing we'll work on and you can help me improve my German.”
As the jeep continued, Huber asked, “What will happen to them?”
“Well, first they'll be washed, de-loused, given fresh clothes, de-briefed and allowed to go home. All except the Nazis, of course – they have some questions to answer.”
“And me?”
“Ah, well! You're staying to help me sort these boats out. Anything salvageable, we'll store away. Anything old and past it, we'll scuttle or melt down.” He stopped the jeep and the two men alighted. “Type 7 sub.” said Fisher as he investigated some rust close to one of the rails. “She's had a hard life, this one.”
“Most of them will have,” replied Huber. “She's been close to crush depth a few times.”
“How on earth can you tell that?” questioned Fisher.
“Look at the plating, see how it's wrinkled.”
The two men spent an hour walking around. Every compartment was checked and catalogued. The overpowering smell, a mixture of sweat, faeces, rotting food and diesel almost overwhelmed Huber. After working for so long on UX505, he'd forgotten how small the older boats were and their emergence back into fresh air was very welcome!
Fisher turned to a page in his notebook, “Are we agreed she's junk?” he asked.
With a heavy sigh, Huber nodded, “Yes, all except the engines which may be of some use.”
The day passed quickly. They inspected five u-boats and had them towed to different areas, three had been moved into the centre of the basin, lashed together, pending being towed for scrap. One Type 21 and another, Type 9, had been marked for further research.
Drinking coffee from the first clean mug that Huber had seen for months, the men sat companionably on the dock gazing towards the open sea beyond the harbour mouth.
“What're you gonna do when you get back home, Huber?” asked Fisher.
“Oh, I don't know, perhaps set up a design practice somewhere. You?” he queried.
“Home to New York and see my girl. It's been a long war. Hey, there's another one coming in.”
Two small boats could just be seen on the horizon. Huber stared, with eyes straining as the tugs, towing their catch up the channel, came into clear view. Minutes passed before the boats entered the basin. Huber could scarcely believe his eyes.
“What's that? It's huge!” gasped Fisher. “UX505 ….. I don't have any record of this.”
Huber managed to speak, “No, you won't have a record of this one.” As the massive conning tower came level with the jetty, he again wondered what had gone on.
Chapter 67
Forrester knew that he had to slow the sub down somehow but he also realised that whatever he did, the spectre would make every effort to prevent him. He needed a plan and fast! The first thing was to stop it from firing, so climbing quietly down the ladder he made his way to the torpedo tubes. Looking around all he could see was damaged pipework and a mass of machinery. Everything hummed and buzzed alarmingly, all seemingly alive and the control panel lights danced on and off. Pulling the levers didn't budge them. Then out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the spectre of the Captain shaking his head and pointing towards an old tool box half hidden in the shadows.
Suddenly he understood, and pulling out the biggest wrench in the box, followed the Captain's gestures. Soon both tracks had been jammed and he was satisfied that for now, at least, the sub was disarmed. Next, the commander made his way to the Engine room looking from side to side expecting trouble at any moment with the Captain shadowing behind. He was uncertain whether the apparition would be able to help against whatever had control of the submarine, but he definitely felt a little safer in its presence.
The engine noise got louder as he approached. The two diesels turned and the tappet springs clicked rhythmically and because of his close proximity the vibration made his chest pound in synchronicity. Reaching into his pocket Forrester produced the stick which Moorhouse had given him. He knew he had to be very careful with the contents. Placing the stick cautiously, wedging it between two brackets, he rifled through his pants searching for a lighter. Where the devil was it? The commander knew that even if his plan succeeded there was still every chance the whole sub would be flooded – What the hell – he was running out of options. The vessel had to be stopped from destroying anything else, but without a lighter he couldn't set it off. Moorhouse must have palmed it before he left.
Forrester thought about how he'd jammed the generators. Could he do the same to the engines? Looking around he found nothing, not even a toolbox. What kind of an engine room didn't have tools? Scanning the area around the massive motors he saw a pipe which seemed to be inserted into both engines then upwards into the ceiling. Air! It must reach up to the snorkel. Yes! If he could stop the engines breathing, they'd be unable to run. A small inspection hatch on each engine covered the inlets. He could see the three screws that held them tightly closed but he had no way of undoing them. Then he realised there was a large flat cabinet hanging on a wall, empty except for a removable metal shelf. After thinking long and hard, Forrester pulled out one end and found the bracket was flat and about a half inch thick – perfect! Loosening the screws and peering round periodically, he opened both hatches. Now ripping off one of his shirt sleeves, he eye-lined up the pipe. “No chance!” he thought but then, on the floor, he noticed two small empty oil cans about the size of bean cans. The spark of an idea came to him. Wrapping the cans in material, he forced them into the pipe. It didn't stop them completely, b
ut the engines soon began to show signs of distress as the sound cadence changed markedly. The giant prop shaft had slowed but somehow the motors continued to run. However, after replacing the covers and sealing the pipe once more, the commander was satisfied that he'd managed to restrict the engines just enough for the time being.
The Captain standing beside the door, smiled and nodded approvingly at Forrester.
Chapter 68
Wagner slid down the ladder, boots not even touching the rungs.
“Otto!” he shouted.
The young Weapons officer was still trying in vain to stop the launch mechanism. “I can't stop it, sir. I've tried everything.” The machinery started up again and two more torpedoes slid into the tubes.
The speaker crackled, “Wagner, we have a perfect firing position. Stop those torpedoes,” shouted Stein.
Stein watched as two trails of bubbles sped off heading for the massive liner. All he could do was count the seconds as he waited for them to hit. There was a sickening thud followed by a second as the shells detonated against the white hull.
Wagner watched as two more torpedoes slid into place. “Otto, we have to stop them NOW.”
Otto reached into his old worn toolbox and pulled out a huge wrench. He looked over the mechanism choosing the best location then with all his strength, he wedged the tool into the track. With a horrendous grind of gears, the track stopped, moved slowly, pushing back and forth but unable to clear the jam. Quickly reaching back into his box, Otto found a spanner as large as he could find and did the same to the other track.
The men breathed huge sighs of relief until Otto gasped, “The doors! We have to close the inner doors.” So moving round the tracks he shut one by pushing the latch aside and closing and securing the wheel which turned with its usual scratchy squeal. Moving to the other side, Otto pushed the latch aside to allow the larger round metal door to close and seal when without warning, it swung shut trapping the young man's head. With the insistent pressure Otto's legs began to kick, hands slapping as he tried to free himself. Wagner jumped onto the torpedo and pulled on the hatch with all his might but to no avail. The mechanism wouldn't move. The kicking ceased and the door closed fully and locked. Otto's now decapitated body slid down onto the floor, his hands and feet still twitching with what little muscle tension was left. Soon, the compartment was silent save for Wagner's heaving breath and sobs. He felt such anger welling up inside him that with its violent release he began to indiscriminately hit anything he could, shouting and cursing as he did so, before finally sliding to the floor in whimpering despair.
The radio crackled again, “Wagner! Otto! Report. Wagner.”
Stein appeared in the compartment moments later to find Wagner curled in a foetal position. “It killed him!”
“What killed him?” asked Stein.
Wagner motioned to Otto's body and a stunned Captain took in the scene in a single appalled glance. “We can do nothing for Otto now. Get up, Wagner, I need you.”
“I can't. It'll kill us all,” the stricken man retched.
“It's a submarine, man, a piece of metal. It can't do anything to us. They are accidents, just accidents!” shouted Stein.
“No! I watched it crush Otto. It enjoyed killing him,” cried Wagner.
Stein picked up a crowbar. “Goddam it!” he shouted. “It's a fucking submarine.” He lashed out and with all his strength hit the large pipe that ran overhead. “See, it doesn't have emotions. It doesn't see or feel pain!” An answering rumbling sound from the bowels of the ship made Stein turn round. A jet of steam burst through a valve on the pipes below and a bolt head shot off it like a bullet. Wagner covered his head and only looked up when it seemed clear. Stein stood above him but as he turned to face the other man, Wagner knew something was terribly wrong. In horror he saw that where Stein's left eye had been was now gone, replaced by a huge void filled with torn tissue, blood and bone. The Captain fell forward to his knees, his one good eye staring at Wagner for a second, then his body folded at his feet. Shaking, Wagner continued to sob.
On the Bridge, Vermon and Heinrich were continuing to fight for control of the sub.
Vermon bellowed furiously down the intercom trying in desperation to raise Stein. “Captain! Wagner! Otto! Anyone!” but the speaker remained silent.
Looking through the scope, Vermon saw that the hospital ship lay keeled over at more than thirty degrees. People milled about the decks trying to load stretchers onto lifeboats. “Heinrich,” he groaned. “We may be at war but this is against everything that's right. What can we do?”
“We could surface and take a raft over, anything is better than just watching.” replied Heinrich.
“What about the submarine?”
“Leave it,” growled Heinrich, “Woe betide the fool who captures it!”
The pair agreed. “Where's the main manual ballast control?”
Heinrich paused for a moment. “Port and starboard are marked on the tanks above the bilge. They'll need to be blown together otherwise the boat will roll over.”
“Very good. We'll both have to go.” said Vermon. Climbing down and shouting as they descended, they received no response from anyone.
Heinrich began to feel uneasy as they descended further. “They're dead, aren't they?”
Vermon nodded, “They must be and we have to get out of here, quickly.” As they approached the tanks two large valves with red handles came into view.
“That's them,” said Heinrich,”Once the valves are blown we've no option but to go up.” Lights began to flicker and dim. “What's happening?”
“I think the batteries must be low,” answered Vermon
“That's impossible. When the engines are running they get charged automatically. We deployed the snorkel.”
“Well, where are the batteries?” asked the rattled Vermon.
“You're stood on them,” replied Heinrich. “There's hundreds of them below that grating.”
“Come on, let's do this and get out of here. Wait! What's that?” hissed Vermon “What now?” asked Heinrich.
“That smell. It's like chlorine gas.”
The pair began to cough, the choking gas rising from the batteries. “The valves, we have to blow them, then get off the boat,” wheezed Heinrich.
Frantically they pulled the levers, the boat lurched and a rush of air seemed to rock the vessel.
“We did it, we're going up,” cried Vermon.
The two men crawled to the ladder but as they began the climb, the effects of the gas became too strong and they collapsed to the floor gasping for their last breath.
Slowly the sub broke surface, water streaming from her decks. There was no sign of either of the other vessels, just wreckage and many bodies. The sub's engines which had been idling, audibly through the snorkel ceased, and soon the only noise was the sound of waves breaking against its hull.
Chapter 69
Tensions on the bridge were high. Wilkes and Turnbull continued to scan the horizon for any further sign of the sub, whilst Moorhouse, who should have been in the medical bay, just couldn’t bring himself to leave. He knew that the casualties were under the excellent care of his highly-trained staff but his friend’s predicament had left him emotionally compromised, and he no longer trusted his own judgement.
Quite some time had passed since they'd heard from Forrester, and the Doctor was extremely worried. The joyous elation of finding out that his friend was still alive had now been replaced by a dreadful fear of whatever the man was dealing with.
Wilkes moved over to stand behind the sonar station, “Anything?” he barked.
“No, sir, they must be gone or possibly hiding somewhere out of our range.”
Visibly frustrated, the captain nodded but then after a few seconds thought, he blurted, “Depth charges!”
“Sir, we don't carry them on board,” answered one of the seamen manning the sonar.
“Couldn't we manufacture something?”
“No, we could
n't!,” growled Moorhouse. “We have to give him a chance.”
“A chance to what?” interjected Wilkes. “Our information is that the sub intends to attack Portsmouth but even though we've warned them, there's no guarantee the blockade will manage to stop it! We must catch and destroy it NOW!”
Admiral Turnbull, who had been quiet during the conversation agreed with Wilkes, but also knew that it could mean a death sentence for Commander Forrester. Before he could cut in, a massive explosion rocked the Bridge. Talisman heeled over before finally righting herself. Smoke filled the air and outside on deck flames could be seen licking up from below the side rail.
For a moment there was a shocked silence except for the buzz of arcing electrical sparks from loosened wires. Moorhouse, shocked and dazed, stared about himself. Then seeing Turnbull's legs, he crawled over and checked for a pulse. The admiral was alive! “Come on, Admiral, wake up.” Turnbull came round and sat up as Moorhouse checked the rest of the Bridge crew. Sonar was completely destroyed and the young seaman, his face scorched and badly slashed with glass lay motionless. Helm was unmanned as its occupant was also dead.
“Wilkes!” gasped Turnbull, “Where is he?” Frantically searching, peering through the roiling smoke in case he had been knocked overboard, they found no sign of the captain.
“Doctor! Return to your post. You'll be needed.”
“Admiral, my staff are capable. Let me stay here. You, yourself are badly injured and anyway, you can't run the Bridge alone,” said Moorhouse.
Nodding in agreement, the Admiral picked up the internal intercom, “Engineering. Engineering, come in.”
“Craig here, sir.”
“Mr Craig, I need a report. How badly are we damaged?” After much muffled noise and crackling, the line went dead.
Moorhouse went to take the wheel.
“No, Doctor. I'll take the Helm and the risk,” Turnbull limped over, his pants torn and blood pooling from numerous deep cuts. “Please assess the conditions on the Bridge.”
