Whenever they had gone to periscope depth or had cruised on the surface they had listened to the constant flow of signals, Allied, enemy or neutral, yet felt no part of any of them. Distress calls from merchant ships under attack, homing instructions from the German submarine headquarters to wolf packs deep in the Atlantic, and garbled snatches of counter-measures from warships and aircraft. It never stopped, but as day followed day Marshall found himself wondering if his own role had already been overreached. Perhaps the German High Command had somehow changed its plans for refuelling U-boats at sea, or had discovered that there was an enemy in their midst, If the latter were true, there might even now be extra U-boats hunting for them, changing their role to that of victim.
The air throughout the boat was stale and dank, so that clothes clung to their skins like dirty rags, adding to the general depression, the uncertainty of waiting for something to happen.
He looked down at the chart. The submarine was steering in a south-westerly direction, her present position some two hundred miles south of the Bermuda Islands, a thousand miles east of the Florida coast. It was hard to reconcile their appearance and listless movements with that other picture he had seen an hour earlier when they had gone up to periscope depth. The sea’s face had been unbroken by any wave, had stretched away on every bearing in a glistening panorama of pale green, catching the sunlight and lancing through the periscope like a million bright diamonds. There had been a low mist too, be. traying the heat and nourishment that everyone aboard so desperately needed. But for nearly three days they had stayed submerged, listening and watching as mile by mile the boat had made her way across the rendezvous area. And it was their second attempt so far. The first time had found them two hundred miles to the south where after a careful search they had revealed nothing. Reports had been picked up of a heavy enemy attack on a convoy to the east, and Marshall guessed that the milch-cow, if indeed she was still in the area, had taken herself to a position where she would be more greatly needed. To this area, he had thought. Now, he was no longer so optimistic.
He said, `I’ve called this conference to put you all in the picture.’ He watched Gerrard’s fingers as they tapped soundlessly against the chart. `To hear your views.’
Devereaux glanced up at him. `It looks as if we’ve missed this one, sir.’ He picked up a pencil and laid the point on the opposite side of the Atlantic. `Now, according to our information, the second supply boat is operating here. Off Freetown.’ His eyes flickered to Marshall again. `Why not go for him? Better than losing both, surely?’
Gerrard said swiftly, `It’s not that easy. We’ve been a month at sea. If we cross to the other side to hunt for the other boat and fail to make contact we’ll barely have enough fuel to reach home, let alone run back for another rendezvous with this bugger.’
Devereaux smiled gently. `I realise that, Number One, I do the navigating, remember?’
Marshall said, ‘Nevetheless, I agree with you, Number One. We could be dragging from one end of the Atlantic to the other chasing shadows. If we remain in this area we still have a chance of making a strike.’
Frenzel, who had so far remained slumped against the bulkhead, leaned forward and placed both hands on the table.
`I’m not happy about this enforced diving sir. We need to ventilate the boat and charge batteries. Later, if we run into trouble, we’ll need all the power we can get.’ He looked bleakly at the solitary lamp. `I’ve shut down all the heaters, lights and fans I can without driving our lads berserk. I can’t do much more.’
`Yes.’
Marshall straightened his back and tried to think clearly. It was his responsibility. But to do what? Had they been engaged in actual operations things would have been very different. But this was enough to crack even a hardened submariner’s reserve.
A week back they had sighted a neutral, and to break the boredom he had carried out a mock attack on her. It bad been during the night, and as he had studied the ship through the periscope he had marvelled at the other captain’s confidence. The big Swedish flag painted on the hull had been well lit, and her upper decks and cabins aglow with glittering lights. Was it possible for people to move without fear like that? Even as he listened to his men going through the motions of an attack he had sensed something else, too. A sort of wildness which he could even feel in himself. Had he pressed home a real attack and ordered Buck to fire his torpedoes, he felt they would have done so. In war it was hard to stop acting in the manner which had become your daily life.
He said, `We’ll surface tonight, Chief It’s the best I can do. I know we’re pretty safe from Allied patrols out here, but I daren’t risk surfacing anywhere in the rendezvous area until I’m sure of a contact with the supply boat. If we get entangled with another U-boat or worse with a whole bloody pack of them, we’d be hard put to explain our intentions.’
Surprisingly, Warwick grinned. He said, `We could say we were lost, sir!’
Marshall smiled. Warwick at least seemed able to keep his good-humour.
He looked at his watch. Nearly noon. The supply boat would make her brief homing signal then at short-range. Just enough for the rendezvous, not sufficient to be detected and fixed by the powerful beacons on the American mainland. Always provided she was actually in. the area and that her captain was satisfied about his own safety. It could be no joke to cruise about the ocean in what amounted to one giant bomb.
He heard Devereaux ask, `Look, Sub, are you quite sure you’ve checked your log of signals? The W/T office does a good job, but in the end it all falls on your plate.’ It sounded like an accusation.
Warwick replied quietly, `I’ve treble-checked. If the Germans are using a different system I can’t find it.’ Gerrard added, `Leave him alone, Pilot. None of us
could do it, so there’s no point in rattling him.’
Marshall tensed. There it was again. The rift. He snapped, `If we all do our jobs and’
Buck’s voice cut through the tension like a saw, `Captain in the control room!’
With the others close on his heels Marshall thrust through the curtain and ran for the one brightly lit compartment in the whole hull.
Buck said crisply, ‘Asdic reports faint H.E. at two-five0, sir.’
Marshall kept his face impassive and strode to the shielded compartment where the operator was crouching over his controls.
`Well?’ He watched the man’s face gauging his assessment. It was Speke again. The senior operator.
The leading seaman shrugged but kept his eyes on the dial by his fingers. `Very faint, sir. Single screw, Diesel.’ Marshall said, `Keep listening.’
He tried to hide his disappointment. Whatever it was, certainly not the big supply submarine.
Behind him lie heard Warwick say uncertainly, `Damaged U-boat. I’ll bet it’s one from that convoy attack. Coming to another for help.’
Marshall swung round and stared at him, seeing the youth fall back under his gaze.
`What did you say?’
Warwick swallowed hard, suddenly pale as the others watched him like strangers.
`I only thought ‘
Marshall reached out and touched his arm. `You’re young, Sub. Young and fresh.’ In a calmer tone he continued, `And you could just be right.’
Warwick flushed and shifted his boots on the steel deck. `Gosh!’
Marshall looked at Buck. `Bring her round to intercept. Then sound the alarm. Complete silence throughout the boat after that.’ He held up one hand to restrain him. `But remember this. All of you. If this is a damaged U-boat and she is making a rendezvous, it’ll mean we will have to act all the faster. Neither of them can be allowed to break W/T silence.’ He looked at Buck. `So the attack team must be perfect.’
Buck nodded, his sharp features mellowed slightly by the beginning of a beard. `Right.’
`Steady on two-five-zero, sir.’ The helmsman sounded hoarse.
‘Very well. Klaxon, please.’
As the men came running through t
he bulkhead doors, their faces still heavy with sleep, from trying to relax in the unmoving stale air, Marshall could feel his own weariness falling away like a feverish dream.
Gerrard reported, `All closed up, sir.’
Marshall looked at the control room clock. Five minutes to noon.
`Periscope depth, Nurnber One. Easy does it.’
He saw a brief smile on Gerrard’s lips. Perhaps like himself he was recalling all those other times. The same pattern but all different.
Then he forgot him and crouched beside the periscope well, testing his own reactions, the steadiness of his breathing, the even beating of his heart.
`Fourteen metres, sir.’
`Up periscope.’ He glanced at the stoker. `Slowly.’
He bent double, his forehead pressed against the rubber pad, watching the sunlight probing down towards him, the swirl of silver bubbles, the sudden blinding flash as the lens broke the surface.
`Hold it there!’
Easy now. Take your time. He edged round the well, watching the misty sunlight playing across a long shallow swell, turning into living green glass. He could almost feel the warmth across his face, taste the clean salt air on his lips.
Without removing his eye from the lens he asked, `How is the bearing now?’
‘As before, sir. But still very faint.’ Speke sounded unruffled. Which was just as well.
`Full extent.’
He straightened his body as the periscope slid smoothly from its well. A quick glance above. It was unlikely there would be any aircraft. They were needed elsewhere, .and the long haul from the American mainland made any danger of attack remote. But you had to be sure. There might be a carrier, or some seaplane off a heavy escort. He brought the periscope to full power and steadied it towards the hidden bows. But the haze was too thick. Like steam playing across the gently heaving swell.
`Down periscope.’ He stood back and rubbed his chin. It felt like sandpaper. `Increase to seven knots, Chief We’ll miss this chap if we’re not careful.’
Even as the periscope hissed into its well Warwick shouted, ‘W/T report the signal, sir?’ He had his handset pressed to his ear, but was peering at the faces around him, shouting as if they were all deaf.
From the attack table Buck snarled, `Bearing, for Christ’s sake?’
Warwick gulped. `Approximately the same as this other boat. Sorry.’
Marshall crossed to the chart. They could only just hear the damaged submarine’s remaining screw, and as yet Speke had heard nothing of the big supply boat. We must make more speed. The mi!ch-cow was probably lying directly ahead of their own course, with the damaged boat somewhere in between. He smiled grimly in spite of his nerves. Just like it said in the folio. True Teutonic precision.
He snapped, `Group up. Full ahead together. Twenty metres.’ He was thinking aloud. `We’ll get as close as we can to the first boat. Then we’ll surface. We must make more speed, but in any case the supply boat would be suspicious of any of her brood approaching submerged. She’d dive and be away, no matter how much trouble the other chap’s in.’
He saw Frenzel stooping over his panel, his dark features set in concentration. Calculating. Understanding.
At their maximum underwater speed it took about fifteen minutes to travel two miles. A lot could happen in that time.
`Twenty metres, sir. Course two-five-zero.’ The coxswain looked very relaxed. Maybe ‘like his captain he was glad to be doing something again.
Marshall gripped the edge of the chart table, trying to remain relaxed. It was hard to keep from looking at the clock. Watching the seconds becoming minutes. Matching them against heartbeats.
Speke said, `The range must be about six thousand yards, sir. It’s hard to tell. The one diesel sounds pretty dicey.’
Three miles. But for the mist he would have sighted the other boat. Even so, it was still too far to begin an attack. He must not think of this one, limping target. It was quite close enough. One fanned salvo and he could send her to the bottom. They would never know what had hit them. But the other submarine was something else entirely. They must be sure. Exact.
`Diesel’s stopped, sir.’
`Blast!’
Marshall moved to the periscope well and back again. The damaged boat probably had the milch-cow in sight. He could picture all of it in his mind. The relief, the weary lookouts numb with thanks as the massive hull hove in sight. And aboard the supply boat all the busy preparations to pipe fuel across to the battered survivor from some attack or other. Food and fresh clothing, expert mechanics waiting to send over spare parts. There would even be a surgeon aboard to care for the sick and wounded.
He heard himself say, `Stand by to surface. We will continue on electric motors, but be ready to switch to main engines as soon as we’re spotted. If we make a boob of this one we’ll not get another chance.’
`Start the attack!’
He looked around their intent faces.
`Sub you can muster your gun’s crew. See that they’re rigged out in German caps and lifejackets.’ He saw Churchill hovering by the attack table. `Fetch my cap.’
He knew his words had sunk in. That it was going to be close and quick. Dangerously so.
As Churchill scurried away he added quietly to Gerrard, `If we catch it on the surface, Bob, take her deep. Don’t try and save the deck party. Just get the hell out of it.’
Gerrard nodded, his eyes grave. `Right.’
`And forget the other rendezvous. If we blow this one they’ll have every U-boat from here to Calais waiting for you.’ He slung his glasses closer around his neck and took the white cap from Churchill, touching the saltstained eagle, the swastika in its claws. `Ready?’
‘Yes.’ Gerrard ran his eyes along the control room. `As we agreed. Surface attack with six tubes. Gun action as a last resort.’ He nodded firmly. `God, what away to earn a living !’
Feet clattered below the conning-tower and he saw Warwick and his gun’s crew, some of them grinning sheepishly as they adjusted their German caps and slipped into the bright orange lifejackets which were always worn by U-boat deck parties. He must miss nothing. Not even the smallest detail. Warwick looked younger than ever, if that were possible, and so much might depend on his nerve and intelligence.
Marshall said calmly, `Prepare your gun as soon as we surface. After that keep your people hanging around. Casual, but close enough to move like quicksilver.’ He raised his voice. `That applies to the machine-gunners, too. Any surfaced U-boat would have its defences ready, but not obviously so.’
They were all staring at him, suddenly moulded together, the strain showing on each unshaven face. He said, `periscope depth again.’
He waited as the deck tilted very slightly, the compressed air pulsing into the ballast tanks. He wondered what Browning would have made of all this. Buster.
`Fourteen metres, sir.’
He licked his lips. Throughout his command every man would be waiting to act. The bearings to be set on each torpedo. Everything. Thank God the Germans had perfected the fan method of firing. A British boat had to be aimed at her target or swung at the moment of releasing her torpedoes. Every U-boat was fitted with a device which allowed each shot to be fired individually on varying bearings while the boat’s course remained constant. It was to be hoped that all Buck’s training and drills would use this to good effect.
`Up periscope.’
He waited, counting seconds. He let his breath exhale very slowly. There she was.
He heard Buck intone, `Range four thousand yards, sir.’
Marshall ignored him, watching the other U-boat’s conning-tower as it swam and lifted in the drifting haze as if detached from any hull or foundation. Smaller than this one. Dirty grey in the filtered sunlight. With full power on the lens he could see the rust and slime on the plates, a length of broken guardrail as evidence of her earlier encounters.
`Down periscope.’ He strode to the ladder. `Open the lower hatch.’ He started up the smooth
rungs, the gun’s crew crowding up behind him, their breathing very loud in the narrow tower.
He reached for the locking wheel, feeling the moisture running down his wrists like rain. Someone had hold of his feet. Just in case. It was not unknown for a captain to be plucked out of the hatch before the build-up of pressure adjusted itself. He saw Warwick’s hand on the ladder by his hip. Small and pale. Like a woman’s. He took a deep breath.
`Surface!’ It had started.
Seconds later, he heard Gerrard’s voice far below, and with all his strength he swung the locking wheel, feeling the ice-cold water dash into his eyes and mouth as he heaved open the hatch and dragged himself on to the bridge. The gratings were only just free of water, and some still gurgled and sluiced through the scuppers as with her hydroplanes at full elevation the boat lurched into the sunlight. Marshall ran to the forepart of the bridge, seeing the foam seething away from the shining ballast tanks, laying bare the gun and casing, the dripping jumping-wire beyond which he saw the other U-boat almost broadside on to their approach.
He trained his glasses on the haze-shrouded conningtower, saw the flash of sunlight below the periscope standards as someone levelled his binoculars on their sudden appearance. He could imagine in those flashing seconds what the Germans were thinking. Sudden panic at their rapid surfacing, fear giving way to relief at the realisation it was no enemy but one of their own.
A lookout snapped open the voicepipes and he heard Gerrard call, `We have the first target in sight, sir. She appears to be slewing round.’
Marshall kept his glasses to his eyes. He should have realised. Should have checked. The damaged U-boat had not stopped merely because she was awaiting help. Her last diesel must have packed up. She was rolling heavily in the swell, her after casing awash where some seamen gathered below the conning-tower. He heard Warwick calling to his men, the click of metal behind him as the machine-gunners mounted their weapons on either side of the bridge. Further aft on the bandstand feet slithered on slime-covered steel as other men brought the Vierling to readiness.
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