Because they stand six-hour watches, two stokers share each bunk. For the others who go on watch in trios, there are two bunks for every three men. No one has a bunk to himself. When a sailor gets up to begin his watch, the man he relieves lies down in the stale air he’s left behind. Nevertheless, there still aren’t enough bunks; four hammocks dangle from the ceiling.
The men off-duty rarely stay undisturbed. During mealtimes they all have to get up. The upper berths have to be snapped shut and the lower ones cleared so that the “lords” can sit down on them. When the torpedoes in the four bow tubes are being “adjusted,” the room is transformed into a machine shop. Then the bunks are taken down and the hammocks stowed away.
The reserve torpedoes for the forward tubes are stowed under the raised floor plates. Until they are loaded, the lack of space will be painful. So for the men in the bow compartment, every torpedo fired means added freedom of motion. But they do have at least one advantage: no through traffic.
Right now the place looks like a devastated arsenal: leather clothing, rescue gear, sweaters, sacks of potatoes, teapots, uncoiled rope, loaves of bread… Unimaginable that all this will disappear to make room for twenty-six seamen and the torpedo mechanic, who is the only petty officer not living in the U-room.
It looks as if everything they couldn’t find space for right away has been shoved in here. Just as I appear, the bosun is urging two seamen on. “Hurry up—the lettuce crate between the torpedo tubes! Lettuce! You’d think this was a fucking grocery store!”
The bosun points out the narrowness of the ship as if it is a special attraction. He acts as though it were all his own idea. “It’s a matter of give and take,” he says. “The heads, for example: there are two of them, but we have to use one for provisions, so there’s more space for food and less for shitting! You try to make sense out of it!”
In all the compartments, thick bundles of cables and pipes run under the floors. If you open a locker door, more of them are revealed—as if the woodwork were only a pretty veneer over the technological maze.
At lunch I have to sit on a folding chair in the gangway next to the Second Watch Officer. The Commander and the Chief are on the “leather sofa,” the Chief’s bunk. The apprentice engineer and the First Watch Officer sit at the ends of the table.
If someone wants to get through, the Second Watch Officer and I either have to get up or jam our stomachs against the table and bend over so that the man can wriggle past. Standing up is the lesser evil, as we quickly discover.
The Commander wears a disreputable sweater of indefinable color. He has changed his blue-gray shirt for a red-checked one, its collar showing over his sweater. While the steward is serving, he sits with folded arms, leaning back in his corner and occasionally inspecting the ceiling as though fascinated by the veins in the wood.
The apprentice engineer is a full lieutenant, new on board. He’s to replace the Chief after this patrol. A blond North German with a broad, rather square-cut face. While we eat, I see little of him except his profile. He looks to neither right nor left and doesn’t utter a sound.
The Chief sits opposite me. When you see him next to the Commander he looks even thinner and more haggard than he really is: a sharp, curved nose that shows the bone, black hair combed back flat. His receding hairline gives him a real thinker’s forehead. Very dark eyes. Prominent cheekbones and temples. Full lips but a firm chin. The men call him “Rasputin,” mainly because he goes on tending his pointed black beard with devotion and patience long after every patrol, until finally making up his mind to shave it off and rinse it away with the lather.
He’s been on board since the boat’s first patrol and is the second most important man here, the undisputed ruler of all technical matters. His domain is completely separate from that of the sea officers; his fighting station is the control room.
“The Chief’s first-rate,” says the Old Man. “He keeps a steady course and that’s what counts. Does it by feel. The new man will never be able to. He simply doesn’t have it in his fingertips. You can’t do it just by knowing things. You have to sense the reaction of the boat and act before a particular tendency can take effect. A matter of experience and feeling! Not everyone can do it. Not something that can be learned…”
As he sits there beside the Old Man, with his small lively hands, his dreamy eyes, his long, dark hair, I can imagine him in all kinds of roles: a croupier or a crap-shooter, a violinist or a movie actor. His build is almost that of a dancer. Instead of boots he wears light sport shoes, instead of the cumbersome U-boat clothing a kind of overalls, like a gym outfit. Getting through the circular hatches is easier for him than for anyone else. “He slips through the boat like oil,” I heard the control-room mate remark this morning.
From the Old Man I know that the Chief is unflappable, for all his racehorse nervousness. While we were in harbor he was seldom at the flotilla mess. He was on board from morning till night busying himself with the smallest details.
“On this boat not so much as a wooden screw goes in without the Chief’s supervision. He has no confidence in shipyard workmen.”
On account of his small stature, the Second Watch Officer is known to the crew as “the Garden Gnome” or “the Baby Officer.” I have known him and the Old Man and the Chief for quite a while. The Second Watch Officer is just as conscientious as the Chief. He always looks alert—almost sly. If you speak to him, his face soon crinkles into laughter. “He stands firm on his hind legs on deck,” says the Old Man. The skipper sleeps soundly when the Second Watch Officer is on duty.
The First Watch Officer has been out on patrol only once before. I hardly ever saw him in the mess during our time in port. Toward both him and the Second Engineer, the Commander’s manner is strained—either noticeably reserved or exaggeratedly friendly.
In contrast to the Second Watch Officer, the First Watch Officer is a gangling, pale, colorless type with a frozen sheepface. No real self-possession or assurance, so he’s always trying to appear quick and decisive. I soon discover that he obeys orders but has no initiative or common sense. The upper portions of his ears are strangely undeveloped and the lobes lie close to his head. His nostrils are flat. His whole face looks unfinished. Also he has an unattractive way of glancing disapprovingly out of the corner of his eye, without moving his head, When the Old Man produces one of his little jokes, he smiles sourly.
If we have to put to sea with nothing but schoolboys and superannuated Hitler Youths, things must be getting pretty bad,” the Old M an had murmured to himself in the Bar Royal, no doubt with the First Watch Officer in mind.
“Cups over here!” the Commander now directs, and pours tea for all of us, There’s no longer room for the hot teapot on the table. I have to hold it between my knees and bend over it to get at my food. Damn hot! I can barely stand it.
The Commander sips with visible enjoyment. He forces himself farther and farther into the corner and draws up one knee so that he can brace it against the table. Then with a slight nod he looks around at us, exactly like a contented father with his brood.
His eyes sparkle with mischief. His mouth widens: the Second Watch Officer has to get up again. I of course have to get up too, along with the teapot, because Cookie wants to go forward through the passage.
The cook is a vigorous, shortish fellow with a neck as wide as his head. He grins at me trustingly, from ear to ear. I suspect that he’s come through the mess right now to be congratulated on his food.
“I’ll tell you a story about him sometime!” the Old Man says, chewing, as the cook departs.
Crackling in the loudspeaker. A voice comes on. “First watch prepare for duty!”
The First Watch Officer gets up and begins systematically to dress himself up. The Old Man watches with interest as he finally manages to get into the huge boots with their thick cork soles, wrap a scarf meticulously around his neck, and muffle himself up in the thick-lined leather jacket; he gives a military salute and departs.
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br /> Shortly afterward, the navigator, who has been in charge of the previous watch, comes through, his face reddened by the wind, and reports: “Wind northwest, tending to veer to the right, visibility good, barometer one thousand and three.”
Then he makes us get up because he wants to go through to his quarters to change. The navigator has also been on board since the boat was commissioned. He has never served on surface vessels, only on U-boats. Way back in the old Reich Navy in those tiny, single-hulled crafts.
The navigator would probably be a failure as an actor. His facial muscles are stiff, so that he seems to be wearing a rigid mask. Only his deep-hollowed, heavy-browed eyes are full of life. “He has eyes in the back of his head,” I heard someone in the bow compartment say of him approvingly.
In so low a voice that the navigator can’t pick it up next door, the Old Man whispers to me: “He’s an ace at dead reckoning. Sometimes in bad weather we can’t see stars or sun for days or weeks at a time, but our position checks with astonishing precision. I often wonder how he does it. Has a lot to do on board. In charge of the third watch in addition to all that navigational stuff.”
After the navigator, it’s the bosun who wants to go forward. Behrmann is a chunky fellow, red-cheeked and bursting with health. And then, as though to illustrate the contrast between seamen and engineers, comes the white-faced chief mechanic Johann. “The Sorrows of Christ,” the Commander calls him. “A real expert. Married to his machines. Hardly ever comes on deck, a real mole.”
Five minutes later three men of the new watch struggle through the mess toward the stern.
It no longer matters to me—when the First Watch Officer got up I had quickly planted myself in his seat.
“The next to last was Ario,” the Chief says. “And the last one, the little fellow, was the new—what’s his name?—the replacement for Backer. Control-room assistant. He’s already got a nickname, ‘the Bible Scholar’—apparently he reads tracts.”
Soon the watch that has been relieved comes through. The Chief leans back and drawls, “That’s Bachmann, ‘the Gigolo’: diesel stoker. Absolute balls! There’s nothing to stoke any more, but in the Navy traditions survive longer than ships. Hagen: E-motor stoker. Even less to stoke. Turbo: the other control-room assistant. First-rate boy.”
Then from the opposite direction appears a tall blond fellow, Hacker, the torpedo mechanic and senior man in the bow compartment. The only petty officer who sleeps there. “Maniac,” says the Old Man. “Once he got a completely screwed-up torpedo out of the upper-deck compartment with a huge sea running, took it apart and repaired it, below decks of course. That was our last fish, and we knocked out one more ship with it, a ten-thousand-ton steamer. His steamer, strictly speaking. He’ll get the fried egg soon—he’s earned it.”
Next through the compartment is a small man with very black hair carefully plastered back and slit eyes that twinkle confidingly at the Chief, His forearms are tattooed; I catch a fleeting glimpse of a sailor hugging a girl against a red sun.
“That was Dunlop. Torpedo man. He looks after the workshop. The big harmonica in the sound room belongs to him.”
Finally we get Franz, also a master mechanic. The Chief casts a disgruntled look after him. “Tires too easily. Johann, the other one, is the better man.”
The meal is over and I’m making my way from the O-Mess to the petty officers’ quarters.
The bosun must be a terrific housekeeper. He’s divided up the provisions and stowed them away so perfectly everywhere that the trim of the ship hasn’t suffered—and, as he proudly assures me, in such a way that perishables will come to hand before things that last. No one else knows where the mountains of food have disappeared to. Only the hard sausages, the sides of bacon, and the loaves are visible. The supply of sausage hangs from the ceiling of the control room as though in a smokehouse. The fresh bread fills the hammocks in front of the sound room and radio shack. Every time someone wants to get past, he has to stoop and work his way through the loaves.
I climb through the second circular hatch. My bunk is free now. The equipment is laid out properly on the blanket, the bag with my belongings at the bottom end. I can pull the green curtain shut and close out the world. Wood paneling on one side, green curtain on the other, white lacquer above. The life of the boat is now reduced to voices and sounds.
In the afternoon I go up onto the bridge. The Second Watch Officer has just begun watch. The sea is bottle-green. Close beside the boat, almost black. The air is damp, the sky completely clouded over.
After I have stood for a good while beside the Second Watch Officer he begins to talk from beneath his binoculars. “It was about here that they fired a spread of four at us. Patrol before last. We saw one fish shoot by the stern and another one cut past the bow. Made quite an impression!”
Choppy little waves have risen on the low groundswell. However benign the water may appear, the shadow of each of these short waves may hide the enemy’s periscope eye.
“Have to be damn careful around here!” says the Second Watch Officer from between his leather gloves.
The Commander comes up. He growls a curse at the weather and says, “Look out, youngster, keep your eyes open! Damn bad spot here!”
Suddenly he snarls at the starboard lookout aft. “Keep it down or we’ll have to hang you over a laundry line!” And after a while, “If you can’t take it, you shouldn’t be here. But since you are, you’ll have to find your sea legs any way you can.”
He orders a practice dive for 16.30 hours, After her long period in dock, the boat is to submerge for the first time and be balanced out, so that when an alarm comes there won’t have to be a lot of trimming and flooding first. It’s also important to make sure all the vents and plugs are working.
The order “Clear bridge for dive!” initiates the maneuver. The anti-aircraft ammunition disappears into the tower. The three lookouts and the Officer of the Watch are still on the bridge.
Orders, reports, ringing of bells. Aft, the diesels are stopped and disengaged. The E-motors are geared to the drive shafts and set at high speed. Simultaneous with the stopping of the diesels, the big conduits leading to the outside—for the exhaust and for air intake—are closed. From the diesel room the signal Ready to Dive is flashed to the control room. The bow compartment also gives its All Ready signal. The lookouts on the bridge have come below. Looking up the shaft of the tower, I see the Watch Officer hastily turning the hand wheel that presses the tower hatch home in its bed.
“Clear the air-release vents!” the Chief orders. Reports come in quick succession to the Chief. “One!” “Three, both sides!” “Five!” “Five clear!”
It sounds like a magic incantation.
“All vents clear!” the Chief reports.
“Flood!” comes from below.
“Flood!” the Chief repeats for his crew.
The sailors in the control room swiftly open the emergency evacuation vents. The air that gave the boat buoyancy escapes with a thundering roar from its tanks. The hydroplane operators set the forward plane hard down and the after-plane ten down. The boat dips and becomes noticeably bow heavy; the pointer on the depth manometer moves slowly over the numbers on the dial. One more wave crashes against the tower and then suddenly all noise ceases: the bridge has slid underwater.
Oppressive silence—no breaking of waves, no more vibration of the diesels. The radio is silent. Radio waves cannot penetrate the depths. Even the humming of the ventilators has stopped.
I pay close attention. Someday it may be up to me.
The Chief orders, “Forward up ten, aft up fifteen!” The bow heaviness is corrected. The current from the propellers strikes the upward-tilted hydroplane and slowly the boat grows stern heavy. The final bubbles of air that have clung to the corners of the buoyancy cells and might give unwelcome lift now escape.
The Chief reports to the Commander, “Boat balanced!”
The Commander orders, “Close vents!”
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bsp; The exhaust vents on top of the buoyancy cells are closed by hand wheels and connecting rods in the control room.
“Proceed to ninety feet!” The Commander is leaning motionless at the chart table, his elbows braced behind him.
The Chief stands behind the two hydroplane operators, so that the hydroplane indicators, depth indicators, trim indicators, waterdepth gauges, scales, and manometer needle are in full view.
The hand of the manometer turns. Forty feet, sixty, seventy-five.
Now there is only the soft humming of the E-motors. Somewhere water drips into the bilge with a thin, lost sound. The Chief looks up. With his pocket flashlight he goes searching among the pipes on the port side. Then the dripping stops by itself. “That’s that,” the Chief murmurs.
A shudder like a chill runs through the boat.
The Old Man seems completely unconcerned. He appears to be just staring blankly ahead, but now and again he glances around quickly.
The indicator on the manometer approaches ninety. Its movement becomes steadily slower. Finally it stops. The boat is no longer descending; it hovers in the water like a zeppelin, but you can feel that it is still stern heavy. There is no upward or downward motion, but it’s not yet on an even keel.
The Chief begins the trimming operation. “Pump water forward!” The control-room assistant Turbo turns a valve behind the periscope shaft.
The Chief orders a readjustment of the hydroplanes. Now the boat rises, without any water having been expelled. Very slowly the hand of the manometer moves backward over the dial. Simply by use of the hydroplanes and the forward thrust of the propellers the required depth is reached—dynamically.
Now and again the Chief gives an order to the hydroplane operators. Finally the Commander speaks. “Proceed to periscope depth!” He gets up with a jerk and clambers heavily into the tower.
Das Boot Page 7
