As usual the Old Man leaves me a while to puzzle out what he means by that. “The Tommies really would have something to be ashamed of if they saw just who was making life such hell for them: a kindergarten with a few Hitler Youths for officers. You feel old as the hills among all these kids—it’s a real children’s crusade.”
The Old Man has changed; I’ve never seen him the way he is now. He used to be discontented, yet introverted, meditative, phlegmatic. Now he’s talking openly—with pauses, as is his custom, but consecutively.
Things have now found their permanent place in the boat. No chart chest to block the passage, and you don’t have to run around ducking your head. The crew no longer has swollen eyes. A rhythm has been found, the ship’s routine established—a blessing after the confusion of the first days. Nevertheless I feel as if there were a thin membrane stretched between me and reality. I seem to be living in a kind of trance. The consternation that I felt at first when presented with the many pipes, manometers, machines, and valves has at last subsided. Now I know about the various pipes—which cells they lead to and even by which valves they can be shut off; hand wheels, levers, and the tangle of cables have sorted themselves out into a comprehensible system, and I feel a respect for this world of machinery dedicated to practical purposes. Nevertheless, there is still a great deal I can only accept with astonishment, as purely miraculous.
I still don’t comprehend the Second Engineer. I can’t tell whether his failure to react to the Commander’s provocations is due to obstinacy or lack of wit. Even when the Commander meets him more than hallway with jovial good humor, he fails to respond. He’s probably completely devoid of imagination, the typical product of a one-sided education designed to turn out mass-produced, brainless, dutiful performers, utterly committed to the Führer.
His private life I know only in broadest outline, hardly more than what is recorded in the personnel file. But I’m just as ignorant about the other officers too.
I do learn something about the Chief’s home life. His wife is expecting a child. His mother is dead. During this last leave he visited his father. “Not a success,” he informed me. “My father goes in for trays inlaid with iridescent blue butterflies. And cut-glass liqueur glasses. And liqueurs he makes himself. He used to be director of a waterworks. I brought him all sorts of supplies, but he refused to eat any of them—’food taken out of the mouths of men at the front,’ and that kind of nonsense. In the mornings he would march up and down beside my bed, up and down, never a word, only silent reproaches. The room I had to sleep in was a nightmare; the Sistine angels over the bed, a piece of birchbark with picture postcards glued to it. Pathetic, really, a widower like that. The way he lives: soup three times a day and one hot drink in the evenings. It’s funny, everything about him is blue: face, hands, clothes—all blue. In the evening he lays his clothes over four chairs, picks them up again, lays them down again. Once he designed a sink. He’s still living on the strength of it today. Inventor’s fame. Now he twists wires into vegetable baskets and barters them for food. He grows the yeast for his bread himself. Horrible stuff. ‘Extremely palatable,’ he says. ‘I’m going to give some to the ladies. It’s important to give pleasure to others.’ That’s also a kind of slogan of his. He’s always trying to prove he’s not what he seems to be. For example, he thinks of himself as a great lady’s man. He carries a worn picture around in his wallet. ‘My passion, 1926’ written on it—a publicity still? Who knows…”
In the bow compartment. The new control-room assistant inquires cautiously what the Commander is like. Someone fills him in. “The Old Man? He’s an odd one. I’m always amazed how happy he is when we put to sea. It seems he’s got himself engaged to one of those Nazi bitches. You can’t find out much about her. Flyer’s widow. Looks like she’s trying out the services one by one: first the Air Force, now the Navy. In any case, the Old Man isn’t getting much out of it. Must be one of those stuck-up types. That’s about all you can make out from the photo_long legs, decent enough front—sure! But he deserves something better.”
“They say those Nazi bitches aren’t so bad.” Schwalle.
“What makes you think so?”
“They get all kinds of special instruction at the Reich School for Brides. For example, they have to hold a piece of chalk in their assholes and write ‘otto-otto-otto’ on a blackboard. Makes them supple.”
General uproar.
Several times in the course of a day through the open door of the radio shack I catch a passing glimpse of Herrmann, the sound man, who relieves Hinrich at the radio. He has a complicated way of squeezing himself between the table tops where his instruments stand. There’s almost always a book in his hands. He’s twisted his headset so that only one earpiece is in place. This way he can hear incoming Morse signals and still have an ear free for orders.
Herrmann has been on board since the commissioning of the boat. His bunk is in the petty officers’ quarters opposite mine. His father, as I learned from the Commander, was a deck officer on a cruiser, and went down in 1917.
“The boy has had an absolutely typical career. First business school, then the Navy. In 1935 he was sound man on the cruiser Köln, then on a torpedo boat, then submarine school, and after that the Norwegian expedition with me. He’s earned his Iron Cross First Class a couple of times. He’s due for the fried egg soon.”
Herrmann is a quiet, strikingly pale man. Like the Chief, he moves easily through the boat, as though there were no obstacles in his path. I’ve never seen his face relaxed—it’s always tense, giving him a somewhat animal look. His behavior is timid and withdrawn. He keeps himself apart, even among the petty officers. He and Ensign Ullmann are the only ones who never play cards; they prefer to read.
I bend over Herrmann’s table and from the earpiece of his headset hear thin sounds like the soft chirping of crickets. Not one of us—not even Herrmann—knows whether the message being transmitted at this exact instant, hundreds or thousands of miles away, has anything to do with us.
Herrmann looks up, his eyes alert. He hands out a sheet of paper with a meaningless sequence of letters on it. The Second Watch Officer takes it and quickly gets to work deciphering it.
After a few minutes he has the clear text: “To Commander-in-Chief U-boats: Out of a convoy, two steamers five thousand and six thousand registered tons—seven hours depth charge pursuit—driven off—am pursuing—UW.”
The Second Watch Officer enters this message in the radio logbook and gives the book to the Commander. The Commander signs the message and hands the book on. The First Watch Officer reads it and initials it as well. Finally the Second Watch Officer hands it back to Herrmann, whose arm is already stretched out of the shack ready to receive it.
A typical message, relating in the meagerest detail the story of an attack: success, narrow escape after seven hours of underwater bombardment, and pursuit despite enemy defense.
“Eleven thousand gross registered tons—not so bad. UW—that’s Bischof,” says the Old Man. “Pretty soon he’ll have a sore neck from all those decorations.”
Not a word about the seven hours of depth charges. The Old Man acts as though the radiogram had never mentioned them.
Some minutes later Herrmann hands out the book again. This time it’s a signal from the Commander-in-Chief to a boat stationed in the far north: to proceed at full speed to another attack area. Apparently a convoy is thought to be in the region in question. Invisible threads of radio are now drawing the other boat to a specific point in the Atlantic, the boat under remote control, thousands of miles from the Commander-in-Chief and his broadcasting station. The hunt is being taken up out of sight of the enemy. On the huge map in the C-in-C’s Headquarters someone is moving a small red flag to indicate the boat’s new position.
There are intervals of calm during the daily trial dives, and these are used for inspecting the torpedoes.
The bow compartment is transformed into a machine shop. The hammocks are stowed away and
the berths snapped shut. The seamen discard their shirts. Block and tackle are secured to the loading carriage. The floor breach of torpedo tube number one is opened. The first fish—fat, heavily greased, and dully gleaming—is drawn partway out of its tube, its weight borne by the hoist rings. At the command of the torpedo mechanic, everyone hauls on the horizontal hawser as if in a tug-of-war. Slowly the half-exposed torpedo emerges from its tube to hang free on the loading carriage, where, despite its full weight of 1 ½ tons, it can easily be moved forward, backward, or to either side.
Each man has his own special assignment. One tests the motor, another the bearings and axles. Special pipes are attached and the compressed-air tanks filled, rudder and hydroplane controls tested, the lubrication points filled with oil. Then, after much shouting and shoving, the fish is finally pushed back into the tube.
The same procedure goes for the second torpedo. The crew seems to have hit its stride. “Come on, out of the lady,” roars Dunlop. “This is no damn good at all. There’re people standing in line outside and the man simply won’t budge. Damn pimps—not one of you is willing to work.”
Finally the floor breaches are sealed again, the tackle knocked off the loading carriages, the carriages removed, and the tackle stowed away. The bunks can be pulled down again. Gradually the room is transformed back into a cave dwelling. The bow-compartment crew is exhausted; the men crouch on the floor plates that hide the second load of torpedoes.
“It’s about time these beasts did a little hunting,” Ario complains.
No one has to give a thought to the 8.8 shells. The highly sensitive torpedoes, however, require constant attention. They’re quite different from shells—more like little ships with an extremely complex technology. In addition to the usual rudders they also have hydroplanes. Essentially they’re self-sufficient miniature U-boats loaded with a cargo of 800 pounds of TNT.
In the old days people used to talk about “launching” torpedoes,—not about firing them—which is much more to the point. We simply give them a push out of their tubes and direct them on their way. After that they run on their own power—compressed air or electricity—and follow a predetermined course.
Four of the fourteen torpedoes are in the bow tubes, one in the stern: G7A’s, motor-driven, with compressed-air tanks. Two are for concussion explosion, three for remote-control explosion. On contact with a steamer the percussion caps detonate the load of explosives and tear holes in the sides of the vessel. The more complicated and therefore more sensitive remote-control detonators, which are activated magnetically, explode at the appropriate depth just as the torpedo is passing under the ship. This detonation causes a pressure wave that strikes the vessel at its structurally weakest point.
The days pass in constant alternation of watch and off-watch, the same routine that governs every ship afloat.
The first watch is obviously the one that worries the Old Man. The First Watch Officer seems conscientious enough, but he can’t fool the Commander, who thinks he’s too lazy.
I am to take the place of one of the guards on the second bridge watch who is apparently down with flu. That means night watch from four to eight ship’s time.
It’s three o’clock when I wake up, half an hour too early. Silence in the control room. The bulbs have been shaded. Again I have the impression that the room stretches away into infinity.
The control-room mate reports on the weather. “Not much water coming over, but cold!” That means my woolen scarf and thick sweater, and perhaps even my woolen executioner’s hood over the sou’wester. I get my things together.
The other bridge guards turn up: the Berliner and the ensign.
“Pretty damn cold,” the bosun’s mate mutters finally. “The second watch is always the shittiest!” Then louder, “Five minutes till time!”
At this moment the Second Watch Officer comes through the circular hatch, so bundled up that almost nothing of his face is visible between his sou’wester and the edge of his collar.
“Morning, men!”
“Morning, Lieutenant!”
The Second Watch Officer pretends he can’t wait to go. He’s the first to climb up and out. It’s a tradition to spare the retiring watch the last five minutes.
The First Watch Officer, whom we’re relieving, announces the course and speed.
I have the starboard sector aft. My eyes quickly adjust to the darkness. The sky is a little brighter than the black sea, so the horizon is clearly defined. The air is very damp. The binoculars quickly cloud over.
“Leather cloths to the bridge!” the Second Watch Officer shouts below. But it isn’t long before the wipers are saturated too, and they begin to smear. Soon my eyes are burning and I have to shut them for seconds at a time. No one says a word. The pounding of the engines and the hissing and roaring of the waves quickly merge into the general silence. Now and again someone bumps his knee against the tower wall, producing a dull boom.
The port lookout astern gives a sigh and the Second Watch Officer whirls around. “Pay attention. Keep your eyes skinned!”
I feel an itching on my neck, but I’m wrapped up like a mummy. Can’t scratch properly. Even monkeys can do that much! But I don’t dare fumble around with my clothing. The Second Watch Officer gets uneasy if you undo so much as a single button.
He comes from a suburb of Hamburg. Was supposed to go to college but gave it up. Studied banking instead. After that he enlisted in the Navy. That’s all I know about him. He’s always cheerful, well thought of by commanders, petty officers, and seamen alike; no stickler for rules, does his job with relaxed matter-of-factness and no fuss. Although this shows that his ideas of duty are very different from those of the First Watch Officer, he’s still the only person who manages to stay on halfway decent terms with the latter.
The wake is phosphorescent. The night sky black. Black with diamond embroidery. The stars stand out brilliantly in the heavens. The moon is dull, its light pale and bleached and tinged with green. It looks spoiled—like a rotting melon. Visibility over the water is very bad.
Clouds move in front of the moon. The horizon has almost disappeared. What’s that—Shadows P—Announce them?—Or wait?—Goddam strange clouds! I stare until my eyes water, until I feel certain that it’s nothing, no shadows.
I sniff hard to clear my nose so that I can smell things more easily. Many a convoy has been caught in pitch darkness by the farreaching scent of smoke or escaping fuel oil from a damaged steamer.
“Black as a bear’s bottom,” complains the Second Watch Officer. “We could run straight into a Tommy!” We don’t need to be on the lookout for lights. The Tommies are extremely careful not to show any. Even the glimmer of a cigarette could spell destruction.
The Zeiss binoculars are heavy. My arms begin to fail. The triceps ache. Always the same routine: let the glasses hang for a moment on their strap, stretch and wave your arms around. Then up with the heavy glasses again, press the eyepieces against your browbones, support the binoculars on your fingertips to cushion them against the vibration of the boat. And constantly scan the ninety degrees of horizon and sea for signs of the enemy. Move the glasses very, very slowly from one side of the sector to the other, feel out the horizon inch by inch, then put the glasses down and scan the whole sector in a single glance, then back to the horizon from left to right, inch by inch.
Now and again the wind whips spray over us. The forward lookouts bend down stiffly to shield the lenses with their hands and the upper part of their bodies. When thick clouds move across the moon, the water is stained black.
I know that the Atlantic here is at least ten thousand feet deep—ten thousand feet of water under our keel—but we might as well be gliding with idling engines across a solid surface.
Time drags. Growing temptation to let one’s eyelids close and surrender to the motion of the boat, to enjoy being cradled up and down, lulled to sleep.
I’m tempted to ask the Second Watch Officer for the time but decide against it. In
the east a trace of pale, reddish light shows above the horizon. The soft, bleached glow only colors a thin band of sky because a drift of blue-black clouds lies low over the horizon. A long time passes before the light makes its way up behind them, setting their edges aflame. The foreship is now recognizable as a dark mass.
It takes a while before there is enough light for me to be able to make out the individual gratings on the upper deck. Gradually the men’s faces become clear: weary, gray.
One of the crew comes up to have a pee. He directs his face into the wind and pisses leeward through the railing of the “greenhouse.” I hear the stream spatter on the deck below. Smell of urine.
Again the question: “Permission to come on deck?” One after another they emerge for a breath of air and a quick pee. The scent of cigarette smoke, fragments of conversation.
“All we need is for them to sell rubbers, and the ship’s store would be perfect.”
A little later the Second Watch Officer reports. The Commander has appeared on the bridge—he must have come up very silently. A quick side glance and I see his face, red in the glimmer of his cigarette, but then I call myself to order. Don’t listen, don’t let yourself be distracted, don’t move. Don’t remove your eyes from your sector. You have only one duty: to peer until your eyes come right out of their sockets.
“Tubes one to four—torpedo doors open!”
So the Old Man is going to have another firing-control exercise. Without turning my head I hear the First Watch Officer give the angle of aim. Then the report from below: “Torpedo doors one to four open!” Again and again the First Watch Officer repeats his monotonous incantation. But from the Old Man not a sound.
Das Boot Page 12
