Wreckers Must Breathe

by Hammond Innes

  The key grated in the lock of our door and a petty officer poked his head in. ‘Aufstehen!’ he said. I dressed myself quite automatically, ate my breakfast and started my daily chores with my mind full of the wildest and most fantastic schemes for getting control of the after gun of U 21. I now considered this the only practical means of achieving my aim of blocking the exit. It was now Friday, September 15. The rendezvous was for 1.30 p.m. on Monday, September 18. That meant that the U-boats would leave the base on Sunday night. Between now and Sunday evening I had got to find out how the gun worked and think out all the details of the plan. It was a horrible respon-sibility, and, because my mind was elsewhere, I was reprimanded several times for slacking.

  Throughout the whole of the morning we did service as stevedores, unloading the store barge and piling cases of provisions on trolleys which were then dragged off to the various store-rooms of the base. Some went to the store-room opposite each dock to provision submarines. Others went to the stores in the upper galleries and were for consumption in the base. There were in all about fifty men working on the barge or busy storing the cargo in the various store-rooms.

  After lunch, however, I had a bit of luck. We were taken to No. 4 dock where men were working with a mobile automatic drill. We were given shovels and a barrow with which to remove the debris. What was happening was that it had been found necessary to remove the for’ard gun of the U-boat en bloc from the deck so that the deck plates, which had been buckled, could be renewed while the gun itself was repaired on the dockside by the workshop engineers. When we arrived, the gun had been unbolted from its mounting, but in order to sling it on to the dockside it was necessary to erect a derrick. One leg of the derrick could be braced against the opposite side of the dock, but it had been found necessary to drill holes to steady the two shorter legs on the dock itself.

  The first little pocket took about ten minutes to drill. The granite was extremely hard and splinters kept on flying from the point of the drill. But the other one proved quite simple owing to a fault in the rock and to the appearance of a much softer strata. This, as soon as I began to shovel up the broken chunks, I found to be limestone. It was an interesting discovery for any one who studied geological formations. I looked at the stone closely. It was carboniferous limestone of the type that predominates in North Cornwall from Tintagel to Hartland Point. My immediate interest was in the fact that a fault of carboniferous limestone should occur in rock that was, as far as I had been able to see, entirely igneous. Igneous rock is the oldest of the pre-cambrian group, whereas limestone belongs to the palaezoic group, which occurred much later in the evolution of the world. It suggested that there must have been some movement of the granite formation long after it had been thrown up.

  And then another thought occurred to me. Here was a fault of carboniferous limestone, a rock that covers practically the entire north of Cornwall. And the fault was in igneous rock which, though comparatively rare, certainly occurs in the mining districts of Cornwall. Perhaps Logan had been right after all. On the other hand, the north-west corner of Spain has much the same rock formations, with limestone and igneous rock in close proximity. Brittany also has a similar formation. I decided in the end that I was no further forward at all and having, as a matter of interest, traced the fault right back to the main gallery and into the store gallery opposite, widening all the way, I transferred my attention to the gun. Our two guards seemed quite content, after watching over our removal of the debris, to stay and see the gun manoeuvred on to the dockside.

  It was swung across by lengthening the long leg of the derrick, and as it was lowered on the ratchet chain it descended slowly on to the dockside only a few feet from me. I had ample opportunity to examine the weapon. But though I could understand the breech mechanism and guess at the handgear for sighting it, I did not see how the thing was fired and I certainly could not imagine how I was to get hold of the necessary shells. The magazine, I knew, was somewhere beneath the gun, but how the lift worked I did not know.

  I suddenly remembered that Logan had been on a ‘Q’ ship in the last war. ‘Do you know how these things work?’ I asked.

  He looked at me quickly. Then he frowned. ‘I feel I should,’ he said slowly. ‘But I don’t know.’ He shook his head from side to side. He did not seem really interested.

  It was up to me to learn for myself. I watched them dismantle the barrel, saw the breech opened and shut and the firing position altered by the handgear, but still I did not see how it was fired. However, if I did not discover the workings of the gun, at least I learned something from the conversation of the men who were working on it. The U 47, which had got so badly damaged by being rammed, had been patched up and was leaving for Germany by way of the Irish Sea and the Hebrides that night. This was only an operating base capable of keeping submarines supplied and effecting light repairs. U 47 had apparently taken such a beating that the engineers considered that nothing short of a general overhaul and refit would make her properly seaworthy. So, patched as well as the base could do it, she was to make a bid for Kiel and the old Germania yard. Apparently she made it, for she was later, I heard, sunk in the South Atlantic. This left only four boats in the base. Among them was our own boat, U 34, now ready for sea again. Two more boats were apparently expected in that night. That made a submarine fleet of six boats, provided the U 21 were ready in time. It was not a pleasant prospect. If they got out it might mean the end of all four of the capital ships in the Atlantic squadron and possibly the loss of some of the Mediterranean squadron at the rendezvous.

  At that moment there was a sudden shout of ‘Wache!’ Our two guards looked uncertainly at each other. The men at work on the gun paused and listened. The sound of heavy boots on rock echoed down the galleries. Men were running. More men joined them. Doors slammed. The call was repeated—‘Wache!’ Then through the galleries rang the clamour of a bell. ‘The emergency alarm!’ exclaimed one of the engineers at the gun. And another said, ‘Yes, that means action stations.’ At that they all went running down the dockside and into the gallery at the end. One of our guards began to follow them. The other hesitated and shouted something, indicating us. Then the one who had been so anxious about us remained whilst the other dashed off to see what had happened.

  It was the chance of a lifetime. I looked at Logan, but he seemed quite unconscious of anything unusual. Our guard was watching the gallery at the end of the dock rather than us and his senses were centred on the medley of sounds coming from the upper galleries in an effort to discover what had happened. I heard the ring of rifle butts against rock and rapid shouts of command. The tramp of feet began to resound through the base. I glanced at the guard. He was still watching the end of the dock. Slowly I began to edge away towards the gangway that led on to the submarine. I had almost made it when he caught sight of my movement out of the corner of his eyes and in the same instant his revolver was covering me. ‘Ruhe!’

  Was it just luck that Logan was now directly behind him? For one wild moment I thought that Logan was going to lay him out. Then the sound of feet marching in the gallery that ran past the end of our dock drew my eyes. A double file of ratings came marching on to the dock. Others marched on to the farther docks. The guard relaxed. The chance was gone.

  The ratings were fully armed and under the command of their officers. They were the crew of U 21. Apparently as soon as the alarm sounds each man has to report with arms outside his quarters. They are then marched to the dock in which their submarine lies and there await instructions. Ten men in each submarine are attached to the base guard as emergency watch. These report to the guard-room immediately on the sounding of the alarm. It is their job to defend the base until the last U-boat has got clear. When all the boats are away, and that may be several hours because of the necessity of waiting for the tide to flood the docks, they have to destroy the base and any submarine that has not been in a fit condition to escape. Then, and then only, are they allowed to surrender. The chances of being
alive after the destruction of several hundred tons of high explosive and a large quantity of fuel oil are, of course, not very great.

  I could not help wondering at that time why it was necessary in an underground base of this type to have emergency regulations for its defence. Clearly, nothing could attack the base from the sea except by shelling the cliffs above the underwater entrance. It is possible that naval vessels might locate and sink submarines as they left the base, but the U-boats were attached to the buoy on the haulage gear by an automatic coupling that could be released without surfacing. The tricky surface work was only necessary on entering the base. In any case, there was a look-out, the entrance to which led off the cliff side of the upper gallery just near our own cell. This look-out made it possible for U-boat commanders to be notified of any craft in the vicinity when ready to go out.

  Presumably, therefore, they feared an attack from the land. And if there were a way of getting into the base from the landward side, then there must be a way of getting out. The thought sent a thrill of hope through me. This sudden sense of exultation was followed almost immediately by a mood of complete and utter despair. What chance was there of discovering this bolt-hole of theirs, let alone escaping through it?

  I was brought back to a sense of the immediate happenings by the arrival of our other guard. ‘We are to take them to their cell,’ he said. He was flushed with running and his words came in short gasps.

  ‘What’s happened?’ demanded the one who had stayed with us.

  ‘I don’t know—nothing yet. The emergency alarm went in the guard-room a few minutes ago. Eight men were sent out to reconnoitre. Come on! We’re to put these men in their cell and report to the guard-room. The emergency guard has been called out and every one is standing by.’

  We were told to march. By this time the dockside was empty. The crew of U 21 had gone to their stations. The tide was at the high and I could hear the gurgle of water as the dock was flooded. The commander and his Number One were standing on the bridge. The boat was not ready for sea, yet they were prepared to take her out and risk it if necessary rather than leave her to be destroyed. It was the gesture of a proud service. As we marched down the gallery and climbed the ramp to the next level our two guards continued their conversation:

  First Guard: ‘Are we being attacked?’

  Second Guard: ‘I don’t know.’

  First Guard: ‘Well, what are they doing about it? Who sounded the warning?’

  Second Guard: ‘They don’t know yet. But they’ve sent out a reconnoitring party.’

  First Guard: ‘Maybe it’s a false alarm.’

  Second Guard: ‘Maybe.’

  First Guard: ‘Suppose we’re being attacked—what do we do?’

  Second Guard: ‘Who do you think I am—Commodore Thepe? I don’t know.’

  First Guard: ‘Well, I do. We blow up the exit galleries and then we’re caught like rats in a trap. We’re marines. We don’t belong to the submarine service. But the only chance we’ll have of getting out of this base will be by submarine—and the hell of a bloody chance that will be!’

  As far as I was concerned the conversation ended there, for we were bundled into our cell and the key turned in the lock. I heard the clatter of the guards’ boots as they went into the guard-room opposite. And then an unearthly stillness descended on the place. I had never heard it so silent. All the machinery, even the dynamos, had been stopped. I felt a sense of frustration. Something exciting was happening. Something that might vitally affect our lives. Yet here we were cooped up in a cell with no means of knowing what was taking place. It was complete anti-climax.

  I glanced at Logan, who was sitting placidly on his bed. He was listening, too. He sensed I was watching him and he looked up at me. ‘What’s happening?’ he asked. I said I didn’t know. I began pacing the cell, but it was so small that I eventually sat down on my bed again. We sat there, listening to the silence, while quarter of an hour slipped by.

  I began to imagine things. Somewhere at the back of the base were underground workings. Perhaps even now the guard was fighting an enemy whilst the U-boats slipped out of the base. It did not matter that it was daylight for the exit. How long would it be before they were all clear? Five boats and the barge—that might take between three and four hours. Then what? Would they destroy the base? The silence and my own enforced inactivity began to get on my nerves.

  Then suddenly there were voices, the clang of a door and silence again. Ten more minutes passed, and then the sound of the guard-room door being opened and the scuffle of service boots running down the gallery. Within a few minutes came the murmur of many voices and the clatter of boots. Then the gentle soothing hum of the dynamos was resumed. Life at the base was normal again.

  ‘I wonder what all that was about,’ I said. I felt almost exhausted by my own curiosity. ‘Perhaps it was a false alarm,’ I suggested. ‘Or just a test.’

  Logan made no reply, but I could see him listening intently. I began to talk to him again and then stopped, realizing that it was pointless. I sat on my bed and waited, watching the minutes tick slowly by on my wrist-watch, which I had been allowed to keep. Shortly after four-thirty the grille opened and I just caught a glimpse of the nose and eyes of a man looking in at us before it clanged to again. Then there was the sound of boots on the rock outside and the door of the cell to the right of ours opened and then closed. I could hear the faint murmur of voices, but the rock walls were too thick to distinguish what language was being spoken. The cell door beyond closed with a bang and the grate of a key in the lock. Then the guard-room door slammed to and there was silence again.

  Another quarter of an hour passed. Logan was getting more and more restive. Once he tried to pace up and down the cell as I had done, but it was too small for him and he resumed his seat on the bed. I was beginning now to think in terms of mutiny. After all it was not impossible. The men were by no means happy. I remembered the departure of U 41. The commander had only just saved the situation then. The only thing against the possibility of mutiny was the fact that the morale had been better during the past few days—in fact, ever since the word had gone round that something big was pending. It is inactivity more than fear that undermines morale, and now that they had something big to look forward to, I could not quite see a mutiny.

  I had just arrived at this conclusion when there came a dull explosion that seemed to shake the very rock out of which the cell was hewn. It was followed almost immediately by a second. And then silence again. Both of us had automatically jumped to our feet. Were they scrapping the U-boats? The thought flashed through my mind. But I knew that it was out of the question. If they had blown up two of the boats the explosions would have been terrific, and they certainly hadn’t exploded the munitions store. These explosions were muffled and far away. Perhaps the entrance to the base was being shelled from the sea.

  The door of the guard-room opened, footsteps sounded and then the door of the cell to the left of us was opened. There was the murmur of voices. Then the door of the cell was closed and locked, and the footsteps returned once more to the guard-room. Silence again. The tension was making me over-wrought. I forced myself to sit down on the bed again, and I tried desperately to control my excitement. But I could not keep my hands still.

  Logan had taken up his stand by the door. I looked up at him. He was standing quite still, his huge body leaning against the door. But for once his face seemed alive and I realized that he was listening, I strained my senses. I could hear nothing. Logan went over to his bed and set his ear to the wall. I did likewise, but I could hear nothing. I went back to my own bed. I found myself wondering how much more of this tension would break Logan’s brain completely and transform him into a raving lunatic.

  I picked up a magazine and began to read a story. But I could not concentrate. I kept on catching sight of Logan listening at the wall. At length I put the magazine down. ‘Can you hear anything?’ I asked.

  ‘No, can you?’
/>   As a conversation piece it was not brilliant. I gave it up and for the next five minutes my mind chased the story about the man who asked a lunatic who had his ear to the ground that same question. Someone knocked on the door. I looked up. Logan was standing there, beating a tattoo with his fist on it. Footsteps sounded in the gallery outside. He ceased. But as soon as the guard-room door had shut again, he resumed his knocking.

  ‘Look, suppose I read you a story?’ I suggested. I picked up the magazine again.

  He did not reply, but stretched out his hand and picked up the spoon from his plate which was still lying on the bed. With this he began to strike the iron bars of the grille. It was getting on my nerves. ‘Come and sit down,’ I said.

  He turned and looked at me, and he was grinning broadly. ‘What is the name of your paper?’ he asked.

  ‘The Daily Recorder,’ I said. ‘Why?’

  But he had begun tapping again, this time much slower. Then he stopped and listened with his head tilted slightly on one side like a dog’s. I was getting a little nervous. It would be more than two hours before our evening meal was brought to us and that would probably be my first chance of getting hold of the doctor.

  Then suddenly Logan turned to me. ‘Here’s a pencil,’ he said. He drew the half-chewed stub of one out of the pocket of his dungarees and tossed it over to me. ‘Put this down on something.’ He began tapping again with his spoon. Then he stopped and listened. ‘I,’ he said, ‘-c-a-m-e break h-e-r-e break——’ He was spelling the words out letter by letter very slowly, sometimes with quite long intervals between each letter. ‘W-i-t-h break t-p-l-e-e break.’ He tapped with his spoon on the iron grille again. And then went on, ‘C-a-n-c-e-l break t-h-r-e-e break m-i-n-e-r-s.’