‘I see your point,’ I said, and put the light out and climbed into bed. He was right, of course, but at the same time it made it a rather last-minute job. The truth was that now zero-hour had been definitely fixed my whole soul revolted against it. It is extraordinary how powerful the will to live is in the average human being. If it had been a question of immediate action, I could have faced it. Subconsciously, I suppose, I had keyed myself to expect action that night. I had felt that it was tonight or never as soon as I knew for certain that the boats were going out the following night. And I honestly believe that if it had been a question of instantaneous action, I would have walked out of that cell and blown the whole place up quite calmly. But to plan such an action sixteen hours in advance somehow revolted me.
Sleep was out of the question. I simply lay in the darkness and thought and thought till plans went round in my head without meaning. And as I became more and more mentally tired, my plans gained in phantasy until they had no relation to reality whatsoever. Schemes for blasting a way out through the cliff by firing a six-inch gun like a machine-gun, for escaping through the main entrance in diving suits, for constructing all sorts of Heath Robinson contrivances to blow the base up without killing myself rattled round my brain. I even remembered the strata of limestone I had discovered and thought of drilling through that to the main shaft of the mine or burning piles of oil-impregnated cotton waste in order to asphyxiate Fulke.
And then for some reason I was awake. It did not take me long to discover the reason. My subconscious schemes were still clear in my head and I realized that my mind had connected the limestone strata and the burning waste and I was back in my schooldays listening to a rather portly man with a mortarboard and horn-rimmed spectacles initiating myself and about fifteen others into the mysteries of chemistry.
I leant over and shook Big Logan. Instantly it seemed he was wide awake. I heard him sit up in his bed. ‘What is it?’ he asked.
‘Listen!’ I said. I was excited. ‘Do you know what happens to limestone when it’s heated? It gives off carbon dioxide and leaves calcium oxide, which is quick lime. If I remember rightly the equation is—CaCo3 = CaO + CO2.’
‘How does that help?’ he asked.
‘Well, don’t you see? Carbon dioxide is poisonous when it replaces air—lack of oxygen causes suffocation. That’s what happened to the commander of U 21 tonight. There’s a strata of limestone running down No. 4 dock and across into the storage cave opposite, and it broadens out to a width of about five feet at the entrance to the store. That burning waste was lying on this strata of limestone and was giving off CO2. The commander passed out through lack of oxygen and we were all affected slightly. Now, suppose we could get a really big fire going on the limestone.’
‘And then ask the commander of the base to hold a scouts’ jamboree round it,’ suggested Logan.
‘I’m serious,’ I said.
‘I know you are,’ he said. ‘You’ve been lying awake thinking up all sorts of impossible schemes to avoid being killed yourself.’
It was a direct accusation of cowardice and I resented it, largely because I knew it to be true. ‘I was only trying to think out a scheme that had a chance,’ I said. ‘I’m not afraid of dying.’
‘Well, I am, if it’s unnecessary,’ he replied.
‘Then think up something better,’ I said, and turned over.
He did not reply, and when I had recovered from my resentment at his attitude, I began to consider the scheme in detail. Certainly the bald outline I had given did not sound particularly convincing. Several questions immediately leapt to my mind. First, how were we to make the necessary fire without it being put out before it had got to work on the limestone? Second, how were we to immunize ourselves? Third, what about Maureen and her companions? And fourth, was the ventilation system so good that it would be impossible to get sufficient CO2 into the base to render every one unconscious?
I began to consider these questions one by one. The first, of course, depended upon circumstances. It was a matter for action when the opportunity offered. Tanks of oil and petrol were often being trundled round the base when a submarine was being refuelled. I had a box of matches in the pocket of my dungarees. A drum would have to be broached and some of its contents poured over the limestone strata. The flames would then have to be fed. A mixture of oil and petrol would be best. Then we should want picks and shovels to break up the limestone and build it round the flames. Moreover, the flames must not be allowed to spread—there was a good deal of oil on the docksides and in the dock gallery. What we really ought to do was to build a little circle of broken limestone and pour petrol and oil into the centre. Then there was the question of our own immunization. I began to see the reason for Logan’s sarcasm.
At that moment Logan turned over towards me and said: ‘What exactly is the effect of carbon dioxide? Does it kill a person?’
‘It’s not exactly poisonous, like coal gas,’ I said. ‘It just uses up the oxygen in the atmosphere. You saw the effects this evening. A man gets dizzy and then passes out. Put him in the fresh air and he comes round again. But I believe it can be lethal if it goes on long enough.’
Then he began asking all the questions that I had been asking myself. And the more we discussed it the more elaborate and impossible the whole thing seemed. To immunize ourselves we needed an oxygen cylinder. How were we to get hold of one? True, there were plenty in the base, but would one be around just when we wanted it? Then there was the question of the four other prisoners. Logan said: ‘They would have to take their chance. In a locked cell they might not come off too badly and you say we can revive them with oxygen.’ As to the air conditioning, Logan pointed out that fresh air was brought in through a hole drilled in the cliff above the underwater entrance and the stale air was driven out through the look-out hole, the entrance to which led off the upper galleries. ‘That means the carbon dioxide would circulate through the entire base,’ he said.
But though this seemed to help, I must admit I had by then come to the conclusion that the scheme was unworkable. And after we had talked it over for some time, I said: ‘For heaven’s sake try to think out some scheme by which we can get at the munitions store and blow the place up.’ I was by then tired and discouraged. We discussed various plans for dealing with our guards at a time when the munitions store was open, getting into it and using one of the many mines stored there to explode the place. But Logan kept reverting to my own scheme and asking questions. I suppose my brain must have been tired out, for my answers became more and more vague, and the next thing I remember is being shaken by the guard and told to get up. I looked at my watch. It was seven o’clock and my breakfast of porridge, bread and jam and tea was lying on the floor beside me.
2
Action
LOGAN WAS ALREADY seated on his bed, eating his porridge. As the door closed behind the guard, I said: ‘Well, have you decided on any plan of action?’
He shook his head and continued eating. ‘We’ll have to take advantage of any opportunities that offer,’ he said. He made no mention of my own scheme, and frankly, when I came to consider it with the prospect of putting it into action within the next few hours, it did not seem practicable. There were so many snags. I felt nervous and depressed. We had no plan, and yet we had to do something within the next twelve hours.
When he had finished his porridge, Logan knelt down on the floor and removed the key from its hiding-place. ‘What do you want that for?’ I asked, as he slipped it inside one of his socks and began putting on his shoes, which were still wet from the previous night.
‘We may need it,’ he said.
Even then, though I knew he had no plan, he gave me confidence. It wasn’t just a question of his strength. There was something solid about the man, and I thanked God that his brain was all right and that I had not got to carry out some desperate plan on my own. At that moment I wished that my experience on the Daily Recorder had been as a reporter and not as dramatic c
ritic. I could think of one or two men in the news-room who would have revelled in a situation like this, men who had lived on their wits and knocked about the world all their lives. I had never had to use my wits as a means of livelihood in that sense. How much Big Logan had had to use his wits, as opposed to brute force, I did not know, but his swift adaptation to circumstances on the cliffs above the Devil’s Frying Pan and later in the U-boat was encouraging.
Almost before we had finished breakfast, the guard was back again. But instead of beginning the morning’s work in the latrines and kitchens, we were taken straight down to the docks and set to work carrying stores from the store-rooms to U 54, which was the boat that had come into No. 1 dock the previous night. This seemed promising, for No. 1 dock was the nearest to the munitions store. And I felt a distinct zero-hour feeling within me.
We obtained the stores from No. 1 store-room, directly opposite the dock. That meant crossing the main gallery and entering an electrically-lit tunnel, protected by sheet metal doors, that led to the store itself. These doors now stood open and the key was in the lock. It would take only a matter of a second to close the doors and lock them. That would look after the provisioning officer of U 54 and the four men who were working under him in the store. The trouble was that, though our own two guards did not present much difficulty since they had become accustomed to us and regarded us as quite harmless—it must be remembered that Logan was still a mental defective to all who knew him in the base—there were the customary two guards on the U-boat itself, one standing on the bridge and the other near the bows, as well as several men lifting the stores from the deck, where we placed them, and passing them into the submar-ine through an after-hatch. Even supposing we were able to deal with all these, there was still the problem of the guards to the munitions store. I had never been into this store. Only certain men were allowed in. But I had been as far as the entrance. A huge steel bulkhead had been built across the entrance in an effort to protect the base from any mishap. The door through this bulkhead was only just wide enough to take a munitions trolley. The guards were stationed one on either side of the tunnel that led off the main dock gallery just beyond No. 1 dock.
The prospect seemed hopeless. But at least we were near the munitions dump, and I was keyed up ready for a desperate attempt. But Logan made no move, even when we were joined by three more men, dressed in dungarees like ourselves. They were under a guard of two ratings and a petty officer, and were presumably Maureen Weston’s miners. The guard complicated the position, for, unlike our own guards, they were watchful of the new-comers. But the miners did represent an addition to our force, especially as they looked to me about the toughest trio I had ever set eyes on. One, who seemed to be their leader, was short and bow-legged, and had a Welsh accent. The other two were undoubtedly Cornish. Whether Logan thought that their usefulness was cancelled out by the guard they had brought, I do not know, but when I asked him in a whisper if he was going to make a move, he replied: ‘Not yet.’
Once we had to go to the foundry, which was right at the other end of the dock gallery, to collect the conning tower hatch, which had been fitted with a new rubber jointing ring. The activity along the whole gallery and in most of the docks was terrific, especially in docks 3 and 4. When we passed No. 4, fresh water was being run into U 21 from a mobile tank and torpedoes were being hoisted aboard from a munitions truck. Riveting had ceased, but engineers were still at work on one of the A.A. guns. The boat that had come into No. 3 dock the night before was being provisioned and fuelled.
Listening to the talk of the men, I found there were only two topics of conversation—the coming action and the rumour of a woman in the base. No statement had been issued about the previous day’s alarm, but it seemed to be generally known that certain prisoners had arrived in the base, including a woman. Doubtless the emergency guards had passed on the information to their friends. What interested me was the effect that the unseen presence of a woman in this monastic place had on different men. Those who had been stationed on the Atlantic trade routes and at the base long before war broke out had not seen a woman now for some months. Some became sentimental and talked of their sweethearts and wives. But the majority seemed to take it as a great joke and already obscene stories, based on Maureen’s presence in the base, were going the rounds. It seemed strange that I should see this stock theatrical situation actually happening in real life, especially against such a novel background.
But though a girl’s presence in the base was something of a sensation, the coming action was the main topic of conversation. I realized then how similar must be the feelings of these men to my own at that moment. Zero-hour for them was somewhere about midnight. At present they were safe enough, if somewhat bored. But tonight they were leaving the safety of the base for the unknown. The chances of ever returning were not great, they knew that. And like me, probably their best chance of remaining alive rested in failure.
About eleven o’clock, when we had completed the piling of the necessary stores on the after deck of U 54, Logan and I were marched off to our usual job of emptying the latrines. Death has its compensations! When we had finished we were marched back to the docks, and joined the three new prisoners at carrying stores to U 21. The dockside seemed littered with stores of various kinds. There were cases of margarine and jam, tins of biscuits, cardboard cases full of tinned foods and packets of coffee, sugar, salt, and all sorts of other foodstuffs. The three miners had carried all this from No. 4 store and were piling it on the dockside, opposite the after-hatch. Mines were being loaded into the after-minelaying compartments and a huge tank of oil had been brought on to the dock on a trolley. There was also a smaller tank of petrol. But refuelling operations had not yet begun.
We stood about for a time, and then several of the crew, together with the cook, arrived. The after-hatch was opened and they descended into the bowels of the submarine. We then brought a small gangway and laid it from the dockside to the submarine. Our job was to carry the stores from the dock to the submarine and lower them through the after-hatch on a rope.
It was now nearly twelve—first lunch. There were two lunch times—twelve and twelve-thirty. This made it easier for the kitchen staff when there were a large number in the base, as there were now, and at the same time enabled any rush work to be carried on without any complete stoppage for the midday meal.
We had not been carrying on this work long when, just as I was lowering a case of margarine down the hatch, I saw Logan time his arrival at a pile of cases at the same moment as the little leader of the miners arrived with the next load. I could not be sure, but I felt convinced that Logan said something to the man. I did not get an opportunity to speak to Logan for some time, but I noticed that the miners, instead of putting the cases down anyhow, were piling them on top of one another, so that they made a sort of wall of cases across the dockside.
Convinced that something was afoot, I gradually speeded up my work so that, instead of alternating with Logan, I was bringing my cases up just behind him. At last I managed it so that I put my case down on the deck of the submarine at the same time as he put his down. I had just opened my mouth to question him when he whispered: ‘Stand by.’
A few minutes later orders were suddenly shouted from the main gallery. I glanced at my watch. It was midday. I looked down the length of the submarine. Men in their white uniforms were passing along the gallery in the direction of the ramp leading to the upper galleries. The docks were much quieter now and there was far less movement of men up and down the gallery at the end of the dock.
I took a quick look round at the disposition of the guards as I walked off the submarine. Our own two guards were standing chatting beside the pile of cases. One was actually leaning on them. The U-boat guard was now reduced to one and he was standing on the deck for’ard of the conning tower. The other guard was on duty inside the submarine as base personnel were now storing munitions. A munitions trolley loaded with shells was standing on the dockside
. Another gangway had been thrown from the dockside to the deck of the submarine and these shells were being carried in through the for’ard hatch. At the moment the trolley, with upwards of twenty shells on it, was standing deserted on the dockside, the personnel having gone to first lunch. There remained only the miners’ guard of a petty officer and two ratings.
I was now following close behind Logan and feeling uncomfortably self-conscious. Our guards were deep in conversation, with their backs half-turned to us. As we approached the pile of cases, one of them looked round. I could not believe he would not notice the air of expectation about me. We each took hold of a case of canned goods. The guard turned to answer a question the other had put. Logan carefully replaced his case. Then he straightened up. Until then I don’t think I had realized how enormous his hands were. He stretched them out and took each of the guards by the throat. His body seemed to brace itself and the muscles of his arms swelled as he forced those two men silently to the ground behind the barrier of packing cases. They seemed to lose consciousness without even a kick.
‘Get into his uniform,’ he said, pointing to the smaller of the two men.
I did not hesitate. The die was cast now. We could not go back. And strangely enough, now that I had something to do, I did not feel in the least nervous.
Logan glanced over the boxes and then picked up a case and took it on to the deck of the submarine. Feverishly I worked at the uniform of the guard, afraid that at any moment he might become conscious again or that the miners’ guard would reappear. By the time Logan was back I had got the uniform off the man. One by one he banged their heads sharply against the rock floor. I thought he had smashed their skulls, but he must have seen my look of horror, for he said: ‘It’s all right. Only making certain that they stay out.’
Wreckers Must Breathe Page 16
