Stark Realities

by Stark Realities (retail) (epub)

  ‘The third is personal.’ Jaw up again, as in meeting a challenge, disbelief or censure… ‘Yes. I’d sooner have a few weeks in harbour than – whatever’s contemplated. For the private reason – telling you this, but no-one else at this stage.’ Neureuther gesturing his assent to secrecy, leaning closer, Winter muttering, ‘Extremely private and personal. Concerns a young lady whom I’ve been seeing in recent months. You’ve met her, I think. Yes, you have. Well – I believe the time has come to – shall I say, formalise our relationship. If she’ll have me, of course.’ The bison stare again, but a hint of mockery in it: ‘Surprised you, have I? Well, I’m a human being, Neureuther. Never occurred to you, I dare say. Wish me luck, eh?’

  * * *

  Off Heligoland between 0630 and 0640, after calling up the signal station by light, establishing U201’s identity and amending the Wilhelmshaven ETA to 0920. Dead reckoning had been spot-on, and tides in the next few hours would be favourable. Having passed this message, Signalman Kendermann began taking in one from FdU at Wilhelmshaven to the effect that on her arrival U201 was to berth on Sudwestkai in the Verbindungshafen, and requesting information as to the boat’s fuel state, torpedoes remaining, major defects if any, men sick or injured if any. In effect Winter was being asked whether there was anything that might prevent or delay him from sailing as soon as he’d re-fuelled, taken on fresh water and stores and embarked torpedoes.

  Kendermann lowered the lamp with which he’d been acknowledging the message word by word, at the same time calling it out for Boy Telegraphist Rehkliger, below them in the tower, to scribble down. Winter – and Hohler, who had this six-to-eight watch – had both been reading it as it came stuttering in, and as the station signed off Winter shouted down to the boy, ‘Take it to the first lieutenant, ask him to draft an answer.’

  Fog still thickened the darkness. Without certain lights on shore, the island itself wouldn’t yet have been visible, although a lit and identifiable buoy which they’d passed within fifty metres of had given them their exact position. And still the long, low swell, 201 rocking over it, diesels rumbling, the stink of their exhaust obnoxious on what was now a light following wind. But definitely no happy home-coming, this. Those questions apart, the Verbindungshafen was plainly the most convenient temporary accommodation for a boat that wasn’t expected to remain in port for more than a few hours. You wouldn’t even be getting ashore for a hot bath, by the looks of it.

  Neureuther came up and offered the skipper his draft reply. He’d have had to have gone down into the tower’s light to check it, though; he shook his head, growled, ‘Send it.’ Kendermann with the lamp’s sighting-tube already at his eye, beginning to call the station, give them the answers that would be passed to FdU in Wilhelmshaven by sea-bed land-line. Neureuther, on the starboard side of the bridge, said quietly to Winter, ‘Not the best of prospects, sir.’

  A grunt. Bison with one shoulder jammed against the for’ard periscope standard for support against the boat’s rhythmic pitching, while the lamp leaked its long and short flashes blindingly, drawing pinpoints of acknowledgement from shore. Winter told Neureuther, ‘Pass the word – after berthing, all hands are to remain on board until we know what’s wanted of us.’

  * * *

  Schillig Roads, the extensive fleet anchorage in the broad entrance to the Jade river, this top end of it about midway between Schillighorn and Alte Mellum, was crowded with ships of the High Seas Fleet. Adding to the impression of massive, concentrated power, when Neureuther came up to take over the watch at 0800, two Zeppelins were passing low over the lines of anchored battleships and battle cruisers. Light cruisers too – notably the 4th Scouting Group, their flagship Regensburg lying closer than any other to 201’s track inshore of them – inshore on the western, Schillig side. The Zeppelins were flying seaward – a scouting mission, Neureuther guessed. Checking all round and especially ahead, then switching back to what he could see of the battle squadrons, shifting his binoculars’ focus from ship to ship and identifying most of those whose profiles showed up well enough, with no overlap and reasonably hard-edged in the growing but still fog-laden early light. Hipper’s flagship Baden; and the 3rd Battle Squadron, including the modern – well, five-year-old – Konig and Markgraf. Beyond them – view changing rapidly as 201’s diesels drove her southward still at fifteen knots – Derfflinger and Von der Tann, battle cruisers, Derfflinger the more modern of the two and the larger, 28,000 tons as compared to Von der Tann’s less than 20,000, but both with the long, low look that made them easy to identify. And there now, the 1st Battle Squadron – Thuringen, Ostfriesland, Helgoland – and two others overlapping. One of those would be the Oldenburg. All of them as static as models set in putty, which in this light was the colour of the surface anyway, surface with virtually no movement on it except for 201’s wash rolling out on her quarters. The dreadnoughts Friedrich der Grosse and Kaiserin there; beyond them, the Konig Albert – and those were only the fringe of it, those to which one was passing closest and with open lines of sight. Neureuther lowered his glasses, remarked to Hohler: ‘All raising steam, you’ll have noticed. What for, one might ask.’

  Dark columns of funnel-smoke from the big ships were rising vertically, that pre-dawn breeze having dropped away. The smoke would be visible a long way offshore, he thought, once the light improved. He nodded to Hohler: ‘All right, I’ve got her.’

  ‘I’ll get my breakfast, then.’

  ‘May have left some for you.’ Running a hand around his jaw: he’d shaved for the first time in three weeks, and his face felt naked in the cold, salt-damp air. Glasses up again, examining the river ahead, picking up the buoys that marked the channel at approximately 1,000-metre intervals and were identifiable by their flashing fights. Schillig Roads falling back on the quarter now, and 201’s course of 195 degrees due to be altered by fifteen degrees to port after – checking again – two more pairs of fit buoys.

  Winter came up, stood with his arms akimbo, staring round. As bare-faced as his first lieutenant; he’d been up here until about half an hour ago, had gone below for breakfast and a shave. A hand up to the new sensitivity of his jaw too; binoculars up then, checking ahead initially – buoy-spotting – then astern at the now distant, indistinct mass of battle-wagons – only the smoke columns seemingly solid from this distance and fine of sight, massive supports to the ceiling of cloud.

  He turned back, checked the time.

  ‘Come down to three hundred revs. We’re well up to schedule.’

  ‘Aye, sir.’ Neureuther stooping to the voicepipe, passing the order while thinking about the skipper and that strikingly pretty girl. Had to be all of fifteen years younger than him. Extraordinary, really: year upon year of never showing the least interest in any female, then – crunch, falling for a kid like that one. Even contemplating marriage, going by those few words he’d uttered. But that was Franz Winter, Neureuther supposed – doing nothing by halves: he either went for it flat-out or he bloody didn’t.

  Like the way he ate, come to think of it.

  Putting his glasses up again, he wondered how the girl would react: whether maybe she’d be expecting it, might have her answer ready for him.

  Extraordinary, anyway, that burst of loquaciousness. Criticism of – well, un-named persons – one might guess, political – as well as the private revelation.

  Iron crust crumbling, suddenly? What the end of a war did to a certain kind of man, when for years on end it had possessed him absolutely?

  The girl, though: he wondered again – with her looks, get just about any man she wanted. How’d Franzi take it if she turned him down?

  Voicepipe: engineer officer requesting permission to come up on the bridge. He was a warrant officer, name of Muhbauer, tall and bald, with hands the size of shovels. Winter had nodded, and Neureuther called down, ‘Permission granted.’ Muhbauer, Neureuther guessed, would be bringing with him a list of engine defects, reasons 201 definitely needed at least a few days in harbour for repairs
and maintenance; he’d been working at it on and off for days.

  * * *

  The gathering on this basin’s Sudwestkai included Kapitan zu See Schwaeble, Winter noticed, as well as a few fellow COs including Waldo Rucker and the tubby Willi Ahrens. He’d expected to be met by Michelsen himself: if U201 was being denied any stand-off at all, as all the indications suggested, you’d think the head man would make himself available to explain it.

  Heaving-lines had arced across and were being hauled in, dragging hemp breasts over at the bow and stern.

  Springs were coiled ready on the stone jetty, would be passed over and secured as soon as the breasts were made fast. Hardly worth bothering with springs, maybe, if the boat was only to be here for an hour or two.

  He stooped to the voicepipe, called down, ‘Finished with main engines and motors. Open fore hatch.’ Glancing up to the wireless mast, from which victory pendants for this patrol’s four sinkings flew – or rather dangled, like stockings on a washing-line, in the near-windless air. He turned back to where a gangplank was about to be swung over. Reflecting that this should have been a happy, satisfying moment, as returns from successful patrols always had been: but it wasn’t, nobody looked happy, and he, Franz Winter, certainly didn’t feel it.

  He’d get a call through to her anyway. Have a brief word, explain…

  The springs – steel wire rope – were being hauled over. Hohler, amongst whose jobs was that of casing officer, was supervising all that, with Leading Seaman Lehner, second coxswain, in charge aft. U201 at rest, for the time being. Winter told Neureuther as the gangway thumped down, bridging the four-metre gap between casing and dockside, ‘I’ll go down and shake it out of him.’

  Shake it out of Schwaeble, he meant. The boat wasn’t in any state for entertaining senior officers, and he, Winter, wasn’t in a mood for it either.

  Von Mettendorff, he saw then: tall figure at the rear of the throng, tall enough to see over others’ heads, tossing him a salute. Two stripes on that sleeve. Well, good for him. His Coastal must be in need of repairs, or they’d have turned him round and sent him out again. Winter climbed over the side of the bridge on that starboard side and down iron rungs to the catwalk, edging around it to the fore-casing. Schwaeble was already halfway across the plank; Winter saluted, then accepted the offered handshake as he stepped on board.

  ‘As always, glad to have you back, Winter. Another – what, twelve thousand tons, was it?’

  ‘About that. May I ask how long we have in port now?’

  ‘You read the signs, eh?’

  ‘Would have had to be pig-stupid not to.’

  ‘Yes. Well – FdU will brief you. He was taking a call from Berlin, couldn’t leave the office, I’m to take you to him right away.’

  ‘May I give my first lieutenant at least some idea of what our programme is?’

  ‘Oh.’ A glance at his watch; a sigh, then. ‘If you’ll tell him quietly and briefly, we don’t have time to waste. But a vanload of fresh provisions is on its way – in case you need to stay out there longer than we expect. That’s all: you’ve enough fuel remaining, and four torpedoes – right? More than you’ll need. Rather hope you won’t need any. Shouldn’t take more than a couple of hours at most – thing is, you’re the only boat we have that’s currently fit to do the job, the timing of your return’s thus highly fortuitous. FdU will explain it all, so—’

  ‘What is the job, sir?’

  Schwaeble sighed, lowered his voice. ‘In a word, mutiny, in the Hochseeflotte. It’s a shameful and dangerous situation – as FdU will explain. All right?’

  ‘A word to Neureuther, if I may, sir.’ Turning, beckoning to him, he gave him the gist of it. ‘Means we can expect to be back alongside in a couple of hours, apparently. Exactly what we’ll be doing I can’t say. Some kind of police action, by the sound of it. Oh, there’s a vanload of fresh provisions on its way, and I’m to be briefed now by FdU.’ He was breaking off, but then remembered: ‘Look here – Muhbauer’s asked me for compassionate leave – I said yes – his wife was giving birth just when we sailed. But as this is only a few hours’ work there’s no time to find a replacement, tell him he must hang on.’

  He followed Schwaeble across the plank. On the stone quay, Ahrens’ bulky frame approached. ‘Franz—’

  ‘Sorry, Willi. See you later, if—’

  ‘Must speak to you, Franz. It’s most urgent.’

  Schwaeble waved him off. ‘Later, Ahrens.’

  * * *

  Kommodore Andreas Michelsen, FdU – Fuhrer of U-boats – was a head taller than either Schwaeble or Franz Winter; also slimmer and greyer, with piercing blue eyes under jutting brows. He came around his desk to shake hands with Winter, asking Schwaeble, ‘Have you explained the position to him?’

  ‘Only in outline, sir.’

  ‘Very well. Sit down, Winter. I should have opened this with my congratulations on yet another successful patrol – and apologies for the fact we can’t quite let you rest on your laurels yet.’ He’d resumed his seat behind the desk. ‘Schwaeble – I’ll brief him. Perhaps you’d get through to Henniger, suggest he embarks his men and makes a start.’ To Franz Winter then, ‘From the time you leave this office, can I assume you’ll have 201 on her way within, say, thirty minutes?’

  ‘If no special preparations are required, sir. And bearing in mind we’ve been three weeks at sea, my crew are overdue for stand-off and the boat for docking.’

  ‘That prompts an important question. Can you rely on your crew absolutely?’

  Winter felt and showed surprise. ‘If I couldn’t, I’d say I was unfit for command.’

  ‘Good answer.’ FdU looked at Schwaeble. ‘Captain, go ahead, tell Henniger to mark time outside, he’ll be joined by U201 in about forty-five minutes. Winter – listen. It’s a sad and sorry tale, and I’ll make it brief.’ The door closed behind Schwaeble; Michelsen pushed a wooden box across the desk. ‘Smoke?’

  ‘No thank you, sir.’

  The Kommodore helped himself to a cigar, put a match to it and told him with the smoke wreathing from his lips, ‘We have mutiny in the Hochseeflotte. In several of the battleships, but the trouble at the moment seems to be centred on the Thuringen. I should explain: the purpose of the fleet’s assembly here in the Schillig Roads is that Vice-Admiral von Hipper is intending to launch a fleet action against the British. A briefing of admirals and ships’ captains was held on board the Baden last night, finalising details. Essentially, there are to be attacks by cruiser squadrons with destroyer escorts on the Flanders coast and in the Thames estuary – shore bombardments as well as dealing with whatever shipping’s encountered. This will have the effect of drawing the British out: their aim will be to cut the Hochseeflotte off and force a fleet action. Hipper will sustain losses, obviously, but I’ve deployed U-boats across the southern North Sea and especially in the Terschelling area, and a sizeable new minefield has been laid. The importance of all this, the basis of it, is that armistice terms are being discussed between Berlin, Washington, London and Paris, and by demonstrating that our Navy at least is still very much to be reckoned with, the terms of any agreement should be much less to our disadvantage than would be the case if we just sat around and allowed the damn government to sell us out. Even if victory is not achieved, even if our losses are severe, we’ll have shown them that we’re a nation to be bargained with, rather than dictated to.’

  Winter nodded. ‘Sound thinking, sir.’

  ‘I’ve explained it to that extent so you’ll understand the importance of crushing this damn mutiny. Which I’ll also describe to you. First – well, signs of trouble have been growing in recent weeks; yesterday sailors were rioting in the streets of Kiel, and here in Wilhelmshaven, when preparing to move the big ships out into the Roads, several hundred men from Derfflinger and Von der Tann simply walked ashore. Shore patrols soon rounded them up and returned them to their ships – they’re mostly sheep, you’ve only to arrest the ringleaders and the rest ca
ve in – so those two and the rest of ’em moved out, they’re at anchor out there now. But – for instance – I mentioned Hipper’s conference last night, on board Baden; when the captain’s boat was called away in Thuringen, to take him to the flagship, the boat’s crew hid themselves, ignored the pipe. Of course he got himself over there, but that’s the mood, and apparently it’s spreading, heightened now by rumour of the impending Flottenvorstoss, to which they’re referring as “The Death Ride”. The swine are waving red flags, crowding their ships’ upper decks, cheering President Woodrow Wilson and the Russian revolution and whatever else they can think of – and in Thuringen they’re preventing access to machinery spaces, shutting-off steam to the capstan to prevent her weighing anchor, venting steam-pressure from her boilers, and so forth. Oh, and a message was flashed from Thuringen to Ostfriesland, flagship of the First Squadron, stating that her captain was no longer in control.’

  ‘Well…’

  A nod as he dropped ash from his cigar into a brass ashtray. ‘There’s trouble also in the Konig, Oldenburg, Markgraf and Friedrich der Grosse. Probably others too, but those we know of. Anyway, it’s hoped that breaking the mutiny in one ship should break it or avert it in the others, and for this Thuringen is to be the target. Marines are being embarked in two harbour tenders, steam transports. Escorted by you, they’ll board her and arrest the leaders, while you stand off with your tubes trained on her to ensure compliance. When they see we mean business to that extent, we very much hope it may bring them to their senses.’

  ‘If by chance it doesn’t, am I to fire on her?’

  The Kommodore tapped off more cigar ash. ‘When they see that you’re prepared to, they’ll give in, and you return to harbour, escorting the tenders, in which the ringleaders will be brought ashore under Marine guard and locked up. Better have your gun manned, incidentally.’