Stark Realities

by Stark Realities (retail) (epub)

  ‘But I must be prepared to fire – fire a torpedo, say – if they don’t give in?’

  ‘You must act in a manner that makes it plain you will do so if necessary.’

  ‘So in actuality, I’ll be bluffing?’

  ‘Nothing of the sort! You’ll assess the situation and its likely outcome, use your own savvy and act accordingly.’

  ‘Then I am authorised to open fire if they don’t surrender. May I have it in writing?’

  ‘I can’t see how that would help. To be bound by explicit orders in a situation of such an unprecedented kind could only limit your options. Whereas leaving it to your judgement – as a senior U-boat commander of considerable experience—’

  ‘Sir, I’ve no experience at all of firing on my own countrymen or sinking a major unit of our own fleet. If I am required to do so—’

  ‘Mutineers, Winter, are customarily shot or hanged. Whatever in your assessment may seem necessary, you are empowered to proceed with. But time’s short now, so…’

  A gesture, indicating that he’d now said as much as needed to be said. Winter thinking about it, Michelsen holding the bison’s glare through a drift of cheroot smoke. Winter tried, ‘With respect, sir, may I discuss this with Vice-Admiral von Hipper?’

  ‘I would have suggested it myself, but he’d be difficult to find. He had transferred his flag from Baden to the Kaiser Wilhelm II – alongside here. So we were informed – by Chief of Staff von Trotha, I believe.’ Kaiser Wilhelm II was a disarmed pre-dreadnought battleship, vintage 1897, relegated to service as a headquarters and accommodation ship. Michelsen continuing, ‘An attempt at contacting him an hour ago, however, drew blank. He had been on board Kaiser Wilhelm, but, well, seems he may be touring the fleet, assessing the situation for himself. In any case, action has to be taken, the mutiny has to be nipped in the bud, you’re the man to do it and the time for it is now!’

  Winter got to his feet. If he’d held out longer he’d have begun to look like a mutineer himself. ‘Very well, sir.’

  ‘Good. And good luck. An enormous amount hangs on it. Remember that whatever you do, you do for the sake of Germany.’

  * * *

  Thuringen lay beam-on to her sister-ship Helgoland, which was a cable’s length away to starboard. Three-funnelled, displacing just over 20,000 tons, 550 feet long, crew of about 1,000, main armament of a dozen twelve-inch guns and fourteen six-inch. Actually, five-point-nines, same calibre as the gun on U201’s fore-casing: which was manned now, to the extent that its seven-man crew were crouching immediately abaft it and had the ready-use ammunition lockers open.

  But those were handsome, powerful-looking ships. Neureuther had commented to that effect, and Winter, with his binoculars trained on Thuringen as 201 came up abeam of her, growled, ‘Fine ship, certainly. Only a pity about the rabble on her decks.’

  Low grey sky, grey-brown river, misty haze of distant greenish seascape to the north. Still no wind, the columns of funnel-smoke from the anchored battle-fleet rising vertically, black against the surrounding murk.

  Winter lowered his glasses, told the coxswain – at the wheel in the bridge here with him – ‘Starboard ten, Muller.’

  To circle widely around Thuringen’s bow, having on the way past her seen a considerable proportion of her crew milling around on her decks – even on the quarterdeck, where off-duty seamen weren’t ever allowed. They were all over her: and slovenly-looking, dressed like tramps, a few waving red flags.

  The ship herself looked filthy too, Neureuther saw. Others they’d passed had been in similar condition.

  ‘Ten of starboard wheel on, sir.’

  ‘Ease to five.’

  The end of the reversal of course would bring her nosing into the 200-metre gap between Thuringen and Helgoland, about midway between the two – between their anchor cables, say, which at this stage of the tide were growing northward. His intention being to aim her and her bow torpedo tubes directly at Thuringen. The steamboats bringing the Marines being still some way back, on Thuringen’s quarter, half a mile away; he’d he there in full view of the mutineers with his tubes trained on them, during the boarding vessels’ approach on her other side.

  ‘Stop both. Out engine clutches.’

  Neureuther passed the order down, heard it acknowledged a couple of seconds before the diesels ceased their pounding.

  Silence, but for the swish of water along her sides, and distant shouting.

  ‘Engine clutches out, sir.’

  ‘Slow ahead port.’

  On her motors now, for the sake of manoeuvrability – the diesels couldn’t be put astern, for instance – and using the port screw only at this stage to assist the rate of turning, the submarine’s long forepart at this moment pointing at Helgoland’s foc’sl, swinging on past her for’ard twelve-inch turret – bridge upperworks then, the port-side turrets and casemates, triple funnels at the midway point between her masts, then the after control position, stern twelve-inch turret and length of quarterdeck. Lounging spectators were moving to the ship’s side to gawp at the submarine as she swung. Still turning: open water ahead for half a minute, the southward gap of open river with small craft moving on it, and the two battle cruisers hazy at a distance of a couple of miles or so. Now Thuringen was in her sights as the swing slowed.

  ‘Stop port. Midships and meet her.’

  ‘Stop port, sir. Meet her.’ Meaning, put on port helm to check the turn, hold her on her present heading, point of aim for any torpedo or torpedoes that might be fired, halfway between the for’ard twelve-inch turret and her stem – in other words the foc’sl, crew’s accommodation. Winter with his glasses up again, watching the drift of mutineers across her decks.

  ‘Slow astern together.’

  ‘Slow astern together, sir. Ship’s head two-one-five.’

  Motors running astern to take the way off her, hold her in this clearly threatening position while the tenders brought their Marines up on Thuringen’s port side. Shouldn’t be long now, getting there.

  Neureuther reported loudly, sharply, ‘Helgoland’s six-inch training on us, sir!’

  Winter took a look at her – bare-eyed, no need for glasses – they were in fact closer to Helgoland than to Thuringen. By the same token, the threat directed at 201 was point-blank.

  ‘Signalman!’

  Kendermann – diminutive, red-haired – in his customary position on the port side, within reach of the signal lamp in its bracket, whipped round, and Winter told him – turning away again to continue watching events on Thuringen – ‘Make to Helgoland, train all guns fore and aft.’

  ‘Aye, sir…’

  Lamp already clacking, calling, and getting an answering flash almost immediately from the battleship’s signal deck, after end of her bridge. It should work out all right, Neureuther was telling himself, if her officers and/or loyal crew members, especially NCOs, could re-assert their control of her armament. They might not even have known they’d lost it, or been in the process of losing it. Winter had to be banking on that, he supposed. Couldn’t do more than hope, though: could be blown out of the water in split seconds if mutineers were in even partial control – as well as prepared to escalate the situation to such a degree of enormity.

  Clashes ceasing, as the brief message was received and acknowledged. Now, proof of that pudding… Winter, Neureuther noted, not having ordered his own gun’s crew to man, load and train it on Helgoland – as he might have done, and Neureuther thought he probably would have, despite the risk of considerably worsening the confrontation.

  Winter hadn’t even glanced again at the Helgoland.

  But – Christ…

  Glasses up, and actually holding his breath. Helgoland’s port-side turrets moving – training fore and aft. He told Winter, who was still concentrating on Thuringen, ‘Helgoland’s complying, sir!’

  A shrug of the heavy shoulders. As if he’d known she would. He was, Neureuther thought, not by any means for the first time, a quite exceptional man.
He had his glasses up again, focused on the masthead of the first tender bringing its load of Marines up on Thuringen’s port side aft, masthead momentarily visible above the stern turret, hidden now behind a taller superstructure, the after control and searchlight position. Also, a sudden rush of action on the battleship’s decks: officers and others clearing the quarterdeck of mutineers, sending them scurrying for’ard and following-up determinedly, officers with pistols in their hands and others – chief and POs, seamen too – with dirks and cutlasses. Mutineers were vacating even the fo’csl deck, diving for the hatchways; and some, who initially might have thought they’d stand their ground, were being arrested or knocked down and sat on. And the Marines whose arrival had triggered this had got aboard: helmeted and with bayonets fixed, making a clean sweep of it.

  ‘Didn’t need us here.’ Winter lowered his glasses. ‘FdU called ’em sheep. I say they’re bloody vermin.’

  9

  Having spent some time in UB81, also visited the hospital to see two men who were still confined there, finding that he still had an hour before lunch, he’d visited the tailor and collected the rest of his gear with its second stripes and new epaulettes. The second stripes were noticeably brighter than the older ones and the gilt crowns above them, but it would have been a waste of money to have had the whole lot renewed.

  Sooner spend it on Helena. Especially as one mightn’t be wearing uniform much longer. Extraordinary thought, that: never having considered any possibility of not wearing it for life. Barely imaginable, in fact – overnight to become a civilian, former kapitan-leutnant – and maybe to be seeking employment with adequate remuneration for the support of a wife, for heaven’s sake. This thought occurring when on his way out of the base he’d been passed by a platoon of young trainees moving at the double under the command of a PO who, seeing Otto, had ordered ‘Eyes right!’ and saluted him as they trotted past. Training as what, he’d wondered. Street-sweepers, beggars? Well, like everything else, training obviously had to go on until it stopped, so to speak – but when it did, how many millions of unemployed would there be on German streets?

  Better telephone Helena. Not now: after lunch. Let her know he’d booked a table and arranged to borrow Hans Graischer’s motor again. And tell her about Ahrens’ attempt to buttonhole Franz Winter. As well that she should be forewarned. Ahrens might or might not have got hold of Winter between his briefing by FdU and 201’s departure for the Schillig Roads. Maybe not, since the departure had been a rushed one; in which case you could bet fat Willi would be on the quayside when Franz brought her back in.

  Get my word in first, maybe, spike the bastard’s guns…

  He’d brought his re-vamped kit up to his room, shoved things on hangers and was at the window now, with a view over the various basins and dry docks and swing-bridges to the Jade’s sliding, barely rumpled surface. No sight of U201, no submarine movements at all in progress. A minesweeper just entering, fighters in tow of a tug moving up-river, gulls wheeling, screeching… Thinking of Helena again, and making himself face the question he’d woken with – whether he was a lucky man, as he’d thought when turning in, or an idiot; whether he shouldn’t have kept his damn mouth shut. Drink, high blood-pressure, afterglow of the best sex he’d ever had: on top of that the jolt of running into those people – Ahrens of all people – a jolt to him, near-lethal body-blow to her; her tone of despair, his shocked recognition that it had been entirely his doing, having assured her he’d look after her…

  In fact, seduced her. Although she hadn’t been a virgin, and had been fairly keen on being seduced.

  Well – girls were. Always had been. From way back. At least, since the English girl. Maybe since the dawn of history, but the English girl – well. Different kettle of fish, that one. Different circumstances entirely, as well as different people. Oneself so young, she even younger.

  Remember to put a couple of blankets in Graischer’s motor. The rug that was in it already was of course softer, silkier; rug next to her skin, therefore…

  * * *

  Claus Stahl was in the Mess; Otto bought two glasses of schnapps and joined him, gave him an update on the two still in hospital. Three others had been sent home on sick-leave. And there’d been a rumour floating around, Stahl told him, that they’d be wanting 81 moved into a repair dock tomorrow, Wednesday.

  ‘No doubt someone will be good enough to let me know about it, if it’s true.’

  ‘I’m sure they will, sir.’

  ‘But how far they’ll get with mending her before the whole show grinds to a halt…’

  Stahl wagging his head: gloomy look on the pale, creased face. ‘Never dreamt it might come to anything like this, did we. Saw ourselves entering British ports in triumph. Our ensign above theirs on every mast. Eh?’

  ‘I suppose that’s true. But we haven’t lost, Claus. As well for morale to bear that in mind.’

  ‘Absolutely right. Result’s the same, though – ground cut from under one’s feet, nothing to do but jag in. Then we are beaten. Oh, hello, Kurt.’

  Kurt Hahn, Ahrens’ first lieutenant, who’d been with Fatty at the Snake Pit last night. Scrawny, dark, weasel-faced. He’d raised a glass to Stahl, glanced nervously at Otto and turned away, resuming a conversation with the paymaster, Hans Deuker. And beyond them – just arriving – Schwaeble’s sturdy figure trailed by Ahrens’ tubby one. Schwaeble calling an order to the bar steward, then looking round, seeing Otto and beckoning him.

  ‘Excuse me, Claus, I’m summoned.’

  ‘Of course.’ Stahl moved to join Hahn and Deuker. And now Hintenberger had sloped in, was joining them. He still looked like something out of a hole in the ground, but it looked as if he’d at least trimmed his beard. He’d found his father in reasonably good shape, and the cats now eight in number instead of six, apparently. No explanation given, that was simply how it was. Otto, edging through to Schwaeble, saw Ahrens’ moon-face freeze. Had already been telling tales, maybe? Walter Bohme was joining them too: Bohme’s Coastal still languishing in dock, presumably. Otto heard him offer, ‘Buy anyone a drink, can I?’

  Schwaeble told him, ‘You can come in on this round. Timed it just right.’ Nodding to the steward: ‘Add another, Hartje’.Then to Otto, ‘They’ll be starting on 81 tomorrow, von Mettendorff. Best be ready to shift her first thing in the morning. Enough juice in the battery to move on your motors, or will you need a tug?’

  ‘Battery should just about manage it, sir.’

  ‘Cracked containers and all. You were very lucky not to have had a chlorine problem.’ He told Ahrens, ‘Took quite a bashing. Getting her back was a remarkable achievement.’ Otto said, ‘Quite a bashing, but luck as well.’ From the normality of Schwaeble s manner he didn’t think Ahrens had as yet spilled the beans. Saving it for Winter, no doubt… ‘Any news of 201 yet, sir?’

  ‘Not as yet.’ Raising his glass: ‘Here’s to her. And to Winter.’

  ‘Winter.’ Ahrens gulped some schnapps and added, ‘Couldn’t have a better man on the job, in any case.’ A hostile glance at Otto, then to Schwaeble, ‘He’s the best we’ve got, in my opinion.’

  ‘One of the best, certainly.’

  ‘Remember U3’s accident?’

  Schwaeble frowning, remembering… ‘Long time ago, that. His first boat, wasn’t she?’

  ‘First and damn near his last!’

  Bohme shook his head. ‘I know U3 came to grief, but—’

  ‘Before your time. I was still in training. At Kiel, naturally, which was also where U3 completed her fitting-out – had completed, was making her first trip to sea, and – yes, Franzi’s first submarine appointment. Leutnant zu See, green as grass. There was to be a trial dive in harbour, and they’d left an engine-room ventilation outlet open. In fact it was the builders’ doing – KW – the indicator showed it as shut when it was open, and vice-versa. Soon as the dive started she took in enough dirty harbour water to make her stern-heavy, and down she went. Her captain was in the upper control-
room with an officer of the watch and helmsman, passed the order down for all hands to shut themselves into the for’ard compartment – which they did, twenty-nine of ’em. Well, two floating cranes were towed over from KW, and it took the best part of twelve hours for divers to rig cables around the boat’s forepart. Cranes were then to drag her bow up and the lads’d crawl out through the torpedo tubes. But as the bow broke surface the cables parted, and down she went again. Second attempt took not twelve hours, but fourteen – thirty hours altogether before they had her up, and they all crawled out – the twenty-nine, including young Franz – but the three in the tower had been dead some while by then. Chlorine gas up the voicepipes, apparently.’

  Schwaeble nodded. ‘Hence airtight cocks on all voicepipes now. The chaps for’ard were saved by the Drager filtration system, weren’t they. Caustic potash filters. Couldn’t see you crawling through a torpedo tube, Ahrens.’

  ‘Very amusing – sir. But as I was saying, Franz Winter was one of them, and that was his first outing!’

  ‘Did him no great harm, anyway.’

  ‘That’s rather my point. Going through that ordeal, then coming out of it declaring, “Hey, this is the life for me!” He did, though. So impressed by the way they’d all behaved throughout those thirty hours, he told me not long afterwards.’

  Bohme nodded. ‘I can see that. One would be. But he’s a good ’un, is Franzi.’

  Otto agreed. ‘Is indeed. A brilliant CO.’

  ‘Certainly gave you a helping hand in the early stages, von Mettendorff?’

  A nod to Ahrens. ‘I owe him a great deal.’

  ‘Repaying the debt now, in your own inimitable manner?’

  Tone and look of contempt. Otto saw surprise in the others’ faces, and shrugged. ‘I’m afraid I’m not with you.’

  ‘With no-one but yourself, I’d say.’ He tossed his drink, bowed slightly with a click of his heels to Schwaeble. ‘If you’d excuse me, sir.’