Stark Realities

by Stark Realities (retail) (epub)

  Otto got up, joined him. ‘Light enough to scare me, sir.’

  ‘You’ve made your point.’

  In other words, shut up. But reaching for a pencil and the parallel rule, laying-off a slightly different course and walking dividers along it to measure the distance saved. A grunt then, and straightening. ‘We’ll alter to 320. Forget Rattray Head. Make for Duncansby Head and trust the DR.’

  Cutting out the small diversion aimed at getting a fix from shore bearings would save several hours.

  ‘And we’ll dive now.’

  Leaving Otto startled, as well as relieved. Pushing through into the control-room, starting up the ladder to the bridge. Maybe had taken leave of his senses, was returning to normal now? Or simply obsessed with getting into Scapa Flow at the earliest possible moment, and under that pressure ignoring first principles. So much damn risk ahead of them that taking just one more was something to shrug off? There was plenty to be said for making certain of one’s position in approaching Duncansby Head. Entering the Pentland Firth at that point, sea conditions likely to be atrocious and tides treacherous, destroyer patrols not infrequent, and in the six- or seven-mile gap between Duncansby and Brough Ness on the southern end of South Ronaldsay – well, first the Pentland Skerries, on which von Hennig in U18 had been wrecked in ’14 – then Stroma, Swona, and quite likely other hazards – the tides, for one thing…

  Lookouts came tumbling down the ladder. Then Neureuther, looking frozen. Diving hooter blaring, vents dropping open, diesels falling silent, thud of the upper hatch crashing shut. Bison at work, up there, jamming on the clips; Otto standing back out of the way as men who’d been off-watch moved swiftly to their stations: he was conscious of being no more than a spectator, passenger, outsider – knowing hardly any of their names or functions. The helmsman meanwhile had shifted down to the lowest of the three steering positions, Winter calling to him as he came down the ladder through the CO s control-room, ‘Steer 320 degrees.’

  ‘Three-two-oh, sir—’

  ‘Twenty metres, Neureuther.’

  ‘Twenty, sir…’

  Sudden end of the night-long, battering motion: U201 gliding smoothly down into deepwater calm and safety. Time, 0835. Twenty metres was well below periscope depth, one could look forward to a quiet day.

  * * *

  He slept from about nine to eleven or just after, and being due to take over the watch at noon had Thoemer, wardroom messman, bring him his lunch of bread and cheese at half-eleven. Winter was in his bunk and snoring, as were Neureuther and Hintenberger, off and on. Dived conditions being highly conducive to repose, Hohler having the watch – with nothing to do except watch the boat’s trim and from time to time adjust it.

  ‘Thank you, Thoemer.’ The messman’s was one name he did know. A lad of about eighteen – fair-haired, skinny, with a tattoo of an eagle on one forearm. He’d muttered, ‘Glad to serve you, sir.’ Whether it was his standard response to expressions of thanks, or like some of the others he’d heard of Otto von Mettendorff and felt inclined to show respect, one didn’t know. Otto asked him where he came from.

  ‘Berlin. Haven’t seen it in a while, though. D’you know it, sir?’

  ‘Been there a few times, but I wouldn’t say I knew it. Were you born there?’

  ‘No, sir. Parents moved from Stuttgart when I was ten.’

  ‘Funny thing, that – ask any Berliner, he never started life there. What does your father do?’

  ‘Butcher, sir.’

  ‘Making sausage out of cats and dogs, I suppose.’ Hintenberger had either not been asleep or had been woken by their quiet exchange; peering from the lower ship’s-side bunk, dark eyes quick-moving, monkey-like.

  Thoemer laughed. ‘About it, sir. Not so many of ’em about now, though.’

  Hinterberger told him, ‘I know where he could pick up no less than eight – cats, that is – if he wanted.’

  ‘Where’s that, sir?’

  ‘Bremen. My father’s house.’

  ‘That fond of cats, is he, sir?’

  ‘Not particularly. More that they like him!’

  Thoemer went back to the galley, and the engineer asked Otto, ‘See that girl over the weekend?’

  ‘Girl?’

  ‘One you were on about during our bit of trouble in UB81?’

  ‘Oh. Yes. Yes, I did.’

  ‘And got a bit, I dare say?’

  He’d glanced at the mound of blanket on Winters bunk. Still comatose. Back to the engineer: ‘You’d be surprised.’

  ‘Be surprised if you hadn’t!’

  ‘Well, stand by for a real surprise.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘I got engaged.’

  ‘You’re having me on, of course.’

  ‘Within a day or two of getting back, you’ll see it in the papers. And before you make some further coarse remark, let me tell you it’s the best thing ever happened to me.’ He reached for more cheese, adding, ‘Invite you to the wedding, shall I?’

  ‘Taking place when?’

  ‘At this moment, hard to say. With so much that’s uncertain – armistice, mutinies, God knows what next—’

  ‘In Bremen there’s talk of revolution.’

  ‘Here too. In Wilhelmshaven and Kiel, I mean. The newspapers aren’t much help, are they? I dare say it is on the cards. Historically, as you know, defeat brings political upheaval, nine times out of ten. And with the Russian example—’

  ‘Revolution doesn’t worry me.’ Hintenberger shrugged. ‘Having damn-all to lose. But defeat – that I hate!’

  A nod. ‘Especially as we haven’t been defeated. But I’ve had the same conversation two or three times in the last few days.’

  ‘So in reference to this marriage – well, might one guess that in your position – family background, all that – it doesn’t worry you that like me you could be out of a job before much longer?’

  ‘Your prospects can’t be so bad. As a fully-trained grease-monkey, you’ve a lot to offer; there’ll be businesses falling over themselves to employ you. Whereas I’ve no qualifications whatsoever, except to drive one of these things around. But – no, I’ve been thinking about it recently, and the answer is I’ll just have to find something I can do.’

  ‘The girl’s aware of this situation, I suppose?’

  ‘Of course she is!’

  ‘Doesn’t worry her?’

  ‘Not unduly. My lookout, isn’t it.’

  ‘And how does she feel about you ducking out on her again this soon?’

  ‘That of course is something else.’

  ‘What’s her name?’

  He glanced at the recumbent Winter, saw no indication of change, murmured, ‘Helena.’

  ‘Nice name. You said she’s pretty.’

  ‘More than just “pretty”, she’s—’

  Oberleutnant Emil Hohler came through from the control-room. Otto looked at his silver time-piece, saw it was still only eight minutes to the hour. Hohler’s visit had nothing to do with him anyway, he’d come on more urgent business.

  ‘Captain, sir?’

  Instant upheaval on that bunk – Winter rolling over and rising on one elbow: ‘Well?’

  ‘Multiple propeller sounds, port quarter, overhauling, sir. Lange reckons three of them, probably destroyers, making eighteen or twenty knots.’

  ‘Slow both motors.’ Otto shifted to give Winter more space as he came thumping down from the bunk. Holder had gone back into the control-room, ordering, ‘Slow ahead both.’ The motors had been at half ahead. Winter, bare-footed, in a collarless shirt and old serge trousers, but with his white cap crammed on his head, took it a step further with: ‘Stop port.’ One motor only now – for minimal hydrophone effect. Asking Hohler, ‘Trim as it should be?’

  ‘Near-perfect, sir.’

  ‘Port motor stopped, sir.’

  ‘Pass the word for’ard and aft, I don’t want to hear a pin drop.’ Otto sat down again, told Helena in his mind, It’s all right, don’t worry, do
ing twenty knots they won’t hear us, probably aren’t even listening…

  12

  In Glasgow at breakfast time it had been snowing, but from Perth northward there was bright sunshine, although the tops were gleaming white. Sam Lance ecstatic at the beauty of the scenery, asking Anne whether Argyll was as lovely. She’d said she thought it was: different, of course, its own kind of beauty, especially the littoral and the sea lochs – where her mother lived for instance, vicinity of Portnacroish, Loch Linnhe, the crazy artist’s stamping-ground. Sam was boyishly delighted with it all; at Glasgow had been looking out for a poster he’d seen at King’s Cross and made a note about, in order to try to get a copy of it for himself – ‘to send home, they’ll just love it!’ It was an advertisement for Buick motor cars, an illustration of a uniformed and goggled chauffeur with the exhortation SEND YOUR CHAUFFEUR TO THE FRONT AND BUY A SELF-STARTING BUICK CAR. He’d noted the Buick agents’ address in London in order to get in touch with them on his return, but in Glasgow had still hoped for another sight of it, although Sue had pointed out, ‘Must have been on that wall for ages. Had conscription since the beginning of ’16, haven’t we.’

  After lunch, the girls reckoned on taking siestas – not having sleepers now, but the first-class carriages were comfortable enough. It would be late when they got to Thurso, where rooms had been booked at the Station Hotel, and from where they’d be making an early start next morning, a short car journey to the fishing port of Scrabster, from which a destroyer would be taking them to Stromness. Sam had said, ‘They call it the milk run. Some fairly antique craft, destroyer down-rated to “despatch vessel”, poor dumb critter. Anyway, we’ll only be on board an hour or two.’

  ‘And on the island a day and a bit?’

  ‘Tomorrow and Friday, yeah. I’d like to get away before the weekend. Long as I can get to see the Admiral. An hour of his time’s all I’ll get or need. Half-hour even.’

  ‘Admiral Rodmer, that would be?’

  Sue’s memory, not Anne’s. Sam confirmed, ‘Hugh Rodmer. Flagship’s the New York, and in company with her will be the Wyoming and the Arkansas. Received that detail shortly before we left. I’m glad I’ll get to meet Rodmer – otherwise might never have. This visit could have been by any of the battle squadron.’

  Pointing at Sue, further testing her grasp of things: ‘The others being?’

  Screwing her face up, concentrating… Then: ‘Florida, Delaware and Texas.’

  ‘Well done you! But I should mention while we’re at it, girls, on the island – Mainland, they call it, where Stromness is, also Kirkwall – I shan’t be seeing much of you. I’ll be on board the flagship mostly, and I’m expected to visit the others as well, give my chief’s best wishes to their captains, and so forth. In any case, you’ll find plenty to interest you. Did you have time to study that little guide-book yet?’

  ‘Only very briefly. Thought when we get there’d be soon enough.’

  Anne cut in, ‘Same here. Stone circles – as at Stonehenge, but of earlier date, is what I’ve noted so far.’ She’d exchanged glances with Sue, before nodding to Sam. ‘I’ll peruse it again this afternoon. We’ll have it with us when we’re there, in any case.’

  The truth being that she and Sue had discussed the matter and agreed that stone circles didn’t greatly thrill either of them, although having come all this way at the government’s expense they might just as well take a look – if there was some way of getting about on that island. In point of fact, she’d been thinking that she could have taken a train from Glasgow directly to Oban, let Sam do this part of it on his own; but that might not have been fair to him, when he’d gone to so much trouble – and wanted to have her with him anyway. Obviously liking Sue, and taking care to include her in all their conversations, but most of the time his eyes and attention being on Anne.

  As it happened, she was enjoying being with him, too. This was the longest they’d ever spent together. In the long run, it might prove to have been well worthwhile.

  He was on about this 6th Battle Squadron again now, how it was an integral part of the Grand Fleet under Commander-in-Chief Sir David Beatty, getting its orders directly from him just as any British squadron did, not from Washington or even from Admiral Sims in London.

  Chit-chat becoming desultory then, while the train pounded over the River Findhorn and soon after hurtled through a small station calling itself Tomatin: Sue proposing finally, ‘What about our siestas now? You staying here, Sam?’

  ‘I guess I will. Smoke a cigar, maybe.’ Cigar as compensation for their deserting him, Anne wondered? Looking at her, although it had been Sue’s suggestion, and she – Anne – looking back at him in much the same way, wondering whether something might be happening to them both.

  * * *

  When they got back to their carriage, Sue said, ‘That stuff about the American squadron being under Beatty – I was tempted to ask him did he know who else was under the illustrious Sir David, much of the time.’

  Anne stared at her, then caught on. ‘You mean the delectable Eugénie?’

  ‘Right you are. He might not have liked it, though. D’you think? Coming from what he might call “a young female person” – who maybe shouldn’t know anything about such goings-on, let alone refer to them out loud?’

  Anne agreed. ‘He is a bit – “proper”. Or seems so. Could be at least partly my fault. I dare say it is. But don’t you think most men are rather prim?’

  ‘In regard to what we should or shouldn’t know – or should pretend not to know about or have interest in? Yes… Except when it comes down to – how should one put it – accommodating their interest.’

  ‘Well.’ Anne smiled at her. ‘Should I take it you’re speaking from experience?’

  ‘Certainly not. More from – observation. As it happens, never have – for what that information’s worth. And you said the other day that Sam’s never made any sort of an advance?’

  ‘Not seriously. None that I couldn’t quite easily deflect.’

  ‘Doesn’t worry you?’

  ‘Worry me…’ She shook her head. ‘He’s perfectly normal, if that’s what you mean.’

  ‘So he has tried.’

  ‘If he has, it hasn’t got him anywhere. Think that’s mean of me? Well – maybe… But we haven’t known each other all that long, you know. And he knows how I feel – or think I feel – and he respects that. Two factors – one, he wants to marry me – for some reason – and two, he’s a gentleman. Real one. Unlike’ – half-changing the subject – ‘our friend Beatty, for instance, who one imagines wouldn’t hesitate to try his luck, if he felt so inclined. Colossal damn nerve, when you think about it, Eugénie’s husband being a captain in the Royal Navy and Equerry in Ordinary to King George. Although – one doesn’t know, of course, but perhaps he didn’t have to force himself, maybe she… But when you take into account that Beatty’s only been able to afford his grand style of living through having married that rich American divorcee – to whom of course he’s still married – and she must know all about Eugénie, since everyone else does?’

  ‘Stinks a bit, I agree.’ Sue had grimaced.

  Anne asked her – again turning the subject off herself and Sam – ‘You say you haven’t ever. Do you mean to stay that way until you marry?’

  A small shrug. ‘Don’t see why I shouldn’t.’

  ‘I would, if I were you.’ She added – without thinking, addressing herself more than Sue – ‘Wish to God I had.’

  ‘What?’

  Anne turned quickly to the window: peered out at fields lying under snow. Shaking her head, feeling crass – and still in a way thinking about Sam. Turning back then: ‘I didn’t mean to say that. Do me a favour, forget I did?’

  ‘Saying that Charles wasn’t the first man in your life?’

  ‘He was the first man I loved.’

  ‘So how – I mean—’

  ‘Things can happen that you don’t want to happen, you know.’

 
; ‘But what, and—’

  ‘If I answer that, will you leave it then, forget it?’

  ‘I’ll try, if you insist, but—’

  ‘I was raped. Raped. And that’s all I’m telling you – now or ever, so – look, d’you want to read Sam’s Orkney guide? Otherwise—’

  ‘A subject such as that one can’t be changed quite so—’

  ‘Not changed. Discarded, Sue. Please, forget it?’

  * * *

  It lingered in one’s own mind and memory, though. Had been in it either in the background or more pertinently in the foreground – depending on situation, mood, state of health or tiredness – for years now. The last time she’d said it – uttered those three words, I was raped – had been to Charles on the first morning of their marriage, by which time he’d become aware of the fact she’d not been a virgin, had looked at her with the question in his eyes and she’d shut hers, whispered that explanation which there and then she’d thought of as a lie. In the years since then – since his death, she supposed – she’d come to see it differently, that effectively it had been rape: that Gerda’s damn brother had both intended and contrived to have their Berlin tryst turn out as it had; that she’d not wanted anything of the sort nor connived in it – or for that matter been able to prevent it. Therefore, the appropriate word for it was ‘raped’.

  In that flat just off Lothringer Strasse – on its narrower link with Griefswalder. Surprising that she’d recalled both those street names, when hundreds of times she hadn’t managed either of them. Poor memory, psychological blockage, or the fact that most of the time she’d been more or less drunk?

  As well as naive in the extreme. Trusting – silly…

  There had been a key in her bedroom door, and she’d locked it before she’d taken off her clothes. Had only the one suitcase, having sent her trunk ahead of her to Scotland. Anyway, she’d had a bath: he’d do without one, he’d said, so as to leave it clear for her. ‘Might have one in the morning…’ And, she remembered, he’d opened a bottle of champagne and poured her a glass to sip while she was bathing. Bubbly in the bath: height of luxury, she’d thought. Or depravity. But one had said or thought that with a smile, a giggle; he’d been behaving himself at that stage – she’d had no doubts of him or of his intentions – it was all just the most tremendous fun. Including what he’d called this Berlin tradition, the Bummel – which meant promenading along the Linden and other great shopping streets – this in the evening when most of the shops were shut, one simply enjoyed the window displays, stopping now and then at pavement cafés or Weinstuben – at several of which Otto had ordered German sparkling wine, telling her, ‘Champagne again with the tango and our supper. This is only the prelude, huh?’