Stark Realities

by Stark Realities (retail) (epub)

  ‘There, see?’

  Grey stone house, greyish tiled roof. Way up above the road. The bus stopped at a crossroads and the driver handed their bags down to them. He looked like a trawlerman, maybe had been. Craggy, grey-stubbled face, thick white hair, piercingly blue eyes under heavy brows.

  ‘Enjoy your visit, ladies.’

  Nice man, they agreed, heaving their suitcases up a narrow lane with that house at the top of it. There was a wooden sign saying GUESTHOUSE, and Mrs McGregor, who must have been watching out for the bus, came to meet them. She was a tall, stern-looking woman, with iron-grey hair and the beginnings of a moustache, but with a smile that made her almost pretty – which she must have been, Anne thought, twenty years ago. The garden-front of the house was of shingle, behind an iron gate which she’d pushed open. They dumped their bags while identifying themselves and shaking hands, then turned to look downhill and across this top end of the Flow: and there were the three battleships. Massive, dark-grey on the gleam of white-flecked sea. Maybe three miles away; a boat just leaving one of them, heading to where it would shortly disappear behind intervening hillside. Sue told Mrs McGregor, ‘We were wondering whether you’d have a view of those.’

  ‘Is it in some fashion on account of them you’re here, then?’

  ‘Not directly, but’ – a nod towards Anne – ‘my friend’s fiancé’s an American naval officer who has to visit the admiral, and kindly brought us with him. I’m their chaperone, you see.’

  ‘Right and proper too.’ She laughed, for some reason. ‘Best come into the house now, the pair of you. This wind’d have the hide off you, else.’

  ‘What a marvellous view!’

  ‘Aye. Ye can as well enjoy it from inside, however.’ Glancing up at the front of the house. ‘From your own rooms’ windows. Please, come in…’

  Windows, plural – separate rooms for a change. Through a wide hall to the foot of the stairs, conscious of warmth emanating from an open fire in an inner room – living-room, whatever – and then up the stairs. The low-ceilinged bedrooms she showed them both faced south. Sue was depositing her case in one of them while Mrs McGregor showed Anne where there was a bathroom just across the landing. Anne said, ‘It’s perfect. Lovely place to be, Mrs McGregor.’

  ‘Well, just see this now.’ Leading her into the other room: the outlook from its window was superb. Sue joined them, Mrs McG including her in the audience as she pointed southwestward across the Flow. ‘Before Hoy, yon wee island’s Cava. Hoy’s the highest of them all, of course. And to the south there – och, Fara, but ye’d hardly see it – and Flotta there. And now this side’ – eastward – ‘over beyond your Yankee ships there’s Scapa Bay. The northeast corner of the Flow, that is, Kirkwall town no more than a stone’s throw from it.’ Shifting to point south, then: ‘Yon’s Burray – there’s blockships sunk in the Sounds both ends of it. To keep the U-boats from gettin’ in, that is. Then South Ronaldsay, and the Sound of Hoxa, that’s the way in an’ out for the big ships such as them lying there. Hoxa, see, is a headland that hooks out, like, from South Ronaldsay. From as much as you see from where we stand you might think t’was all one, but the Sound lies between ’em – twixt Ronaldsay and Flotta, that’s to say. Ten miles from here to Hoxa Head, though ye might not guess it was as much, and wi’ the light fading as it is – why I’m being quick to show it to you, half an hour an’ ye’ll not see much at all.’ She’d turned her back on it. ‘Tell me now – the lady said ye might be making a tour by water?’

  Anne shook her head. ‘Bicycle, more likely. If we could hire or borrow some – might that be possible?’

  It might, she said. She’d see to it first thing in the morning, be glad to. Alternatively, there was Mr McGillivray, who often took visitors in his motor car to see the sights. And come to think of it, he might be the man for cycles too. She’d ask him. It was not a request she’d had before. But now she’d leave them to settle in: when they were ready for it she’d have a pot of tea and oatcakes for them beside the fire.

  She left them still at the window. Anne commenting, ‘What we’ve come five hundred miles to see. Stupendous, isn’t it?’

  ‘Forbidding, I’d call it.’

  ‘Well. Yes. That too.’

  * * *

  ‘Up.’

  Neureuther’s quiet order, then the hiss of the big ’scope on its way up. In the almost total silence it was clearly audible to them in the wardroom. Neureuther having the watch, in the CO’s control-room in the tower, and the time being a few minutes short of four p.m., you could assume he’d be trying for an updated fix before handing over to Hohler. Who in two hours’ time would be handing over to Otto – less as to a fellow officer of the watch than to the boat’s alternate CO, as she closed in towards her target.

  They’d had fixes from shore bearings since early afternoon; were now a couple of miles south of Skirza Head, which itself was three miles south of Duncansby Head, and had reduced speed to three knots. Otto at the wardroom table, with a novel open in front of him which he’d borrowed from Neureuther but wasn’t anywhere near holding his attention.

  Navigationally, things looked all right. He’d told Hintenberger yesterday that prospects were good – ‘fine’ was the word he’d used – mainly because (a) Hintenberger had asked him, and (b) there’d been no point in telling him anything else. Same applying now: you were here, going there, couldn’t get out and bloody walk… Navigationally speaking, you could count on it that maintaining three knots, while watching various other points carefully and closely, you’d be bringing U201 into the Sound of Hoxa at near enough 2100, nine p.m. Three knots, or slow ahead on both motors, was a quiet-running speed, and the periscope when you put it up made very little ‘feather’ as it sliced through a broken, tumbling surface. Conditions therefore might be described as favourable. Although a snag he’d have mentioned if there’d been any point in doing so was that they’d be entering the Flow with the battery three-quarters flat. Winter was well aware of this, had mentioned it himself. The battery had been brought well up by having a running charge during the last period of darkness, four p.m. yesterday to eight a.m. this morning, but you’d been running on it most of the time since then at a steady six knots, which would have taken a lot out of it; and whereas in the normal course of things – ordinary passage or patrol routine – you’d be surfacing now and putting on a charge, tonight of course you couldn’t, had no option but to stay dived, would finish up entering the Flow – touch wood, as far as that was concerned – with the box near flat and no possibility of replenishing it until you were out again.

  Which itself was looking a long way ahead.

  A second reason for not feeling exactly optimistic on chances of success – of getting in – was that when you gave really serious thought to it, you couldn’t help wondering whether the British could be so reckless as to leave the great anchorage as open to penetration as Franz Winter seemed to be assuming it was. He – Winter – was tackling it as primarily a navigational exercise; he’d noted the removal of a floating boom and anti-submarine nets between Hoxa and Flotta, for instance, and from that appeared confident that as long as he stayed dived he’d have nothing to worry about.

  A conclusion with which FdU had apparently agreed. Although neither Michelsen nor Winter, judging by their careers to date, could be thought of as stupid.

  Wishful thinking? A desperate situation justifying the acceptance of enormous risk?

  Neureuther, relieved from his watch, edged in on the bench seat beside Hintenberger. Up top there, keeping watch at the big ‘search’ periscope, skipper or OOW had a sort of motor-bicycle seat, which after a while tended to become uncomfortable. Neureuther telling Otto, ‘Couldn’t get any new fix, too bloody dark already. Enjoying that yarn, are you?’

  ‘Haven’t really got into it. Save it for when we’re inside, maybe.’

  Hintenberger enquired, of either him or Otto, ‘If it’s so dark, why don’t we surface and put a charge on? Standing charge
one side, say. Even a few hours would be something. If all we need is three knots, for God’s sake?’

  ‘Because’ – Neureuther had given Otto a chance to answer the question, but Otto was leaving it to him – ‘because this close to Scapa Flow, also to the Scottish coast, and in waters that are invariably patrolled – with the Pentland bottleneck coming up very shortly now, what’s more – as the skipper’s pointed out, any sight or sound of us would alert them and scupper our chances altogether.’ Glancing at Otto: ‘Am I not right, sir?’

  ‘It’s your captain’s view, in any case.’

  He might be right, too. Although if one were running the show oneself – well, would not be attempting it with an already low battery. Would – yes, definitely would – postpone the attempt for twenty-four hours, move away from the coast and spend the night charging, start in again about this time tomorrow. Might miss out by such delay – targets in there now, gone by then – but the presence or absence of targets was a toss-up anyway. Improving one’s chances very considerably, he thought.

  Chances of survival, at that.

  Dozing on his bunk – from not long after four – he dreamt of Helena crying in his arms on the chaise longue in the Snake Pit. Sobbing on and on, nothing that he could think of saying to her in any way alleviating her misery; he woke with the taste of her tears on his lips instead of kisses, waking to Winter telling him – and Hintenberger and Neureuther – that Duncansby Head was two miles abeam to port, visible by the sea’s whitewashing effect, although the night was as black as pitch.

  Some night – five-twenty now, still early evening. But the visibility from close range of breaking seas was a factor they’d been counting on.

  At half-past, young Thoemer served up supper of sardines and canned peaches. Otto was due to take over the watch at six; from then on either he or Winter would be at the big periscope pretty well continually, he guessed. They’d be up there together all the time, anyway, the two of them and the coxswain, PO Muller. He – Otto – taking what would normally have been a navigator’s place. To which end, although there was of course a chart table up there, he had the chart virtually photographed in his memory, with 201’s north-north-westerly track on it, her progress by dead reckoning marked along it at fifteen-minute intervals. One would be able continually to check the distance covered – by log readings – and however black the night might be you’d have seas breaking white on headlands, which you’d be passing sometimes within a mile or so.

  A small snag, in terms of navigational accuracy at a rather crucial stage, was that the tide would be on the turn when you were approaching the Sound of Hoxa – somewhere between Herston Head and Hoxa Head, a distance of about a mile-and-a-half; in that half-hour the stream would be at first on her port quarter, then when altering course off Hoxa Head, right on her snout. In those narrows, surprisingly enough, it would be running at only about one knot, but as you’d only be making three knots on the motors, the change – a two-knot difference – would have a greater effect than the figures suggested at first sight.

  Winter broke into his reflections with: ‘Something worrying you?’

  He looked at him, thinking, By and large, a damn-fool question… Looked away again on account of mashed-up sardines spilling from the corners of his mouth. He told him, ‘Thinking about the change of tidal stream off Hoxa. Once through that hole – altering to starboard – you’ll counter it by increasing to half ahead, I suppose.’

  ‘Once through that gap, von Mettendorff, we’ll be thanking God!’

  So he did know in his heart that the business wasn’t exactly cut and dried.

  * * *

  When he took over in the tower at six, the Pentland Skerries were abaft the beam to starboard at a distance of about two miles. Visible – with the search scope well up and its quadruple magnification engaged – as a flickering patch of white, seas breaking and spouting over and around what was effectively a mass of half-tide rocks. U201’s course 350 degrees, motors providing three knots, distance covered as shown by log-readings matching the DR position closely enough to feel good about. The next sighting should be of Brough Ness on South Ronaldsay – which in the event he picked up, again as a flare of flickering white, when it was forty-five on the bow, range (going by DR) just under two miles. He suggested to Winter – who’d been prowling, dividing his time between this control-room with its small chart table and the one below – ‘Be inclined to alter a few degrees to port, sir. So as to pass closer to North Head on Swona than to Barth Head on Ronaldsay.’

  Hunched over the chart, nodding without looking up. ‘Come to 346.’

  ‘Steer 346, cox’n.’

  Muller repeated the order. Below, Neureuther was issuing some of his own, making an adjustment to the trim. Otto thinking, Shouldn’t need to alter again until we’re off Stanger Head. Stanger being the southeastern extremity of Flotta: opposite Hoxa Head. Ideally you’d wind up midway between those two headlands at a little before nine p.m., and from there set course pretty well due north, into the broad expanses of the Flow.

  Very wishful thinking…

  ‘Course 346, sir.’

  Muller was a tall man, about Otto’s height, with arms that looked disproportionately long, giving rise to his nickname of Spider. He came from Bremen, was the son of a merchant navy man and had chatted with Hintenberger about the town and its surroundings. One was getting to know some of 201’s leading characters now. Brohm, the torpedo chief, who was a gloomy-looking fellow, came from Hanover, signalman Kendermann – little shrimp of a man with bright red hair – telegraphists/hydrophone operators Lange and Siebertz, the burly Chief Mechanician Kopp, Stoker PO Wienands – and lesser fry… You felt you knew them well enough, even on such short acquaintance, in that they conformed to type, and having completed numerous patrols in U-boats shared the same or similar experiences, tended to treat each other virtually as brothers. Thirty-two of them – seamen, stokers, technicians and NCOs – plus five officers, including himself in place of Kantelberg.

  Who’d be sorry he was missing this, Neureuther had said. He was well liked and a very reliable navigator, despite his youth. Same age as Emil Hohler – nineteen, apparently.

  From seven onwards the salt-washed coast of South Ronaldsay was visible in high-power as a wavery whiteness about a mile to starboard. After Barth Head that distance would roughly double itself, the coastline receding sharply; and Swona’s North Head would be abeam to port by seven-thirty. There’d be no land really close after that for about an hour, when Herston Head would be coming up to starboard – the last projection of land before Stanger Head and Hoxa.

  Where they had had the boom, and nets, now allegedly relied on searchlights and gun batteries. Kantelberg could reckon himself damn lucky not to be here, he thought.

  He’d been giving the periscope a rest during these last few minutes. Keeping the surroundings and the boat’s progress none the less continually in mind; in his imagination seeing Barth Head gradually vanishing as it fell back abaft the beam – and to port, Swona swallowed up in the darkness by this time.

  ‘Up.’

  For another careful all-round search. One didn’t know what patrols there might be, or vessels arriving or departing. Commercial traffic would favour daylight hours, he imagined: might be confined to those hours, even. Thinking of this as the ’scope’s handles rose into his waiting hands and he jerked them down. Twisting the left-hand one clockwise brought in the magnification. There’d be colliers and oil-tankers in and out of here, he guessed, to supply the re-fuelling station at Lyness on the northwest coast of Flotta, which according to FdU’s intelligence files the British had completed about a year ago. Storeships too. But perhaps only in daylight.

  With his eyes at the rubber eyepieces, he’d begun to sweep slowly across the bow when he heard Winters growl of, ‘I’ll take her for a while. Until eight-thirty, say.’

  Quite civilised now, the bison. Except when feeding. The bison feeding was still an awesome sight. Otto raise
d a thumb, completed his sweep round, finding nothing but the boil of sea up close and beyond that the empty dark. He’d expected to be left up here until just short of nine, when Winter would surely claim the privilege of conning her through the narrows; but he had no objection to relaxing for a while. Time now – seven-forty. He trained the ’scope fore and aft, pushed the handles up and sent it down, got off the seat suggesting, ‘Cox’n might do with a break too, sir.’

  ‘Cox’n?’

  ‘Wouldn’t mind, sir.’

  ‘All right.’ Sliding his broad rear-end on to the seat, telling Otto, ‘Send up Leading Seaman Lehner.’

  * * *

  He went back up at eight-thirty, having rested his mind by thinking about Helena. Better than leaving it to dreams: you could control your thinking, dreams took their own senseless course, which illogically continued to disturb one. She’d be all right, and so would he: for the simple reason they both had to be.

  He was glad he’d asked Gunther Schwaeble to stand by her.

  ‘Eight-thirty, sir.’

  A nod. ‘Herston Head’s sixty on the bow to starboard, Switha’s about eighty to port. I’ve altered by two degrees to 348.’

  Otto checked those bearings on the chart, found that their intersection matched the eight-thirty DR well enough.

  Log-reading from the repeater – ditto.

  ‘On track and on DR, sir.’

  Changing places. Otto then checking those nearer points of land. Herston Head not difficult to see, Switha less so, indistinct although actually closer. Because that was a lee shore, of course, and lower. Sweeping slowly round… Steady ticking of the log, low purr of the motors a reminder that the battery was still leaking amps. Winter’s problem: or would be. Not that any problem of Winter’s could be only his. Time now – eight-thirty-seven. Commencing another circuit, initially finding Herston Head as its starting-point – the centre of that smear of breaking sea. Near enough sixty-three on the bow. Head back while checking the bearing-ring, and – yes, sixty-three precisely. Aware of Muller coming up, taking over again from Lehner.